known how to give utterance to such feelings! There is something
essentially warlike in that march, proclaiming that the God of armies
is on the side of these people. How full of feeling are these strains
of thanksgiving! The imagery of the Bible rises up in our mind; this
glorious musical _scena_ enables us to realize one of the grandest
dramas of that ancient and solemn world. The religious form given to
some of the voice parts, and the way in which they come in, one by
one, to group with the others, express all we have ever imagined of the
sacred marvels of that early age of humanity.
“And yet this fine concerted piece is no more than a development of
the theme of the march into all its musical outcome. That theme is the
inspiring element alike for the orchestra and the voices, for the air,
and for the brilliant instrumentation that supports it.
“Elcia now comes to join the crowd; and to give shade to the rejoicing
spirit of this number, Rossini has made her utter her regrets. Listen
to her _duettino_ with Amenofi. Did blighted love ever express itself
in lovelier song? It is full of the grace of a _notturno_, of the secret
grief of hopeless love. How sad! how sad! The Desert will indeed be a
desert to her!
“After this comes the fierce conflict of the Egyptians and the Hebrews.
All their joy is spoiled, their march stopped by the arrival of the
Egyptians. Pharaoh’s edict is proclaimed in a musical phrase, hollow and
dread, which is the leading _motif_ of the _finale_; we could fancy that
we hear the tramp of the great Egyptian army, surrounding the sacred
phalanx of the true God, curling round it, like a long African serpent
enveloping its prey. But how beautiful is the lament of the duped and
disappointed Hebrews! Though, in truth, it is more Italian than Hebrew.
What a superb passage introduces Pharaoh’s arrival, when his presence
brings the two leaders face to face, and all the moving passions of the
drama. The conflict of sentiments in that sublime _ottetto_, where the
wrath of Moses meets that of the two Pharaohs, is admirable. What a
medley of voices and of unchained furies!
“No grander subject was ever wrought out by a composer. The famous
_finale_ of _Don Giovanni_, after all, only shows us a libertine at odds
with his victims, who invoke the vengeance of Heaven; while here earth
and its dominions try to defeat God. Two nations are here face to face.
And Rossini, having every means at his command, has made wonderful use
of them. He has succeeded in expressing the turmoil of a tremendous
storm as a background to the most terrible imprecations, without making
it ridiculous. He has achieved it by the use of chords repeated in
triple time--a monotonous rhythm of gloomy musical emphasis--and so
persistent as to be quite overpowering. The horror of the Egyptians at
the torrent of fire, the cries of vengeance from the Hebrews, needed a
delicate balance of masses; so note how he has made the development of
the orchestral parts follow that of the chorus. The _allegro assai_ in C
minor is terrible in the midst of that deluge of fire.
“Confess now,” said Massimilla, at the moment when Moses, lifting his
rod, brings down the rain of fire, and when the composer puts forth all
his powers in the orchestra and on the stage, “that no music ever more
perfectly expressed the idea of distress and confusion.”
“They have spread to the pit,” remarked the Frenchman.
“What is it now? The pit is certainly in great excitement,” said the
Duchess.
In the _finale_, Genovese, his eyes fixed on la Tinti, had launched
into such preposterous flourishes, that the pit, indignant at this
interference with their enjoyment, were at a height of uproar. Nothing
could be more exasperating to Italian ears than this contrast of good
and bad singing. The manager went so far as to appear on the stage, to
say that in reply to his remarks to his leading singer, Signor Genovese
had replied that he knew not how or by what offence he had lost the
countenance of the public, at the very moment when he was endeavoring to
achieve perfection in his art.
“Let him be as bad as he was yesterday--that was good enough for us!”
roared Capraja, in a rage.
This suggestion put the house into a good humor again.
Contrary to Italian custom, the ballet was not much attended to. In
every box the only subject of conversation was Genovese’s strange
behavior, and the luckless manager’s speech. Those who were admitted
behind the scenes went off at once to inquire into the mystery of this
performance, and it was presently rumored that la Tinti had treated her
colleague Genovese to a dreadful scene, in which she had accused the
tenor of being jealous of her success, of having hindered it by his
ridiculous behavior, and even of trying to spoil her performance by
acting passionate devotion. The lady was shedding bitter tears over this
catastrophe. She had been hoping, she said, to charm her lover, who was
somewhere in the house, though she had failed to discover him.
