freely conceded. That he is a great musician in any exacting sense of the
word cannot be so readily granted. He has been in no sense an innovator,
and as far as his influence on opera is concerned, he leaves it where he
found it, except inasmuch as he has followed the changes that the musical
development of his time has made in every branch of the art. He has not
been an epoch-maker in opera, as was Rossini, and in nothing that he has
written has he made such an impression on his contemporaries in opera
as was made by the "La Sonnambula" and the "Norma" of Bellini, and the
"Lucia di Lammermoor" and the "La Favorita" of Donizetti. As it seems
to us, he was the logical outgrowth of the latter, as Donizetti was of
Bellini, as Bellini was of Rossini, and as Rossini was of the _finales_
of "Il Nozze di Figaro." Gifted with an inexhaustive fund of melody, and
a strong feeling for dramatic effect, he trusted to these gifts without
paying especial heed to any philosophical principle on which operas
should be composed, and appealed to the nerves and the ephemeral emotions
of his public, rather than to its heart or its intelligence, for its
plaudits. The immense vogue he has won, not only in his own country but
in every land where a taste for opera is cultivated, shows that this form
of appeal was not made in vain. Nevertheless, the twenty-seven operas
which form the great bulk of his musical life-work, in spite of their
wealth and variety of melody, the extraordinary resources of invention
they exemplify in their composer, and the fluent skill exhibited by him
in saying the same thing in an infinite number of ways, do not present
anything of the highest order, even in their kind. Not one of these
operas is great in the sense that Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Seviglia"
is great, or in the sense that the first act and the meeting of the
cantons in the same master's "William Tell" are great. There are beauties
innumerable in them, but they do not lie deeper than the surface. They
are affluent in inspiration of a certain order, but it is the inspiration
of a prolific tune-maker, with an instinct for opera writing, and without
any very high musicianship or any very sincere artistic feeling. More
spontaneous, perhaps, than Meyerbeer, in the invention of melody, he
has never risen to the height of the magnificent duet between Raoul and
Valentine, in the fourth act of "Les Huguenots," and the fine trio in the
last act of "Robert le Diable."
[Illustration: <sc>_Rigoletto_</sc> (1851) Quartetto Atto III
Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Verdi.]
We have said that Verdi was the logical outgrowth of Donizetti. It
would be more exact to say that, up to the time that "Aïda" appeared,
he continued to follow in the same path as that trodden by the composer
of "Lucia." The latter, after all, had a certain originality, inasmuch
as his operas were, in many distinctive ways, different from those of
any of his predecessors; though it may, with some show of justice, be
claimed that the "I Puritani" of Bellini provided him with his model.
The difference between Bellini and Donizetti, however, is far greater
than is that between Donizetti and Verdi, though there is a marked
family resemblance between all three, as far as conventional forms are
concerned. Until quite recently, however, these forms were the monotonous
characteristics of Italian opera. In saying this we do not mean that
the operas of this school are not in harmony with the views that have
of late prevailed regarding the absurdity of this form or the propriety
of that form of opera: in other words, that Italian opera, with its
_cabballettas_, duets, quartets, and its _scenas_, consisting of a
recitative, an andante, and a brilliant allegro, its adherence to flowing
melody and to tunefulness generally is wrong in principle, as opposed to
that form of opera or music-drama advocated by Wagner and his followers,
which, it is claimed, is more natural and more logical. When the
characters in a drama, instead of speaking, resort to singing in order to
express themselves, whether they do it according to the methods of Wagner
or the methods of Verdi, the absurdity is equally great. Ortrud giving
vent to her hate in song is no less untrue to nature than is Azucena.
