NAPLES.
(1814-1816.)
When Manuel Garcia joined his parents in Italy in the summer of 1814,
being at the time in his tenth year, he found Naples under the rule of
King Murat.
Here he saw for the first time his sister Maria, who was now six years
old, while his father he found installed in the position of principal
tenor in the chapel choir of King Murat. The elder Garcia had held this
post for about two years, having been appointed immediately on his
arrival from Paris. Since then he had been devoting himself to a
complete study of the art of singing under his friend and teacher,
Ansani.
This celebrated tenor was able to hand on to him the Italian vocal
traditions of that "Bel Canto" school which had come down from the old
Neapolitan maestro, Porpora.
Soon after Manuel came to Italy he was taken by his father to see
Ansani, who not only heard him sing, but gave him a few informal
lessons. It was a case of winter and spring, for while the pupil was in
his tenth year, the teacher was approaching his seventieth. With this
fact we are brought face to face with an almost incredible link with the
past. Ansani was nearly twenty when Porpora died, in his eighty-second
year. A remark which Manuel Garcia once made rather points to the
possibility that Ansani may have had a few lessons from Porpora himself.
Whether this was absolutely true I know not,--at any rate it may well
have been so. Accept the supposition, and those who had the honour of
studying under the "centenarian" would at once be placed in a position
to say that they were pupils of one whose master had himself received
lessons from a man born in 1687. The possibility is a fascinating one.
Giovanni Ansani himself was an interesting personality. Born in Rome
about the middle of the eighteenth century, it has been reported that he
once met Bach. As, however, the German composer died in the year 1750,
about the time that Ansani was still busying himself with the
feeding-bottle--or its eighteenth-century equivalent--the story must be
regarded with some suspicion, to say the least of it.
After a musical training received in Italy, he sang in various parts of
the Continent. Twenty years before the close of the century he made his
appearance in London, and at once took the first place. He soon left,
however, on account of disputes with Roncaglia.
In 1781 he returned to England, and Dr Burney, who heard him sing in
that year, has described him as the sweetest, albeit one of the most
powerful, tenors of his generation. He was a spirited actor, and had a
full, fine-toned, and commanding voice, while, according to Gervasoni,
he had a very rare truth of intonation, great power of expression, and
most perfect method both of voice emission and vocalisation. His wife,
Maccherini, was also a singer, and accompanied him to London on his
second visit. He himself was always noted for a quarrelsome disposition,
and as a prima donna his wife had an almost equally bad temper. Such
jealousy in fact existed between them that, when either was applauded
for singing, the other was accustomed to go into the pit and hiss.
In 1784 Ansani appeared at Florence, and toured Italy. At the age of
fifty he retired and settled in Naples, where he devoted himself to
teaching. It was some twelve years later that he began to give lessons
to the elder Garcia.
When Manuel joined his parents, he at once commenced to study singing
under his father's guidance. The training of those days was a much
slower process than that which is deemed necessary at the present time.
Months, indeed years, would be spent in the practice of simple solfeggi,
to be followed by exercises in rhythm and studies for intonation.
The monotony of the first portion of this training evidently became very
wearisome in time, for Señor Garcia would afterwards recall how one day,
after being made to sing an endless variety of ascending scales, his
desire for a change became so great that he could not resist bursting
out, "Oh dear! mayn't I sing down the scale even once?" The training of
those days was indeed a hard one, but it turned out artists who had a
very wonderful command over their voices.
After a time Manuel began to find these severe studies irksome. He
seems, moreover, to have had no particular vocation for the lyrical
stage, and the bent of his mind, even at that early period, had a
leaning towards science.
As a boy, he had a soprano voice of beautiful quality, and it has been
asserted that during the stay in Italy he was appointed to a place in
the cathedral choir. Absolute verification of this statement is
practically impossible to obtain, though there seems no reason for
doubting its truth. On the other hand, there is a strong likelihood that
it may have been confused with the fact that the _elder_ Garcia (whose
name was also Manuel) was in the chapel choir.
From this time the training of his voice continued practically without
intermission, under his father's tuition, till his twentieth year. It
was largely due to the fact that work was not stopped during that
dangerous period at the commencement of puberty, that he assigned the
break-down of his voice in after years.
The elder Garcia took the greatest delight and pride in the early
education and musical training of his son, and among many other valuable
lessons, he impressed upon him that a singer must not only know how to
use his voice, but must, above all, be a thorough musician.
As we have already seen, Manuel was taken to see Ansani, who gave him a
few lessons. In addition to this, much help was received from
Zingarelli, when the elder Garcia was too busy to take him. His
intelligent brain could therefore make a blend of Spanish and Italian
methods. To this he added in after life his own observations on the
human voice, and applied the scientific theories which he formed and
eventually corroborated by means of his laryngoscope. It was by the wise
combination of this knowledge that he was able to evolve the magnificent
Method which produced Jenny Lind.
