GARIBALDI VISITS THE OPERA--GIUGLINI'S TROUBLE AT ST
PETERSBURG--GIUGLINI VISITED BY TITIENS--ALARM OF FIRE--PRODUCTION
OF "MEDEA"--GRISI'S LAST APPEARANCE--AN ENRAGED TENOR.
IN 1864 my season opened brilliantly, and on the fifth night I induced
Garibaldi, who was then in this country, to visit the theatre; which
filled it to overflowing. On that evening Titiens and Giuglini really
surpassed themselves; and at the close of the opera Garibaldi told me he
had never witnessed such a spirited performance, and that he had been
quite carried away by the admirable singing of the two eminent artists.
The opera was _Lucrezia Borgia_.
Some few nights afterwards I placed Nicolai's opera, the _Merry Wives of
Windsor_, before the public, under the name of _Falstaff_, introducing a
charming contralto named Bettelheim; who undertook the _rôle_ of "Mrs.
Page," whilst Titiens impersonated "Mrs. Ford," Giuglini "Fenton,"
Bettini "Slender," Gassier "Mr. Page," Santley "Mr. Ford," &c., &c. The
magnificent new scenery was by Telbin. The opera met with most
unequivocal success, and was repeated for several consecutive nights.
But, as with so many other operas, the public were so slow in expressing
their approbation that it gradually had to drop out of the _répertoire_.
Shortly afterwards I produced, remounted, Beethoven's _Fidelio_, with
Titiens as the heroine, which was given some seven or eight nights in
succession to the most crowded houses. In the winter I gave my usual
extra performances in the provinces and in London.
Prior to the close of the London season of 1864 Giuglini signed an
engagement for St. Petersburg, receiving a very large honorarium for his
services. Regarding himself as the only representative of "Faust," he
had not taken the precaution of stipulating for his appearance in this,
or, indeed, any other part in his _répertoire_. On his arrival he was
much mortified to find the Covent Garden artists, of whom there were
several, always working and intriguing together; and to Giuglini's great
dismay the part of "Faust" was assigned to Signor Tamberlik; Patti being
the "Margherita" and Nantier Didiée the "Siebel." Now passed some two or
three weeks before Giuglini could obtain a _début_. One afternoon, about
three o'clock, he was informed by the intendant that he was called upon
to perform the _rôle_ of "Faust," Tamberlik being taken suddenly ill.
This was indeed good news, and he set about arranging his costumes and
looking over the music. Towards six o'clock he heard it rumoured that
Madame Patti would be too indisposed to sing the _rôle_ of "Margherita,"
and that he would have to appear with some _débutante_.
This thoroughly unnerved him, and he himself became indisposed, which he
at once notified to the intendant. At the advice of some friends he was
induced to take a walk, and pay a visit to some acquaintances to spend
the evening.
About ten o'clock the door was rudely opened without any warning, and an
_employé_ entered, accompanied by two officials, one of whom politely
raised his hat and said, "Signor Giuglini, I believe?" to which the
Signor replied that he was Giuglini. They thereupon immediately left.
Nothing more was heard of this matter until about a fortnight
afterwards. It being pay day for the principal artists, that afternoon
the Imperial Treasurer called at Giuglini's house with a roll of rouble
notes, requesting him to sign the receipt for his month's pay, which
Giuglini at once did. But on leaving, the treasurer begged to draw his
attention to the notes, as a deduction of £150 had been made from his
monthly stipend in consequence of his having left the house on the day
he was reported to be indisposed. He got into a towering fit of rage,
requesting the balance to be handed to him, as he was allowed certain
days of indisposition according to the terms of his contract. The
treasurer replied that according to the provisions of that clause he
should have remained at home in his house on the day of his reported
illness. The arguments became very warm, and Giuglini, in a fit of rage,
threw the whole bundle of rouble notes into the stove, which was then
burning; and from that moment his reason seemed to have left him.
On the termination of my spring concert tour in 1865 we began a season
of opera in the beginning of March at Dublin, Giuglini promising to join
us at the conclusion of his St. Petersburg engagement, which ended about
that time.