There is no more truth, no more logic, in the "endless melodies" of
Wagner than there is in the regularly formed and terminable melodies of
Verdi. The opera music of Wagner, when performed by an orchestra without
the assistance of voices, says no more than does the music of Verdi given
under the same conditions, except that the latter is more intelligible as
music pure and simple. We do not intend to draw any comparison between
the respective qualities of the music of these composers, but we insist
that no one who hears the music of either master for the first time,
as mere instrumental music, can tell what it is intended to express on
the stage. Hence it is folly to urge that the opera music of any school
expresses more than that of another. It is folly to speak of nature in
connection with the emotions of love, hate, hope, despair, joy and woe,
when sung by actors to the accompaniment of an orchestra. The only logic
that can enter into so illogical a process is that which, having conceded
that song may take the place of speech, concedes all the rest. The opera
composer should not be judged by any other canon of art than that which
he has followed in writing his work; and when Wagner's Tristan sings his
love according to the composer's idea of musical and dramatic propriety,
he is no less ridiculous, _per se_, than is Verdi's Ernani in the like
situation. The composer who creates the precise impression that he
strives to create by the music he places in the mouths of his characters
is the composer who has made all that can be made of his art, whether
he be Wagner or Verdi. It is not the way in which it is done, but it is
the result achieved, that is to be considered. That the two masters will
express the same sentiment by methods directly contrary is nothing to the
point. The effect is all that is of importance, and it is in the power
of nobody to prove that the one method is right and the other wrong,
or to impress greater propriety on the one than on the other, except
arbitrarily and irresponsibly.
Verdi's reputation began to spread after "Nabucco"; it increased with
"I Lombardi" and was established firmly by "Ernani." In all these
works, affluence of melody and rhythmical variety are conspicuous. In
none of them is there any profound musicianship. They suggest brilliant
improvisation rather than deep thought. In certain portions of the scores
of "I Lombardi" and "Ernani" there is vigorous dramatic color, but it is
of the perfunctory type made familiar by Donizetti. The orchestration is
conventional, and orchestral color is rarely sought except by violent
contrasts. The overture to "Nabucco" is one of the few works in this
kind that the composer has attempted. It is made up of melodies from the
opera, put together with no special skill, and, though effective after a
noisy fashion, is of no musical value. It is the best of his overtures,
but in common with the others, is wholly barren of thematic development.
In this purely instrumental branch of his art he has written nothing
as good as Donizetti's overture to "La Fille du Regiment," in respect
to form, instrumentation, and musicianship generally. His overtures to
"Giovanna d'Arco," "Les Vêpres Sicilliennes," "Aroldo" and "La Forza del
Destino," though tuneful and effective in their way, are without any
merit on which we need dwell.
[Illustration: BUST OF VERDI.
From a photograph at the Paris Opera Library.]
Verdi did not attain to fame without meeting with opposition. It was
claimed that he was over-noisy, a charge not wholly without foundation,
notably in his "I Due Foscari" which succeeded "Ernani," and in which the
predominance of the brass wind instruments, a novelty then, was almost
overpowering. Then, too, it was charged that his music, if it should be
sung much, would ruin the voices of the singers, so addicted was he to
write for them in their highest register. It was not until "Rigoletto"
appeared that his instrumentation showed any marked care, or that he
seemed to be impressed by the variety of effects that could be produced
by a judicious use of the wood wind. In Gilda's air, _Caro nomo_, the
scoring is delightful in its grace, delicacy and charmingly contrasted
coloring. In the last act of this opera, too, is the famous quartet, in
which are so felicitously mingled impassioned love, mirth, suspense and
vengefulness,--the best thing in its kind that had appeared since the
sextet in "Lucia" and the trio in "Lucrezia Borgia," and which was soon
to be followed by the more popular but less artistic _Miserere_ in "Il
Trovatore." It is true that he had written the stirring and effective
_Carlo Magno_ finale to one of the acts of his "Ernani," and that it
attained to immense popular favor; but the "Rigoletto" quartet is the
most brilliant and most musicianly of all his efforts in its kind.
"Rigoletto," which was composed in forty days, has outlived the sixteen
operas that preceded it, and its wealth of melody and its powerful
dramatic effects, cause it to be listened to still with much of the
pleasure and interest that attended its first production forty-two years
ago. It is one of the works in which the composer will live.
In "Il Trovatore" Verdi made another stride in advance. During the
two years that passed between the production of "Rigoletto" and that
of "Il Trovatore," a great change had taken place in his style. There
is observable in the score of the later opera a larger variety in his
harmonies, and the basses move more independently and more fluently.
The accompaniments are less perfunctory, and are given a more artistic
taste than that of merely emphasizing the rhythms in a conventional way.