Zingarelli was a man whose name is worth pausing over for a moment, for
some episodes of his life are of considerable interest. In 1804 he had
succeeded Guglielmi as Maestro di Cappella of the Sistine Chapel in
Rome.
When Napoleon in the zenith of his imperial power gave his son the
pompous title of "King of Rome," he ordered rejoicings throughout his
kingdom, and a "Te Deum" was arranged to be sung at St Peter's in Rome.
When, however, the authorities, both French and Italian, were assembled
for the performance of this servile work, Zingarelli refused to have
anything to do with it, and added that nothing would induce him to
acknowledge the rule of the Corsican usurper. Upon this he was arrested,
and, by Napoleon's orders, taken to Paris. Here he was immediately set
free and granted a pension, owing to the fact that Napoleon preferred
his music to that of any other composer.
In 1810 he left Paris for Naples, where three years later he was
appointed director of the Royal College of Music, and he was holding
this important post when Manuel came from Spain. Some eighteen months
later, just before the Garcia family left for Paris, he succeeded
Paisiello as Maestro di Cappella at the Neapolitan Cathedral; and these
two positions he continued to hold until his death at the age of
eighty-five.
During the sojourn in Italy the elder Garcia was not only in Murat's
private choir, but was also _primo tenore_ of the King's Opera Company
at the San Carlo. I remember Señor Garcia one day giving an amusing
account of his father's first appearance there.
Before he set out for his opening rehearsal he had come to the
conclusion that it would be a splendid thing if he could hit upon some
way of proving to the members of the orchestra that he was not one of
the ordinary small fry possessed of a voice and little else. He wanted
to gain their respect both as a musician and as a singer. This is how he
managed to accomplish his desire.
His opening aria in the opera to be rehearsed was in the key of E flat.
The orchestra played the introductory bars, and waited with a casual
interest for the new singer's opening phrase. The tenor commenced, but,
instead of doing so in the key in which they were playing, he began to
sing a semitone higher, in E natural. At first they were horrified at
the discords which resulted. Gradually, however, as the aria went on,
and the vocalist still sang exactly a semitone above the key in which
they were playing, it began to dawn upon them that, instead of being
sharp through nervousness or lack of ear, he was keeping a half tone
too high intentionally throughout the piece. Consequently, when they
heard him continue in E natural, without a moment's hesitation, or a
single false note (for so great a musician was he that he could abstract
himself entirely from his surroundings and from the sound of the
instruments), their disgust turned to surprise, then admiration, and
finally enthusiasm. When the aria was concluded there was an enormous
burst of applause and the wildest excitement among them all, for they
saw what a really great singer they had found in this newcomer. Of
course he sang the remainder of his part in the proper key, but by this
novel entry he won the lasting respect of his comrades.
The anecdote afforded a good illustration of his exceptional powers. The
elder Garcia was certainly a wonderful man, and in some ways a unique
figure in the history of music, for it is doubtful if any other singer
has duplicated his extraordinary talent and versatility. Attention has
already been called to the fact that he was conductor and impresario. As
a composer he was responsible for over forty operas, of which number
seventeen were Spanish, nineteen Italian, and seven French; and in many
cases he was even responsible for the libretto. The greater number of
these works were performed in Spain, France, and America.
When he was in Paris "El Poeta Calculista" was given, as we have already
said, with the greatest success in 1809, and three years later "The
Caliph of Bagdad" received no less appreciation. His power as an actor
was equal to that as a singer, while his Spanish temperament gave a
fire to his impersonations which could not but awaken enthusiasm.
"J'aime la fureur andalouse de cet homme," wrote a contemporary critic;
"il aime tout."
But of all his qualities that which perhaps stood out most was a
remarkable gift of extemporisation. It was this which first attracted
the notice of Rossini, and led him to write the tenor _rôle_ in
"Elisabeth" for the elder Garcia. The result was so satisfactory that
when he set to work on his next opera, "Il Barbiere di Seviglia," he
wrote the part of Almaviva specially for him.
The story of this production, as Manuel Garcia related it, was an
interesting one.
In the December of 1815 Rossini had bound himself to produce a new opera
by the 20th of the following month. He hesitated at first about
accepting a libretto which Paisiello had treated so successfully, but
having obtained that composer's permission he wrote the entire score in
a fortnight. To avoid all appearance of rivalry with Paisiello he named
his work first of all, "Almaviva, or The Useless Precaution"; and it was
accordingly produced under this title in Rome at the Argentina Theatre
on February 5, 1816, with the following cast:--
_Rossini_ Signora Giorgi Righetti.
