In 1872 the Khédive of Egypt, an oriental ruler, whose love of western
art and civilization has since tangled him in economic meshes to escape
from which has cost him his independence, produced a new opera with
barbaric splendor 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 Francs 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 crystallized, 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, 1814.
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 ardor, 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 skillful 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 molding
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 thunder-bolt. 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
ardor 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 afterward 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, agonized 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, gayety, and humor. 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. To
this the impresario replied: "So be it, if you wish; but, whenever you
want to write again on the same terms, you will find me ready."
To tell the truth, the composer was discouraged by his want of success,
and wholly broken down by his numerous trials. He now withdrew from all
society, and, having hired a small room in an out-of-the-way part of
Milan, passed most of his time in reading the worst books that could
be found, rarely going out, unless occasionally in the evening, never
giving his attention to study of any kind, and never touching the piano.
Such was his life from October, 1840, to January, 1841. One evening,
early in the new year, while out walking, he chanced to meet Merelli,
who took him by the arm; and, as they sauntered toward the theatre, the
impresario told him that he was in great trouble, Nicolai, who was to
write an opera for him, having refused to accept a _libretto_ entitled
"Nabucco."
To this Verdi replied:
"I am glad to be able to relieve you of your difficulty. Don't you
remember the libretto of 'Il Proscritto,' which you procured for me, and
for which I have never composed the music? Give that to Nicolai in place
of 'Nabucco.'"
Merelli thanked him for his kind offer, and, as they reached the
theatre, asked him to go in, that they might ascertain whether the
manuscript of "Il Proscritto" was really there. It was at length found,
and Verdi was on the point of leaving, when Merelli slipped into his
pocket the book of "Nabucco," asking him to look it over. For want
of something to do, he took up the drama the next morning and read it
through, realizing how truly grand it was in conception. But, as a lover
forces himself to feign indifference to his coquettish _innamorata_, so
he, disregarding his inclinations, returned the manuscript to Merelli
that same day.
"Well?" said Merelli, inquiringly.
"Musicabilissimo!" he replied; "full of dramatic power and telling
situations!"
"Take it home with you, then, and write the music for it."
Verdi declared that he did not wish to compose, but the worthy
impresario forced the manuscript on him, and persisted that he should
undertake the work. The composer returned home with the libretto, but
threw it on one side without looking at it, and for the next five months
continued his reading of bad romances and yellow-covered novels.
The impulse of work soon came again, however. One beautiful June day the
manuscript met his eye, while looking listlessly over some old papers.
He read one scene and was struck by its beauty. The instinct of musical
creation rushed over him with irresistible force; he seated himself at
the piano, so long silent, and began composing the music. The ice was
broken. Verdi soon entered into the spirit of the work, and in three
months "Nabucco" was entirely completed. Merelli gladly accepted it, and
it was performed at La Scala in the spring of 1842. As a result Verdi
was besieged with petitions for new works from every impresario in
Italy.