The instrumentation is richer, the parts often move more freely, and
the general effect is more serious and impressive; while the varieties
of tone-color are more affluent than in any of the composer's earlier
scores. In other respects, notwithstanding the popularity of the opera,
we do not think it is superior to "Rigoletto." On the contrary, it seems
to us to lack something of the artistic dignity that pertains to its
immediate predecessor. It is overfull of mere tune-making that does
not fairly echo the dramatic sentiment of the situations on which it
is expended. In "Rigoletto," Verdi seems to have escaped wholly from
the influence of Donizetti. In "Il Trovatore" the methods of Donizetti
are constantly recalled, and the opera seems cast in the same mould as
"Lucrezia Borgia." The music given to Azucena, graceful and ear-pleasing
as it is, for the most part appears trivial and frivolous when it is
considered in relation to the passion it is intended to emphasize. Still,
forty years after its birth it remains one of the most popular operas
on the stage, even in Germany. "La Traviata" overflows with exquisite
melodies, but here the composer has been more successful in wedding
sound to sense. His theme was sentimental rather than dramatic, and the
sensuous tunes harmonized well with the spirit of the text. Elegance,
refinement and warmth of style characterize the score throughout, and the
proprieties are not violated except in the vulgar air, _Di provenza_,
the music of which, to say nothing of its reiteration of the same
rhythmical phrase bar after bar, is ridiculously inappropriate to the
sentiment of the situation. "Les Vêpres Sicilliennes" showed no further
change in the composer's methods, and the same may be said of "Un ballo
in Maschera," "La Forza del Destino" and "Don Carlos." There are fine
dramatic and instrumental moments in all these works, but in none of
them is there any advance beyond "Rigoletto." Moreover, there are many
lapses back to the composer's "Ernani" period. He was not yet able or
willing to break wholly with the past. It is true that he continued
to give more and more care to those portions of his score that dealt
with the action of the drama, instead of bestowing attention on the
composition of catching melodies and _ensembles_, to the neglect of the
intermediate parts. In his "Simon Boccanegra," however, which succeeded
"Les Vêpres Sicilliennes," he gave the first impressive indication of
his sympathy with the more modern school of opera that existed outside
of Italy; and in this work he essayed a more declamatory recitative, a
deeper regard for tone-color, and a more serious devotion to the dramatic
sentiment of the scene and action, and less to the mere formal aria. In
other words, Verdi became, to some extent, a revolutionist in his art,
and was the first Italian master to recognize what was going on in the
world of opera beyond the confines of his own country. The work in which
this cry of progress was sounded met with complete failure, and for a
time he returned to the old order of things, or else approached the new
with faint-heartedness. When, after four years' silence, he was heard
again, he was boldly and unequivocally an advocate of the new movement,
as "Aïda" amply testifies. Here he abandons, for good and all, the
conventional forms to which he had so long adhered. He has considered his
libretto as a whole, and not as so many opportunities for tune-making;
he has attempted to maintain a proper and uniform local color--has tried
to create the impression of an unbroken and self-consistent dramatic
entirety; he has essayed to impart as much interest to the recitatives,
and to the more declamatory aspects of his score, as to the more purely
melodious. The melody flows on with the familiar fluency, but it is
tempered by dignity. The orchestra looms into primary importance as
part of a logical whole, instead of remaining the mere accompaniment,
more or less artistic, that it is in the composer's other scores. It is
Verdi still, but a Verdi matured in style and fully ripened in artistic
judgment,--a Verdi thoroughly awake, for the first time, to the fact that
the horizon of art is bounded only by the height from which it is viewed.
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF VERDI BY DANTAN.
From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.]
In "Aïda" there is little that can be detached from its stage
surroundings without loss of effect. That Verdi was satisfied with the
results achieved by him in this opera is evidenced by his revision and
rewriting of "Simon Boccanegra," in which the earlier melodies are
retained, but in which the dramatic portions of the score are deepened
and intensified, and made even more impressive than were the like
features in the score of "Aïda." His "Othello," if not a still further
step in advance, maintains to the full the position now assumed by the
master. It is interesting to compare his treatment of the tragedy with
that of his predecessor, Rossini. In all that pertains to dignity,
sympathy with the spirit of the poem, seriousness of style and sincerity
of art, the advantage lies wholly with the modern composer. Rossini's
"Othello," however, emphasized an epoch in serious opera, for it is the
first opera written throughout in _recitativo strumento_ to the exclusion
of the customary _recitativo secco_.