_Berta_ Signorina Rossi.
_Figaro_ Signor Luigi Zamboni.
_Bartolo_ Signor Botticelli.
_Basilio_ Signor Vitarelli.
_Count Almaviva_ Signor Garcia.
The theatre was packed with the adherents of the older composer, who
resented the new effort as an intrusion on his rights. In consequence of
this the work was unmercifully damned, but it was kept on the stage and
continually grew in favour until it became one of the most popular comic
operas ever written.
These two operas, "Elisabeth" and "Il Barbiere," were not by any means
the only ones in which the elder Garcia undertook the tenor _rôle_ at
the initial performance, for in the course of the long career which
followed he had the honour of creating a number of other parts.
As a singer, according to his son, his forte lay in the rendition of the
lighter and more florid music, the voice being remarkable for its
extraordinary flexibility. It was this faculty which gave his inventive
powers their full scope in the extemporisations which he was wont to
introduce into the various arie. This custom, it may be well to point
out, was quite in accordance with the tastes and actual wishes of the
composers of that time.
Among the old musicians it used to be customary to write a mere outline
or suggestion of the voice part. Particularly was this the case when
there was a return to the original theme, while it applied equally to
the conventional ending found in nearly all arie of that time. The
singers were expected to elaborate the simple melody given them, and to
raise upon this foundation a graceful edifice, adorned with what
ornaments their individual taste dictated, and suited to their own
powers of execution.
The following illustration will prove the truth of the above assertion.
It is a story from the lips of the maestro.
While his father, the elder Garcia, was at Naples, one of the old
Italian composers came to produce a new opera.
At the opening rehearsal the tenor was given his part to read at sight.
When his first aria had been reached he sang it off with perfect
phrasing and feeling, but exactly note for note as written. After he had
finished the composer said, "Thank you, signer, very nice, but that was
not at all what I wanted." He asked for an explanation, and was informed
that the melody which had been written down was intended merely as a
skeleton which the singer should clothe with whatever his imagination
and artistic instinct prompted. The writer of the music asked him to go
through it again, and this time to treat it exactly as though it were
his own composition.
The elder Garcia was skilful at improvising: consequently, in giving the
aria for the second time, he made a number of alterations and additions,
introducing runs, trills, roulades, and cadenzas, all of which were
performed with the most brilliant execution. This time, when the end of
the music was reached, the old composer shook him warmly by the hand.
"Bravo! Magnificent! That was my music, as I wished it to be given."
It may be noted that Lord Mount-Edgcumbe, in his 'Musical Reminiscences'
(published in 1824), refers more than once to the same thing. In
speaking of the famous male soprano, Pacchierotti, who made his _début_
in London in 1778, the following passage occurs:--
His voice was an extensive soprano, full and sweet.... His powers
of execution were great; but he had too good taste and too good
sense to make a display of them where it would have been
misapplied, confining it to one _bravura_ song (_aria d'agilità_)
in each opera, conscious that the chief delight of singing lay in
touching expression and exquisite pathos.... He could not sing a
song twice in exactly the same way, _yet never ... introduced an
ornament that was not judicious and appropriate to the
composition_.
Again Lord Mount-Edgcumbe writes:--
Many songs of the old masters would be very indifferently sung by
modern performers, not on account of their difficulty but their
apparent facility. Composers when writing for a first-rate singer
noted down merely a simple _tema_ with the slightest possible
accompaniment, which, if sung as written, would be cold, bald, and
insipid. It was left to the singer to fill up the outline, to give
it the light and shade and all its grace and expression, which
requires not only a thorough knowledge of music but the greatest
taste and judgment.
But to return to the elder Garcia and his family.
It was during this stay at Naples that little Maria made her first
public appearance, when she was barely five years old. The anecdote was
one which Manuel Garcia was very fond of relating.
The opera in which the diminutive vocalist made her _début_ was Paër's
"Agnese," in which there was a child's part.
In the second act there is a scene where the husband and wife have
quarrelled and are reunited through the intervention of their daughter.
The tiny Malibran attended the rehearsals and knew the whole opera by
heart. On the night of the performance the prima donna either forgot her
part or hesitated a moment. Lo! the little girl instantly took up the
melody, and sang with such vigour and resonance that the entire house
heard her. The prima donna was about to interrupt when the audience
shouted, "Bravo! don't stop her. Let her go on."
