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 vocalization. '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 oline 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 favor; the
system he thought impracticable.
"The never-failing stream of conversation flowed on until eleven
o'clock, when I was favored 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 favorite 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.'"