One morning at breakfast I received a telegram from London: "Come on at
once. Giuglini arrived." I was indeed delighted, and, having notified
the good news to the Dublin press, left immediately for London. On my
arrival at Giuglini's house in Welbeck Street I was told that he was
very much indisposed in consequence of the fatigues of the journey, and
that his mind did not seem quite right. I went upstairs to him at once.
He was very pleased to see me, but to my astonishment he had no trousers
on. Otherwise he was all right.
I talked with him some time, and advised him to put on the necessary
garment, so that we might start that evening for Dublin. By force of
persuasion I at last obtained his consent to let me put his trousers on
for him, and in the course of an hour succeeded in getting one leg in. I
then ordered some oysters for him, and talked to him whilst I was
coaxing in the other leg. This I at length managed to do, when to my
horror I found the first leg had come out again. After wasting the whole
of the day I found myself too late to catch the Irish mail, and the
Signor still with one leg only in his pantaloons.
Whilst Giuglini was sleeping I inquired as to the full particulars of
his condition, and was informed that he had arrived from St. Petersburg
in charge of a hired courier, who simply wanted a receipt for him. At
the same time his magnificent fur coats and other costly clothing were
all missing. He had made the journey in second-class, wearing a summer
suit although it was the depth of winter; and on examining his jewel
case I found that the stones had been taken out of everything he
possessed, although the articles themselves were there. It was indeed a
sad affair. I was advised to place him for a short time under the care
of Dr. Tuke, and I had then to hurry back to Ireland.
On my return to London I went to pay Giuglini a visit at Chiswick,
Mdlle. Titiens insisting on accompanying me. We waited some time during
which we were particularly cautioned not to approach him. At length he
entered; he was delighted to see us and talked quite rationally. We
persuaded the doctor to allow us to take him for a drive, the signor at
the same time expressing a wish to be driven to the Star and Garter, at
Richmond, to dine. To this the keeper, who was on the box alongside the
coachman, objected, promising Giuglini that if he would return to the
doctor's he should have a nice large plate of meat, which seemed greatly
to please him. Giuglini had previously complained to me that he was made
to drink sherry, a wine which he particularly disliked, his ordinary
drink being claret or claret and water. He afterwards sang us "Spirto
gentil" from the _Favorita_, followed by "M'appari" from _Martha_,
singing both airs divinely. The only thing peculiar was that his tongue
was drawn very much to the right, and that he had to stop after every
ninth or tenth bar to straighten it.
When we got back to the doctor's Mdlle. Titiens and myself stayed to
dinner. During the repast Giuglini, who had been looking forward to his
plate of meat, came into the room exhibiting on a very small plate a
very small piece of meat.
"Look what they have given me, Thérèse," he said to Titiens. "I am
afraid to eat it," he added, in a tone of irony; "it might give me an
indigestion."
My firm belief is that if I could have got both Giuglini's legs into his
trousers the day that he arrived in London I should have saved him.
Living something like his ordinary life, among his old companions, he
would have had at least a chance of getting well.
Thus matters went on until the London season of 1865 opened, which took
place on the Saturday night of the Easter week. I had made a series of
improvements throughout the theatre, by reducing considerably the number
of the private boxes, and enlarging those I retained. I likewise removed
the twelve proscenium boxes, ten each side of the stage, thereby
advancing the drop curtain some 16 feet nearer the public. This gave me
much more room behind the scenes.
Amongst the new singers I introduced was Miss Laura Harris, who
afterwards, as Mdme. Zagury, achieved brilliant success throughout the
whole of Europe; also Mdlle. Ilma de Murska, a lady who at once took
high rank from her phenomenal vocal qualities. I also presented Signor
Foli, a young artist, who was engaged at the Italian Opera in Paris, and
who soon became a public favourite; likewise Signor Rokitanski, another
eminent basso. Despite the blow I had received in the loss of Giuglini I
went to work with renewed energies, and presented to the public
Beethoven's _Fidelio_, with a magnificent cast, including Titiens, the
incomparable "Leonora." I, moreover, mounted in great style Mozart's
_Flauto Magico_, Titiens being the "Pamina," Ilma de Murska the "Queen
of Night," Sinico the "Papagena," and Santley the "Papageno;" whilst the
subordinate parts were all undertaken by principal artists.