It was a period in which the public loved infant prodigies, both musical
and dramatic, and Marietta was actually permitted to sing the part of
Agnese throughout the rest of the scene--a piece of audacity which
delighted the hearers and called forth an exhibition of true Italian
enthusiasm. Two years after this the tiny musician commenced to study
solfeggi with Panseron, while Hérold gave her the first instruction on
the piano.
In the autumn of the year 1815 an event occurred which brought the
Garcia family into a vivid realisation of the changes which had been
taking place in European affairs during the earlier part of the year,
with the battle of Waterloo.
Scarcely had the news of Napoleon's downfall reached Naples when the
townsfolk witnessed the closing scene in the life of his brother-in-law.
The month in which Napoleon landed in France King Murat declared war
against Austria, whose queen, it will be remembered, had but recently
died. He was defeated at Tolentino, and retired first to France, then to
Corsica. In the autumn the brilliant but headstrong ex-king of Naples
was mad enough to make an attempt to regain his forfeited throne, on
which Ferdinand had been reinstated by the Congress of Vienna. Having
landed with about thirty followers on the coast of Lower Calabria, he
was almost instantly arrested by a detachment of the Neapolitan troops,
by whom he was handed over to a court-martial and sentenced to death.
The closing scene is well described in Colletta's 'History of Naples':--
After the passing of the sentence the prisoner was led into the
courtyard of the castle of Pizzo, where a double file of soldiers
was drawn up, and, as he refused to have his eyes bound, he looked
calmly on while their weapons were made ready. Then, placing
himself in a posture to receive the balls, he said to the soldiers,
'Spare my face and aim at my heart.' After these words the muskets
were discharged, and he who had been King of the two Sicilies fell
dead, holding in his hand the portrait of his family, which was
buried with his sad remains in the very church which had owed its
erection to his piety. Those who believed in his death mourned it
bitterly, but the generality of the Neapolitans beguiled their
grief by some invention or other respecting the events of Pizzo.
Manuel Garcia was in his eleventh year when the tragedy took place, and
in after years would recall the sensation which the gruesome incident
made among the Neapolitans.
Almost immediately after Murat's death the Neapolitans found cause for
great affliction and terror in the appearance of the plague, which
seemed to them almost a judgment from Heaven.
The epidemic had only ceased a few months in Malta when it broke out
again in Dalmatia, spreading thence from place to place, till it
attacked the inhabitants of Cadiz at one extremity of the Mediterranean
and Constantinople at the other. At the same time it reached Noia, a
small city of Puglia, situated on the Adriatic.
Eagerness for gain by men carrying on illicit trade caused its
introduction with some goods from Dalmatia.
The first death occurred on November 23, 1815, but a cordon was not
placed round the city till six weeks later; traffic went on as usual,
people left the city and returned, and merchandise was carried into the
provinces and as far as Naples. Fortune, however, or divine providence,
saved the kingdom and Italy, for out of the number of men and quantity
of goods leaving Noia, none happened to be infected.
At last, on January 1, precautionary measures were taken, and the
unhappy city was surrounded by three circuits of ditches, one at a
distance of sixty paces, the next at ninety, and the third, which was
rather a boundary-line than a barrier, at ten miles. Sentries were
placed along these, and numerous fires lighted up the country at night.
Whoever dared to attempt passing the line was punished with death; and
more than one case is recorded of a poor wretch, maddened with the
horrors of the town, rushing across the boundary-line, only to fall
instantly under the musket-fire of the soldiers.
Throughout the winter the Garcias, in common with the other inhabitants
of Naples, lived in constant fear that the plague might break out in the
town.
Since, with the coming of spring, the danger showed little sign of
ceasing, the elder Garcia determined to leave the country and remove
with his family to Paris, from which he had been more than four years
absent. It must have been just about the time of their departure that
the theatre in which the tenor had been appearing during four successive
seasons was destroyed by fire.
The scene which took place is well described by Colletta. The opera
company, it appears, were on the spot rehearsing when the fire broke
out, and at once fled in consternation. Their cries, with the volumes of
smoke issuing from the building, made the danger known, and people
hastened from all parts of the city, but too late. The conflagration
spread, the king and royal family left the palace which adjoined the
theatre, and the fire, catching the whole of the immense structure that
composed the roof, sent forth raging and brilliant flames, which were
reflected on the Monte St Elmo and in the sea below. The sky, which had
been calm, became stormy, and the wind blew the flames in the direction
of Castel Nuovo, until they licked the bare walls of the castle.
Happily the danger did not last long, for in less than two hours the
noble structure was burned to ashes; and the mistake of having from
financial avarice abolished the company of firemen was now acknowledged
too late.
The king ordered the theatre to be rebuilt in the shortest possible
time, and in four months it rose more beautiful than ever, though Manuel
Garcia was never to see it after its phœnix-like reappearance.