In 1872 the Khédive of Egypt, an oriental ruler, whose love of western
art and civilisation has since tangled him in economic meshes to
escape from which has cost him his independence, produced a new opera
with barbaric splendour of appointments, at Grand Cairo. The spacious
theatre blazed with fantastic dresses and showy uniforms, and the
curtain rose on a drama which gave a glimpse to the Arabs, Copts, and
Franks present of the life and religion, the loves and hates of
ancient Pharaonic times, set to music by the most celebrated of living
Italian composers.
That an eastern prince should have commissioned Giuseppe Verdi to
write "Aida" for him, in his desire to emulate western sovereigns as a
patron of art, is an interesting fact, but not wonderful or
significant.
The opera itself was freighted, however, with peculiar significance as
an artistic work, far surpassing that of the circumstances which gave
it origin, or which saw its first production in the mysterious land of
the Nile and Sphinx.
Originally a pupil, thoroughly imbued with the method and spirit of
Rossini, though never lacking in original quality, Verdi as a young
man shared the suffrages of admiring audiences with Donizetti and
Bellini. Even when he diverged widely from his parent stem and took
rank as the representative of the melodramatic school of music, he
remained true to the instincts of his Italian training.
The remarkable fact is that Verdi, at the age of fifty-eight, when it
might have been safely assumed that his theories and preferences were
finally crystallised, produced an opera in which he clasped hands with
the German enthusiast, who preached an art system radically opposed to
his own, and lashed with scathing satire the whole musical cult of the
Italian race.
In "Aida" and the "Manzoni Mass," written in 1873, Verdi, the leader
among living Italian composers, practically conceded that, in the
long, bitterly fought battle between Teuton and Italian in music, the
former was the victor. In the opera we find a new departure, which, if
not embodying all the philosophy of the "new school," is stamped with
its salient traits--viz., the subordination of all the individual
effects to the perfection and symmetry of the whole; a lavish demand
on all the sister arts to contribute their rich gifts to the
heightening of the illusion; a tendency to enrich the harmonic value
in the choruses, the concerted pieces, and the instrumentation, to the
great sacrifice of the solo pieces; the use of the heroic and mythical
element as a theme.
Verdi, the subject of this interesting revolution, has filled a very
brilliant place in modern musical art, and his career has been in some
ways as picturesque as his music.
Verdi's parents were literally hewers of wood and drawers of water,
earning their bread, after the manner of Italian peasants, at a small
settlement called La Roncali, near Busseto, where the future composer
was born on October 9, 1813.
His earliest recollections were with the little village church, where
the little Giuseppe listened with delight to the church organ, for, as
with all great musicians, his fondness for music showed itself at a
very early age. The elder Verdi, though very poor, gratified the
child's love of music when he was about eight by buying a small
spinet, and placing him under the instruction of Provesi, a teacher in
Busseto. The boy entered on his studies with ardour, and made more
rapid progress than the slender facilities which were allowed him
would ordinarily justify.
An event soon occurred which was destined to wield a lasting influence
on his destiny. He one day heard a skilful performance on a fine
piano, while passing by one of the better houses of Busseto. From that
time a constant fascination drew him to the house; for day after day
he lingered and seemed unwilling to go away lest he should perchance
lose some of the enchanting sounds which so enraptured him. The owner
of the premises was a rich merchant, one Antonio Barezzi, a cultivated
and high-minded man, and a passionate lover of music withal. 'Twas his
daughter whose playing gave the young Verdi such pleasure.
Signor Barezzi had often seen the lingering and absorbed lad, who
stood as if in a dream, oblivious to all that passed around him in the
practical work-a-day world. So one day he accosted him pleasantly and
inquired why he came so constantly and stayed so long doing nothing.
"I play the piano a little," said the boy, "and I like to come here
and listen to the fine playing in your house."
"Oh! if that is the case, come in with me that you may enjoy it more
at your ease, and hereafter you are welcome to do so whenever you feel
inclined."
It may be imagined the delighted boy did not refuse the kind
invitation, and the acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy, for the
rich merchant learned to regard the bright young musician with much
affection, which it is needless to say was warmly returned. Verdi was
untiring in study and spent the early years of his youth in humble
quiet, in the midst of those beauties of nature which have so powerful
an influence in moulding great susceptibilities. At his seventeenth
year he had acquired as much musical knowledge as could be acquired at
a place like Busseto, and he became anxious to go to Milan to continue
his studies. The poverty of his family precluding any assistance from
this quarter, he was obliged to find help from an eleemosynary fund
then existing in his native town. This was an institution called the
Monte di Pietà, which offered yearly to four young men the sum of
twenty-five _lire_ a-month each, in order to help them to an
education; and Verdi, making an application and sustained by the
influence of his friend the rich merchant, was one of the four whose
good fortune it was to be selected.
The allowance thus obtained, with some assistance from Barezzi,
enabled the ambitious young musician to go to Milan, carrying with him
some of his compositions. When he presented himself for examination
at the Conservatory, he was made to play on the piano, and his
compositions examined. The result fell on his hopes like a
thunderbolt. The pedantic and narrow-minded examiners not only scoffed
at the state of his musical knowledge, but told him he was incapable
of becoming a musician. To weaker souls this would have been a
terrible discouragement, but to his ardour and self-confidence it was
only a challenge. Barezzi had equal confidence in the abilities of his
_protégé_, and warmly encouraged him to work and hope. Verdi engaged
an excellent private teacher and pursued his studies with unflagging
energy, denying himself all but the barest necessities, and going
sometimes without sufficient food.
A stroke of fortune now fell in his way; the place of organist fell
vacant at the Busseto church, and Verdi was appointed to fill it. He
returned home, and was soon afterwards married to the daughter of the
benefactor to whom he owed so much. He continued to apply himself with
great diligence to the study of his art, and completed an opera early
in 1839. He succeeded in arranging for the production of this work,
"L'Oberto, Conte de San Bonifacio," at La Scala, Milan; but it excited
little comment and was soon forgotten, like the scores of other
shallow or immature compositions so prolifically produced in Italy.
The impresario, Merelli, believed in the young composer though, for he
thought he discovered signs of genius. So he gave him a contract to
write three operas, one of which was to be an _opera buffa_, and to be
ready in the following autumn. With hopeful spirits Verdi set to work
on the opera, but that year of 1840 was to be one of great trouble and
trial. Hardly had he set to work all afire with eagerness and hope,
when he was seized with severe illness. His recovery was followed by
the successive sickening of his two children, who died, a terrible
blow to the father's fond heart. Fate had the crowning stroke though
still to give, for the young mother, agonised by this loss, was seized
with a fatal inflammation of the brain. Thus within a brief period
Verdi was bereft of all the sweet consolations of home, and his life
became a burden to him. Under these conditions he was to write a comic
opera, full of sparkle, gaiety, and humour. Can we wonder that his
work was a failure? The public came to be amused by bright, joyous
music, for it was nothing to them that the composer's heart was dead
with grief at his afflictions. The audience hissed "Un Giorno di
Regno," for it proved a funereal attempt at mirth. So Verdi sought to
annul the contract.