Without knowing the peaceful course of daily life in Venice at the
present day, so devoid of incident that a slight altercation between two
lovers, or the transient huskiness of a singer’s voice becomes a subject
of discussion, regarded of as much importance as politics in England,
it is impossible to conceive of the excitement in the theatre and at the
Cafe Florian. La Tinti was in love; la Tinti had been hindered in her
performance; Genovese was mad or purposely malignant, inspired by the
artist’s jealousy so familiar to Italians! What a mine of matter for
eager discussion!
The whole pit was talking as men talk at the Bourse, and the result was
such a clamor as could not fail to amaze a Frenchman accustomed to the
quiet of the Paris theatres. The boxes were in a ferment like the stir
of swarming bees.
One man alone remained passive in the turmoil. Emilio Memmi, with his
back to the stage and his eyes fixed on Massimilla with a melancholy
expression, seemed to live in her gaze; he had not once looked round at
the prima donna.
“I need not ask you, _caro carino_, what was the result of my
negotiation,” said Vendramin to Emilio. “Your pure and pious Massimilla
has been supremely kind--in short, she has been la Tinti?”
The Prince’s reply was a shake of his head, full of the deepest
melancholy.
“Your love has not descended from the ethereal spaces where you soar,”
said Vendramin, excited by opium. “It is not yet materialized. This
morning, as every day for six months--you felt flowers opening their
scented cups under the dome of your skull that had expanded to vast
proportions. All your blood moved to your swelling heart that rose to
choke your throat. There, in there,”--and he laid his hand on Emilio’s
breast,--“you felt rapturous emotions. Massimilla’s voice fell on your
soul in waves of light; her touch released a thousand imprisoned joys
which emerged from the convolutions of your brain to gather about you in
clouds, to waft your etherealized body through the blue air to a purple
glow far above the snowy heights, to where the pure love of angels
dwells. The smile, the kisses of her lips wrapped you in a poisoned robe
which burnt up the last vestiges of your earthly nature. Her eyes were
twin stars that turned you into shadowless light. You knelt together
on the palm-branches of heaven, waiting for the gates of Paradise to be
opened; but they turned heavily on their hinges, and in your impatience
you struck at them, but could not reach them. Your hand touched nothing
but clouds more nimble than your desires. Your radiant companion,
crowned with white roses like a bride of Heaven, wept at your anguish.
Perhaps she was murmuring melodious litanies to the Virgin, while the
demoniacal cravings of the flesh were haunting you with their shameless
clamor, and you disdained the divine fruits of that ecstasy in which I
live, though shortening my life.”
“Your exaltation, my dear Vendramin,” replied Emilio, calmly, “is still
beneath reality. Who can describe that purely physical exhaustion in
which we are left by the abuse of a dream of pleasure, leaving the
soul still eternally craving, and the spirit in clear possession of its
faculties?
“But I am weary of this torment, which is that of Tantalus. This is my
last night on earth. After one final effort, our Mother shall have her
child again--the Adriatic will silence my last sigh--”
“Are you idiotic?” cried Vendramin. “No; you are mad; for madness, the
crisis we despise, is the memory of an antecedent condition acting on
our present state of being. The genius of my dreams has taught me that,
and much else! You want to make one of the Duchess and la Tinti; nay,
dear Emilio, take them separately; it will be far wiser. Raphael alone
ever united form and idea. You want to be the Raphael of love; but
chance cannot be commanded. Raphael was a ‘fluke’ of God’s creation,
for He foreordained that form and idea should be antagonistic; otherwise
nothing could live. When the first cause is more potent than the
outcome, nothing comes of it. We must live either on earth or in the
skies. Remain in the skies; it is always too soon to come down to
earth.”
“I will take the Duchess home,” said the Prince, “and make a last
attempt--afterwards?”
“Afterwards,” cried Vendramin, anxiously, “promise to call for me at
Florian’s.”
“I will.”