During the last act an accident occurred, which might have been very
serious, inasmuch as the house was crowded from the stalls right up to
the back of the gallery. In preparing for the final scene some of the
gauze, which had been used for clouds during the evening, caught fire
over the gas battens. Instantly the alarm was given, when one of the
flymen, at the risk of his neck, flung himself across the stage,
balancing himself on a "batten" (a narrow strip of wood, some forty feet
long), while he cut the ropes with his knife, causing the burning gauze
to fall down on to the stage, where it was extinguished by the firemen.
Mr. Santley, who was undertaking the _rôle_ of the "Bird-catcher,"
remained on the stage unmoved. He walked forward to the audience, and
addressed them in these eloquent words--
"Don't act like a lot of fools. It's nothing."
This speech had an immediate effect; and Santley continued his song as
if nothing had happened. But for his presence of mind the loss of life
would have been most serious.
I likewise produced Cherubini's tragic opera, _Medea_; a work considered
by musical amateurs one of the finest dramatic compositions ever
written. No musician ever exercised more influence on his art than
Cherubini. His compositions are of the first authority, so that no
musical library, whether of the professor or the amateur, can claim to
be considered complete without them. The part of "Medea" was represented
by Mdlle. Titiens. In assuming this _rôle_ Mdlle. Titiens certainly
added the final touch of lustre to her lyric crown. I need scarcely say
the opera was magnificently mounted, even to the smallest detail. It
was particularly successful, and still retains its place in the
_répertoire_. I was interested to find in what large numbers the
relatives and descendants of Cherubini were attracted to my theatre by
the announcement of his Medea. Naturally they all expected free
admissions, even to great-grandchildren and third cousins.
The season was a very successful one. In the autumn I started the
regular provincial opera tour, Mario being my principal tenor, vice
Giuglini. We commenced in Manchester, where Mario's unrivalled
performances in _Faust, Rigoletto, Martha, Ballo in Maschera_, and _Don
Giovanni_ attracted crowded houses. We afterwards visited Dublin,
proceeding thence to Belfast, Liverpool, etc., terminating, as usual,
about Christmas.
In the early part of January, 1866, I made a very successful concert
tour, giving no less than one hundred and twenty concerts in some
seventy cities in sixty successive days, with two very strong parties:
Titiens, Trebelli, Santley, Stagno, and Bossi in one; and Grisi,
Lablache, Mario, Foli, and Arditi in the other; ending up with a
brilliant series of operas with casts combined from the two parties in
the northern capital and at Glasgow, where Mdme. Grisi distinguished
herself in the _rôles_ of "Lucrezia Borgia," "Norma," "Donna Anna," etc.
Thus matters went on until the London season. On each occasion when I
visited Giuglini I found no improvement, and it was ultimately decided
that a sea trip might benefit him. He, therefore, left London in a
sailing ship for Italy. I never saw him afterwards. I need scarcely add
that his loss was irreparable.
I opened my London season of 1866 early in April, for which I engaged a
very powerful Company, including Mdme. Grisi. I announced her engagement
in the following terms:--
"Mr. Mapleson has the gratification to announce that he has prevailed on
Mdme. Grisi to revisit the scene of her early triumphs, and again to
appear at the Theatre, her previous connection with which formed one of
the most brilliant epochs in operatic history. Mdme. Grisi will once
more undertake some of the parts which she created, and in her
impersonations of which will be revived the traditions obtained direct
from Rossini, Donizetti, and Bellini. These representations can only
extend for a few nights, and they will derive additional interest from
the fact that Mdlle. Titiens has consented to take part in them as a
mark of respect to one who for so many years reigned absolutely without
a rival on the lyric stage."
I was justified in making this announcement in consequence of the
magnificent style in which Mdme. Grisi had been singing during our
spring opera tour.
Grisi seemed interested and affected by her return to the old house of
which she had taken leave twenty years previously. The old _habitués_
came in large numbers to see her, to hear her, and naturally to support
her with their applause on her first (which proved also to be her last)
appearance. This took place on the evening of May 5, 1866. The Prince
and Princess of Wales were both present.
