Moscheles, the celebrated pianist, gives us some charming pictures of
Rossini in his home at Passy, in his diary of 1860. He writes--"Felix
[his son] had been made quite at home in the villa on former
occasions. To me the _parterre salon_, with its rich furniture, was
quite new, and before the _maestro_ himself appeared we looked at his
photograph in a circular porcelain frame, on the sides of which were
inscribed the names of his works. The ceiling is covered with pictures
illustrating scenes out of Palestrina's and Mozart's lives; in the
middle of the room stands a Pleyel piano. When Rossini came in he gave
me the orthodox Italian kiss, and was effusive of expressions of
delight at my reappearance, and very complimentary on the subject of
Felix. In the course of our conversation he was full of hard-hitting
truths on the present study and method of vocalisation. 'I don't want
to hear anything more of it,' he said; 'they scream. All I want is a
resonant, full-toned voice, not a screeching voice. I care not whether
it be for speaking or singing, everything ought to sound melodious.'"
So, too, Rossini assured Moscheles that he hated the new school of
piano-players, saying the piano was horribly maltreated, for the
performers thumped the keys as if they had some vengeance to wreak on
them. When the great player improvised for Rossini, the latter says,
"It is music that flows from the fountain-head. There is reservoir
water and spring water. The former only runs when you turn the cock,
and is always redolent of the vase; the latter always gushes forth
fresh and limpid. Nowadays people confound the simple and the
trivial; a _motif_ of Mozart they would call trivial, if they dared."
On other occasions Moscheles plays to the _maestro_, who insists on
having discovered barriers in the "humoristic variations," so boldly
do they seem to raise the standard of musical revolution; his title of
the "Grand Valse" he finds too unassuming. "Surely a waltz with some
angelic creature must have inspired you, Moscheles, with this
composition, and _that_ the title ought to express. Titles, in fact,
should pique the curiosity of the public." "A view uncongenial to me,"
adds Moscheles; "however, I did not discuss it.... A dinner at
Rossini's is calculated for the enjoyment of a 'gourmet,' and he
himself proved to be the one, for he went through the very select
_menu_ as only a connoisseur would. After dinner he looked through my
album of musical autographs with the greatest interest, and finally we
became very merry, I producing my musical jokes on the piano, and
Felix and Clara figuring in the duet which I had written for her voice
and his imitation of the French horn. Rossini cheered lustily, and so
one joke followed another till we received the parting kiss and 'good
night.' ... At my next visit, Rossini showed me a charming 'Lied ohne
Worte,' which he composed only yesterday; a graceful melody is
embodied in the well-known technical form. Alluding to a performance
of 'Semiramide,' he said, with a malicious smile, 'I suppose you saw
the beautiful decorations in it?' He has not received the Sisters
Marchisio for fear they should sing to him, nor has he heard them in
the theatre; he spoke warmly of Pasta, Lablache, Rubini, and others,
then he added that I ought not to look with jealousy upon his budding
talent as a pianoforte-player, but that, on the contrary, I should
help to establish his reputation as such in Leipsic. He again
questioned me with much interest about my intimacy with Clementi, and,
calling me that master's worthy successor, he said he should like to
visit me in Leipsic, if it were not for those dreadful railways, which
he would never travel by. All this in his bright and lively way; but
when we came to discuss Chevet, who wishes to supplant musical notes
by ciphers, he maintained, in an earnest and dogmatic tone, that the
system of notation, as it had developed itself since Pope Gregory's
time, was sufficient for all musical requirements. He certainly could
not withhold some appreciation for Chevet, but refused to indorse the
certificate granted by the Institute in his favour; the system he
thought impracticable.
"The never-failing stream of conversation flowed on until eleven
o'clock, when I was favoured with the inevitable kiss, which on this
occasion was accompanied by special farewell blessings."
Shortly after Moscheles had left Paris, his son forwarded to him most
friendly messages from Rossini, and continues thus--"Rossini sends you
word that he is working hard at the piano, and, when you next come to
Paris, you shall find him in better practice.... The conversation
turning upon German music, I asked him 'which was his favourite among
the great masters?' Of Beethoven he said, 'I take him twice a-week,
Haydn four times, and Mozart every day. You will tell me that
Beethoven is a Colossus who often gives you a dig in the ribs, while
Mozart is always adorable; it is that the latter had the chance of
going very young to Italy, at a time when they still sang well.' Of
Weber he says, 'He has talent enough, and to spare' (_Il a du talent à
revendre, celui-là_). He told me in reference to him, that, when the
part of 'Tancred' was sung at Berlin by a bass voice, Weber had
written violent articles not only against the management, but against
the composer, so that, when Weber came to Paris, he did not venture to
call on Rossini, who, however, let him know that he bore him no grudge
for having made these attacks; on receipt of that message Weber called
and they became acquainted.
"I asked him if he had met Byron in Venice? 'Only in a restaurant,'
was the answer, 'where I was introduced to him; our acquaintance,
therefore, was very slight; it seems he has spoken of me, but I don't
know what he says.' I translated for him, in a somewhat milder form,
Byron's words, which happened to be fresh in my memory--'They have
been crucifying Othello into an opera; the music good but lugubrious,
but, as for the words, all the real scenes with Iago cut out, and the
greatest nonsense instead, the handkerchief turned into a billet-doux,
and the first singer would not black his face--singing, dresses, and
music very good.' The _maestro_ regretted his ignorance of the English
language, and said, 'In my day I gave much time to the study of our
Italian literature. Dante is the man I owe most to; he taught me more
music than all my music-masters put together, and when I wrote my
"Otello," I would introduce those lines of Dante--you know the song of
the gondolier. My librettist would have it that gondoliers never sang
Dante, and but rarely Tasso, but I answered him, "I know all about
that better than you, for I have lived in Venice and you haven't.
Dante I must and will have."'"