This dialogue, in modern Greek, with which Vendramin and Emilio were
familiar, as many Venetians are, was unintelligible to the Duchess and
to the Frenchman. Although he was quite outside the little circle
that held the Duchess, Emilio and Vendramin together--for these three
understood each other by means of Italian glances, by turns arch and
keen, or veiled and sidelong--the physician at last discerned part of
the truth. An earnest entreaty from the Duchess had prompted Vendramin’s
suggestion to Emilio, for Massimilla had begun to suspect the misery
endured by her lover in that cold empyrean where he was wandering,
though she had no suspicions of la Tinti.
“These two young men are mad!” said the doctor.
“As to the Prince,” said the Duchess, “trust me to cure him. As to
Vendramin, if he cannot understand this sublime music, he is perhaps
incurable.”
“If you would but tell me the cause of their madness, I could cure
them,” said the Frenchman.
“And since when have great physicians ceased to read men’s minds?” said
she, jestingly.
The ballet was long since ended; the second act of _Mose_ was beginning.
The pit was perfectly attentive. A rumor had got abroad that Duke
Cataneo had lectured Genovese, representing to him what injury he was
doing to Clarina, the _diva_ of the day. The second act would certainly
be magnificent.
“The Egyptian Prince and his father are on the stage,” said the Duchess.
“They have yielded once more, though insulting the Hebrews, but they
are trembling with rage. The father congratulates himself on his son’s
approaching marriage, and the son is in despair at this fresh obstacle,
though it only increases his love, to which everything is opposed.
Genovese and Carthagenova are singing admirably. As you see, the tenor
is making his peace with the house. How well he brings out the beauty of
the music! The phrase given out by the son on the tonic, and repeated by
the father on the dominant, is all in character with the simple, serious
scheme which prevails throughout the score; the sobriety of it makes the
endless variety of the music all the more wonderful. All Egypt is there.
“I do not believe that there is in modern music a composition more
perfectly noble. The solemn and majestic paternity of a king is fully
expressed in that magnificent theme, in harmony with the grand style
that stamps the opera throughout. The idea of a Pharaoh’s son pouring
out his sorrows on his father’s bosom could surely not be more admirably
represented than in this grand imagery. Do you not feel a sense of the
splendor we are wont to attribute to that monarch of antiquity?”
“It is indeed sublime music,” said the Frenchman.
“The air _Pace mia smarrita_, which the Queen will now sing, is one of
those _bravura_ songs which every composer is compelled to introduce,
though they mar the general scheme of the work; but an opera would as
often as not never see the light, if the prima donna’s vanity were not
duly flattered. Still, this musical ‘sop’ is so fine in itself that it
is performed as written, on every stage; it is so brilliant that the
leading lady does not substitute her favorite show piece, as is very
commonly done in operas.
“And now comes the most striking movement in the score: the duet between
Osiride and Elcia in the subterranean chamber where he has hidden her to
keep her from the departing Israelites, and to fly with her himself from
Egypt. The lovers are then intruded on by Aaron, who has been to warn
Amalthea, and we get the grandest of all quartettes: _Mi manca la voce,
mi sento morire_. This is one of those masterpieces that will survive
in spite of time, that destroyer of fashion in music, for it speaks the
language of the soul which can never change. Mozart holds his own by
the famous _finale_ to _Don Giovanni_; Marcello, by his psalm, _Coeli
enarrant gloriam Dei_; Cimarosa, by the air _Pria che spunti_; Beethoven
by his C minor symphony; Pergolesi, by his _Stabat Mater_; Rossini will
live by _Mi manca la voce_. What is most to be admired in Rossini is his
command of variety to form; to produce the effect here required, he has
had recourse to the old structure of the canon in unison, to bring
the voices in, and merge them in the same melody. As the form of these
sublime melodies was new, he set them in an old frame; and to give it
the more relief he has silenced the orchestra, accompanying the voices
with the harps alone. It is impossible to show greater ingenuity of
detail, or to produce a grander general effect.--Dear me! again an
outbreak!” said the Duchess.
Genovese, who had sung his duet with Carthagenova so well, was
caricaturing himself now that la Tinti was on the stage. From a great
singer he sank to the level of the most worthless chorus singer.