When the gondola came down, from which, in the first act of _Lucrezia
Borgia_, the heroine makes her entry, there was breathless attention
throughout the house. The great vocalist had the command of all her
resources, and sang the two verses of "Com'è bello" admirably, omitting,
according to her custom, the _cabaletta_, which Titiens and all other
"Lucrezias" made a point of giving.
Well as she sang, I noticed some signs of nervousness. She had been
visited by misgivings before the performance began. I had done my best,
however, to reassure her, and was under the impression, judging from the
apparent result, that I had succeeded. But her hands, I remember, just
as she was going on, were extremely cold. I took them in my own, and
found that they were like stone.
At the end of the first act, on the conclusion of the scene in which
"Lucrezia" is taunted and reproached by her victims and their friends,
Mdme. Grisi, accustomed to the stage of the Royal Italian Opera,
remained too far in front, though at a point where, at Covent Garden,
the curtain would have fallen between her and the audience. It was
otherwise at Her Majesty's Theatre (I refer, of course, to the old
building), where the stage advanced far into the audience department;
and when the curtain came down the "Lucrezia" of the evening found
herself kneeling on the ground (in which attitude she had defied the
conspirators) and cut off by the curtain from the stage behind. This
placed the unfortunate singer in a ludicrous and, indeed, painful
position; for she had a stiffness in one of her knees, and was unable on
this occasion to rise without the help of the stage attendants.
Mdme. Grisi was, of course, much distressed by this _contretemps_. She
had recourse, however, to the homeopathic remedies which she always
carried with her, and after a time was herself again. These remedies
were for the most part in the form of stimulants, which, however, Mdme.
Grisi took only in the smallest quantities. Her medicine-chest contained
a dozen half-pint wicker-covered bottles, which held, besides orgeat and
other syrups, brandy, whisky, hollands, port-wine, and bottled stout.
In the second act Mdme. Grisi got on very well, especially in the scene
with the bass preceding the famous trio. In the passionate duet with the
tenor, just when the Duke, after administering the poison to "Gennaro,"
has gone away, she made an unsuccessful attempt to reach the A natural;
and the failure caused her much confusion. She got through the
performance; but she ran up to me immediately the curtain fell and
exclaimed that it was all over with her, and that she never could appear
again.
The notices next morning were sufficiently favourable; but it was
evident that the career of the great vocalist was now, indeed, at an
end. Let me here say a word about Mdme. Grisi's pecuniary affairs.
After the duel between her husband, M. de Meley, and Lord Castlereagh a
separation took place; and the injured spouse made an arrangement by
which he was to receive out of his wife's salary the moderate income of
two thousand a year. This she was to pay as long as she remained on the
stage. In order that the famous singer might enjoy the use of her own
earnings, I made an agreement with her by which on my provincial tours
she was to sing for me gratuitously, while I at the same time engaged to
pay Signor Mario £300 a week. For this salary the two admirable artists
were ready to sing as often as I liked. They were most obliging; full of
good nature, and without any of the affectation or caprice from which so
few singers at the present day are free. They took a pleasure in their
performances, and thought nothing of playing three or four times a week.
They would have sung every night had I been unreasonable enough to ask
them to do so.
Far from insisting that she should never be called upon to do anything
that was not expressly set down for her in her written contract, Mdme.
Grisi would often volunteer her assistance in cases where it was really
very useful. In _Don Pasquale_, for instance, while Mario was singing
the beautiful serenade "Com'e gentil!" she would direct the chorus
behind the scenes, singing herself and marking the time on the
tambourine.
She was invaluable to Mario in many ways, not only in connection with
his art, but also with the occupations of his ordinary life. She was
always punctual, and, indeed, a little before the time; whereas Mario
was invariably late. He had always his cravat to tie or a fresh cigar to
light just when the last moment for catching the train had arrived. He
was the most inveterate smoker I ever knew. He had always a cigar in his
mouth, except when he was on the stage and actually in the presence of
the audience. When he came off, if only for a moment, he would take a
puff at his still burning cigar, which he had carefully left in the
wings where he would be sure to find it again. "Faust" in the garden
scene passes for a few moments behind some bushes at the back of the
stage. During those moments Mario had just time to enjoy a few whiffs,
after which he returned to continue his love-making.