"Othello" exemplified that Verdi's conversion to the methods of modern
musical thought was complete. The spectacle of a composer whose fame
is established, whose labors have met with a substantial return that
has placed him beyond the need of further toil, who has reached an age
at which most artistic careers have closed, beginning as it were, _de
novo_, is a rare one. That he said anything in his more recent operas
that he had not already said is doubtful; his methods of thought remained
unchanged, but the language in which he uttered them was more refined
and more dignified. He was, however, to make a still greater departure
from his past; and it was accomplished in his "Falstaff," in which at
fourscore he was to show himself a modern of moderns. The progress was
astonishing: but after all, it only emphasized one of the composer's
familiar sayings, "If you want the new in art, you must return to the
old"; for he has gone back to the fundamental principles of opera as
enunciated by Gluck. There is here a wholesale abandoning of the formal
divisions in opera. Complexity has given way to simplicity. The music
harmonizes with the characteristic spirit of the text; the melodies are
brief; recitative is sparingly used, and musical declamation makes up the
greater portion of the score. The orchestra no longer follows, but has
risen to equal importance with the voice, and lends its own appropriate
color and accent to the illustration and enforcement of the sentiment
of the text. Graceful and exquisite tunefulness is maintained, but it
falls into its proper place and continues no longer than it justly
expresses the sentiment of the situation. There is a beautiful balance
between the voices and the orchestra, and though the instrumentation is
strikingly modern, it is free from the restless and wearying Wagnerian
polyphony and excess of tone-color. Part-writing, an essential to which
little attention has been paid by Italian composers of opera, comes into
unusual though not brilliant prominence, and always with delightful
effect. The scoring is never overloaded; the right touch always comes in
the right place; and every change of color has its special meaning as a
strengthening of the emotion of the moment, as indicated by the stage
action. In brief, the latest work of the composer is his most masterly,
musically considered; and what is most astonishing is, that it suggests
nothing of its creator's age, except the experience, the mellowness,
and the enlarged art feeling that have come with it. And yet it is more
important as a manifestation of the composer's capacity to receive and
to adopt new impressions in his extreme old age, than it is as a work of
art. In other words, its value is of a personal rather than of a general
nature, and Verdi remains to the end a great opera composer of world-wide
popularity, who has exercised no influence and made no impression on the
art of which he is so brilliant a representative.
In closing this estimate of Verdi as a composer of opera, we may add
that even in his most absolute departure from the traditions of Italian
opera, as he found them, he has remained essentially Italian. It has
been argued that in his later works he falls under the sway of Wagner;
but this, we think, would be difficult to demonstrate. He may not have
remained uninfluenced by the German master's theories regarding the
character of opera librettos, but musically, he is always a true son of
his native land. His younger Italian contemporaries have far outrun him
as reformers. From present indications it would appear that Verdi is
destined to be the last of the long line of Italian opera composers whose
theories were those of the old school, more or less modified in respect
to style or fashion, as time passed. He has had no imitators and he will
leave no disciples. In this he will also be singular, for from the dawn
of opera to the present time every great composer of Italian opera has
left behind him a survivor who has followed in his footsteps--at least
until he has found out an individual path for himself. From the era
when Nicolo Logroscino invented the concerted _finale_ for comic opera,
and it was first extended to serious opera by Pasiello, Italian serious
opera began to break away from its earlier rigid form and to congeal into
that which prevailed down to the period when the reform, with which we
have just dealt, gave to it a death blow. From Pasiello and Piccinni,
composer after composer appeared, each succeeding one overlapping his
immediate predecessor and carrying the development of the school a step
farther. Cimarosa followed Piccinni in this way, and was in turn followed
by Rossini, who was succeeded by Mercadante, Pacini, Bellini, Donizetti
and Verdi. Here, as we have already observed, the line abruptly ends,
and not with the greatest of the brilliant group. Which, if any, of
Verdi's operas will survive it is difficult to predict, but we think
that "Rigoletto" has the best chance; but none of them is destined to
the immortality of "La Serva Padrona," "Il Matrimonio Segreto," "La
Sonnambula" and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia."