The most formidable uproar arose that had ever echoed to the roof of the
_Fenice_. The commotion only yielded to Clarina, and she, furious at the
difficulties raised by Genovese’s obstinacy, sang _Mi manca la voce_ as
it will never be sung again. The enthusiasm was tremendous; the audience
forgot their indignation and rage in pleasure that was really acute.
“She floods my soul with purple glow!” said Capraja, waving his hand in
benediction at la _Diva_ Tinti.
“Heaven send all its blessings on your head!” cried a gondolier.
“Pharaoh will now revoke his commands,” said the Duchess, while the
commotion in the pit was calming down. “Moses will overwhelm him, even
on his throne, by declaring the death of every first-born son in Egypt,
singing that strain of vengeance which augurs thunders from heaven,
while above it the Hebrew clarions ring out. But you must clearly
understand that this air is by Pacini; Carthagenova introduces it
instead of that by Rossini. This air, _Paventa_, will no doubt hold
its place in the score; it gives a bass too good an opportunity for
displaying the quality of his voice, and expression here will carry the
day rather than science. However, the air is full of magnificent menace,
and it is possible that we may not be long allowed to hear it.”
A thunder of clapping and _bravos_ hailed the song, followed by deep and
cautious silence; nothing could be more significant or more thoroughly
Venetian than the outbreak and its sudden suppression.
“I need say nothing of the coronation march announcing the enthronement
of Osiride, intended by the King as a challenge to Moses; to hear it
is enough. Their famous Beethoven has written nothing grander. And this
march, full of earthly pomp, contrasts finely with the march of the
Israelites. Compare them, and you will see that the music is full of
purpose.
“Elcia declares her love in the presence of the two Hebrew leaders, and
then renounces it in the fine _aria_, _Porge la destra amata_. (Place
your beloved hand.) Ah! What anguish! Only look at the house!”
The pit was shouting _bravo_, when Genovese left the stage.
“Now, free from her deplorable lover, we shall hear Tinti sing,
_O desolata Elcia_--the tremendous _cavatina_ expressive of love
disapproved by God.”
“Where art thou, Rossini?” cried Cataneo. “If he could but hear the
music created by his genius so magnificently performed,” he went on.
“Is not Clarina worthy of him?” he asked Capraja. “To give life to those
notes by such gusts of flame, starting from the lungs and feeding in
the air on some unknown matter which our ears inhale, and which bears us
heavenwards in a rapture of love, she must be divine!”
“She is like the gorgeous Indian plant, which deserting the earth
absorbs invisible nourishment from the atmosphere, and sheds from
its spiral white blossom such fragrant vapors as fill the brain with
dreams,” replied Capraja.
On being recalled, la Tinti appeared alone. She was received with a
storm of applause; a thousand kisses were blown to her from finger-tips;
she was pelted with roses, and a wreath was made of the flowers snatched
from the ladies’ caps, almost all sent out from Paris.
The _cavatina_ was encored.
“How eagerly Capraja, with his passion for embellishments, must have
looked forward to this air, which derives all its value from execution,”
remarked Massimilla. “Here Rossini has, so to speak, given the
reins over to the singer’s fancy. Her _cadenzas_ and her feeling
are everything. With a poor voice or inferior execution, it would be
nothing--the throat is responsible for the effects of this _aria_.
“The singer has to express the most intense anguish,--that of a woman
who sees her lover dying before her very eyes. La Tinti makes the house
ring with her highest notes; and Rossini, to leave pure singing free to
do its utmost, has written it in the simplest, clearest style. Then,
as a crowning effort, he has composed those heartrending musical cries:
_Tormenti! Affanni! Smanie!_ What grief, what anguish, in those runs.
And la Tinti, you see, has quite carried the house off its feet.”
The Frenchman, bewildered by this adoring admiration throughout a vast
theatre for the source of its delight, here had a glimpse of genuine
Italian nature. But neither the Duchess nor the two young men paid any
attention to the ovation. Clarina began again.