Mario spent large sums of money on his favourite weed, and thought
nothing of giving away a box of cigars to a friend for which he had paid
(to some friendly tobacconist who had cheated him) £5 or £6 a hundred.
About this time I charged Mr. Telbin and his talented sons to paint me
the whole of the scenery for Meyerbeer's _Dinorah_, which was brought
out in due course, Ilma de Murska appearing as the demented heroine,
Gardoni as "Corentino," and Santley as "Hoel." It was a truly
magnificent performance, well worthy the reputation of the theatre.
Shortly afterwards I produced another classical opera, which was gladly
welcomed by all musical amateurs. The work I refer to was Gluck's
_Iphigenia in Tauris_--a work not less remarkable for its intrinsic
merits than for having been the cause of one of the most fierce and
prolonged artistic controversies on record. Paris, ever the _champ de
bataille_ of such contests, was, figuratively speaking, shaken to its
foundations by the antagonistic Gluckists and Piccinists; and the
dispute was only ended by Gluck leaving France.
This work was likewise magnificently put upon the stage, Titiens,
Santley, and Gardoni really surpassing themselves.
I afterwards had the honour of introducing Mozart's comic opera, _Il
Seraglio_, in which Mdlle. Titiens appeared as "Constanza," the
remaining personages being entrusted to Dr. Gunz, Signor, Stagno,
Rokitanski, &c.
One evening, when the opera of _Rigoletto_ was being performed, with
Mongini as the "Duke," feeling tired, as I had been working in the
theatre throughout the day, I went home just before the termination of
the third act. I had been at home about three-quarters of an hour when
my servant hurried up in a cab to inform me that the curtain had not
yet risen for the final act, and that a dreadful disturbance was going
on in consequence of some question with Mongini, who was brandishing a
drawn sword and going to kill everybody. I immediately slipped on my
clothes and went down to the theatre.
At the stage door, without her bonnet, I met the tenor's charming wife,
the only person, as a rule, who could control him in any way; and she
entreated me not to go near him, or there would be bloodshed. I
insisted, however, on going to his room without delay, as the curtain
was still down and the public was getting tumultuous. I took the
precaution of buttoning my overcoat across my chest, and in I went, my
first words being--
"This time, Mongini, I hear you are right (_Questa volta sento che avete
ragione_)."
With this preliminary we got into conversation, but he still remained
walking up and down the room with nothing but his shirt on and a drawn
sword in his hand. I saw that I had to proceed very slowly with him, and
began talking on indifferent matters. At last I asked him the details of
all the trouble. He thereupon explained to me that the master tailor,
who had been requested by him in the morning to widen his overcoat by
two inches, had misunderstood, and contracted it by two inches. I wished
to have a look at the dress, which, however, was lying on the floor torn
to pieces. I assured Mongini that the man should be cruelly punished,
and he and his family put upon the streets to starve early the next
morning.
He then got calmer, and I casually observed, "By-the-bye, is the opera
over yet, Mongini?" to which he replied, "No, it is not."
"Never mind that," I continued; "the public can wait. Everyone, by the
way, is talking of the magnificent style in which you have been singing
to-night."
His eyes brightened, and he said he should like to go on with the opera.
"Not at all a bad idea!" I remarked.
"But I have no dress," said Mongini, rather sadly; "it is destroyed."
I suggested that he should wear the dress of the second act, putting on
the breastplate and the steel gorget with the hat and feathers, and he
would then be all right, and "La Donna e Mobile" would make amends for
the delay. He dressed and followed me to the stage, when I made the sign
for the stage manager to ring up the curtain, greatly to the
astonishment of Mongini's wife, who was fully expecting to hear that I
had been run through the body.
The next day at twelve o'clock, as per appointment, Mongini came to my
office to be present at the punishment of the master tailor. I had taken
the precaution to inform the tailor, who was a single man, that he had a
wife and four children, and that he was to be sure and recollect this.
I called him into my room in the presence of Mongini, and told him
gravely that he with his wife and children must now starve. There was no
alternative after the treatment Mongini had received the previous
evening.
Mongini at once supplicated me not to let the children die in the
gutter, as it might injure him with the public, and he ended by
promising that if I would retain the tailor in my service he would sing
an extra night for nothing.