It only remains for us to consider Verdi's Requiem, a work that has been
praised with as much enthusiasm as it has been condemned with acrimony.
Dr. Hans von Bülow, speaking for one school of criticism, and with no
very great discretion, asserted this composition to be a "monstrosity"
that would do no credit to an ordinary pupil of any music school in
Germany. It is possible that Dr. von Bülow viewed the work from a purely
pedagogic standpoint and with special reference to transgressions of
musical grammar. In matters of this kind much depends on the esteem in
which the composer holds arbitrary rules, and on his right to heed or to
disobey them as he may see fit. Much, too, depends on the standpoint,
prejudiced or otherwise, from which the critic considers the work. An
ordinary pupil of any music school in Germany may or may not be able to
write more correctly than Verdi has written in numerous places in this
Requiem, but there is more in music than a strict observance of the
rules of musical grammar; and it is in no need of demonstration that it
is beyond the power of any ordinary pupil in any music school to write
music of so high an order. In fact, be the work what it may, it has not
been equalled in its kind by any contemporary graduates of one of the
schools to which Dr. von Bülow refers. Another fault that has been found
with this work is that it is not sacred in character. Reduced to its
simplest terms this charge means that Verdi's Requiem is not conceived in
the same spirit that Bach conceived his "Matthew-Passion" and Handel his
"Messiah." This, in turn, indicates a belief that it is compulsory on a
warm-blooded and highly emotional Italian to appeal to God in the mood
that is favored of the more stolid and less impulsive German. The mere
matter of difference in temperament makes it impossible to institute a
comparison between the sacred music of Verdi and that of Bach and Handel.
Then, too, there is overmuch of cant in perfunctory discussion of what is
and what is not sacred in music; and after all, the words to which the
music is composed would seem to have more to do with the matter than does
the music itself. Considered in the abstract, it is no more reasonable
to argue that Bach's music is essentially religious than it would be to
argue that Verdi's is not. The argument must be decided, in either case,
on arbitrary principles and according to the prejudices of those who
participate in it. It would not be easy to define exactly in what the
religious element of so-called sacred music is apparent, whether such
music be of German or of Italian origin. It is beyond all contradiction
that Handel utilized many of his Italian opera airs for his oratorios,
and that what began by being profane ended by becoming serious. These
airs were none the more profane for their operatic origin, and none the
more sacred for their transferences to oratorio. The English and German
speaking races have accepted Bach and Handel as the noblest exponents of
what is understood by them as the religious sentiment in music; but that
acceptance does not make a law for the Latin races,--for the Italians,
the Spaniards and the French. Of the unequalled genius of Bach and of
Handel, and of the large nobility of their music, there cannot be two
opinions; but they wrote after the fashion of their day, and the musical
style they adopted was not chosen because it was abstractly religious
in character, but because it was the only style they knew, and it was
the style common to the stage and the church, save that when adapted to
the latter it was more contrapuntal in treatment. That choral fugues,
single or double, strict or free, are radically or essentially religious
in feeling, still remains to be proved. No man and no body of men are
entitled to decide dogmatically that this or that style is the only one
appropriate for sacred music. If Handel can be permitted to take airs
written for purely dramatic works, and in what was then considered a
purely dramatic spirit, by the most dramatic composer of his time, and
use them for sacred works, why shall Verdi be condemned for composing
his Requiem in a dramatic spirit, at first hand? It may be argued
that Palestrina, among Italians, set the pattern for a dignified and
undramatic style of church music; but it can also be urged, and with
justice, that the music which Palestrina set to solemn words differed
in no wise from the madrigals he composed to words of far other import.
In judging Verdi's Requiem, as in judging other works of art ably and
conscientiously made, we should try to look at it from the composer's
point of view. In the abstract, there is nothing more suggestively sacred
in the music of _I know that my Redeemer liveth_, than there is in that
of _Home, Sweet Home_. The text makes the only difference. The foundation
of the art and science of music is wholly arbitrary, but the laws of the
school stop at the point at which the individuality and the imagination
of the master composer begin to manifest themselves.