The Duchess feared that she was seeing her Emilio for the last time. As
to the Prince: in the presence of the Duchess, the sovereign divinity
who lifted him to the skies, he had forgotten where he was, he no longer
heard the voice of the woman who had initiated him into the mysteries of
earthly pleasure, for deep dejection made his ears tingle with a chorus
of plaintive voices, half-drowned in a rushing noise as of pouring rain.
Vendramin saw himself in an ancient Venetian costume, looking on at the
ceremony of the _Bucentaur_. The Frenchman, who plainly discerned
that some strange and painful mystery stood between the Prince and the
Duchess, was racking his brain with shrewd conjecture to discover what
it could be.
The scene had changed. In front of a fine picture, representing
the Desert and the Red Sea, the Egyptians and Hebrews marched and
countermarched without any effect on the feelings of the four persons
in the Duchess’ box. But when the first chords on the harps preluded
the hymn of the delivered Israelites, the Prince and Vendramin rose and
stood leaning against the opposite sides of the box, and the Duchess,
resting her elbow on the velvet ledge, supported her head on her left
hand.
The Frenchman, understanding from this little stir, how important this
justly famous chorus was in the opinion of the house, listened with
devout attention.
The audience, with one accord, shouted for its repetition.
“I feel as if I were celebrating the liberation of Italy,” thought a
Milanese.
“Such music lifts up bowed heads, and revives hope in the most torpid,”
said a man from the Romagna.
“In this scene,” said Massimilla, whose emotion was evident, “science is
set aside. Inspiration, alone, dictated this masterpiece; it rose from
the composer’s soul like a cry of love! As to the accompaniment, it
consists of the harps; the orchestra appears only at the last repetition
of that heavenly strain. Rossini can never rise higher than in this
prayer; he will do as good work, no doubt, but never better: the sublime
is always equal to itself; but this hymn is one of the things that will
always be sublime. The only match for such a conception might be found
in the psalms of the great Marcello, a noble Venetian, who was to music
what Giotto was to painting. The majesty of the phrase, unfolding itself
with episodes of inexhaustible melody, is comparable with the finest
things ever invented by religious writers.
“How simple is the structure! Moses opens the attack in G minor, ending
in a cadenza in B flat which allows the chorus to come in, _pianissimo_
at first, in B flat, returning by modulations to G minor. This splendid
treatment of the voices, recurring three times, ends in the last strophe
with a _stretto_ in G major of absolutely overpowering effect. We feel
as though this hymn of a nation released from slavery, as it mounts to
heaven, were met by kindred strains falling from the higher spheres. The
stars respond with joy to the ecstasy of liberated mortals. The rounded
fulness of the rhythm, the deliberate dignity of the graduations leading
up to the outbursts of thanksgiving, and its slow return raise heavenly
images in the soul. Could you not fancy that you saw heaven open, angels
holding sistrums of gold, prostrate seraphs swinging their fragrant
censers, and the archangels leaning on the flaming swords with which
they have vanquished the heathen?
“The secret of this music and its refreshing effect on the soul is, I
believe, that of a very few works of human genius: it carries us for
the moment into the infinite; we feel it within us; we see it, in
those melodies as boundless as the hymns sung round the throne of God.
Rossini’s genius carries us up to prodigious heights, whence we look
down on a promised land, and our eyes, charmed by heavenly light, gaze
into limitless space. Elcia’s last strain, having almost recovered from
her grief, brings a feeling of earth-born passions into this hymn of
thanksgiving. This, again, is a touch of genius.
“Ay, sing!” exclaimed the Duchess, as she listened to the last stanza
with the same gloomy enthusiasm as the singers threw into it. “Sing! You
are free!”
The words were spoken in a voice that startled the physician. To
divert Massimilla from her bitter reflections, while the excitement
of recalling la Tinti was at its height, he engaged her in one of the
arguments in which the French excel.
“Madame,” said he, “in explaining this grand work--which I shall come to
hear again to-morrow with a fuller comprehension, thanks to you, of its
structure and its effect--you have frequently spoken of the color of the
music, and of the ideas it depicts; now I, as an analyst, a materialist,
must confess that I have always rebelled against the affectation of
certain enthusiasts, who try to make us believe that music paints with
tones. Would it not be the same thing if Raphael’s admirers spoke of his
singing with colors?”