ROSSINI
I well remember my first introduction to Madame Rossini in April 1854. I
was sitting with the Maestro in his study one morning whilst he was
finishing his toilet; his valet had selected one of two brown wigs, and
adjusted it on his illustrious master's head, leaving the other, placed
on a little stand, to ornament the mantelpiece. Next he brought him a
silver bowl full of milk and one or two of those cunningly-twisted rolls
or crescents, the very thought of which conveys to the appetite's memory
a whiff of dainty Paris.
Rossini liked to be informed of the latest news, meaning the up-to-date
incidents in Paris society, and to be told what the wicked world was
saying, and what _bons-mots_ the clever ones had made; so we young
fellows were expected to drop in occasionally at an early hour in the
morning and keep him posted up. His comments on our news were always
much more _spirituels_ than the best of _bons-mots_ we could impart, and
frequently a good deal more spicy than our versions of Parisian doings.
I dare say then I was carrying coals to Newcastle, and he was making
them blaze, when the door was abruptly thrust open, and a bejewelled
hand--it was Madame Rossini's--triumphantly appeared, flourishing a ham
of unusual dimensions, that she had brought for the master to see and to
rejoice over.
A pair of piercing dark eyes next swept the room to see who might be
there. Finding there was nobody--a young man like myself not
counting--the hand and the eyes were followed by the rest of her. She
struck me as every inch a queen--a tragedy queen, off duty. Her black
hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders, and she was clad in the style
the French call "neglected." The upper part of her classical figure was
more or less concealed beneath a loose white garment, which I have since
learnt to associate with hair-combing. Her lower limbs showed off to
great advantage under a heavy striped petticoat; that at least I think
it must have been; if it was meant for a dress, it was certainly cut
several inches too short.
Whilst I was contemplating her, she and her husband were examining the
ham, and commenting upon it _en amateurs_. I was called upon to admire
it, and incidentally introduced to Madame. Disgracefully ignorant as I
was of pork-flesh, and being of those honest youths who call a pig a
pig, I found nothing better to say than, "Voilà ce que j'appelle un
cochon." That seemed about as much as they expected, and I was allowed
to pat it on the hip.
And here I cannot help leaping at a bound from 1854 to 1896, and from
Paris to Venice. Just as I was sitting, pen in hand, and trying to
conjure up a correct image of Madame Rossini, a living biographical
dictionary, in the shape of an elderly lady, walked in, who had been
sent round to show me some valuable old lace she had to dispose of. The
grand race of the _decaduti_ (the come-down in the world) is by no means
extinct, and Signora Baldazzi was a pleasant representative of it. I
welcomed her, and, having made the acquisition of some of her lace, I
chanced to elicit, in further friendly conversation, that she was a
teacher of music, and had studied for years at the Liceo Bologna, when
Rossini was director there.
She had plenty of "I well remembers" to start with, so she was soon
telling me how good and kind he was, and how brusque and rude, and how
he spared neither teachers nor pupils. Even _il maestro Cappeletti, il
professore di timpani_, she said, speaking of him with the greatest
respect, came in for his share, when, in a rehearsal under Rossini, he
made some blunder. "Asino," cried Rossini, "That sort of thing was not
unusual," added my informant; "one always expected something hot from
him." "Do I remember Madame Rossini, la Pelissier? Ma che! I see her now
in her red corsage and many-coloured petticoat, leading her dog by a
string. I knew la Collbran, too; his first wife, you know. They had been
married a good many years, when he got tired of her; he told her so, and
said he wanted a change. She did not mind the change, but she would not
leave the house for him or for anybody else; so she lived in one
apartment whilst la Pelissier and Rossini occupied another; but they all
took their meals together, and la Collbran did the housekeeping." This
lady, it will be remembered, was the famous singer who created some of
the principal parts in Rossini's opera. I thought the story of the joint
_ménage_ so peculiar, that I subjected the good lady, my informant, to a
severe cross-examination, but I did not succeed in shaking her evidence.
Future biographers may further look into the matter if they care.
I return to that corner house of the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, where
the maestro lived. One morning I was there with my cousin, Ernst Jaques,
when Rossini's old friend Scitivaux came in.
"There," said Rossini, "there is what I promised you, and I have written
all you want to know inside." With that he handed a copy of the
"Barbiere" to Scitivaux, who, at the sight of the gift and its precious
dedication, broke into raptures of gratitude; I am not sure whether he
wept or laughed on the other's shoulder; but I distinctly recollect he
was immediately turned out. "Take it, but go," he was ordered; "I don't
want you here. Mr. Jaques is just going to play to me. No; you can read
that afterwards." A final continental hug, and he and the book were
outside. So was I, for I thought it prudent not to await definite
instructions, and I was dying to know what was the purport of the
exciting inscription.
So we stood in the hall reading it, and I was treated to the after-glow
of Monsieur Scitivaux's raptures.
The dedication was in Italian, and related how Rossini had composed the
"Barbiere" for the Duke Cesarini, the director of the Teatro Argentina
in Rome, to retrieve for him the fortunes of a bad season. Rossini went
on to say that he had written to Paisiello, who had previously treated
the same subject, to assure him that he in no way sought to compete with
that master, well aware as he was of his own inferiority, and that he
had avoided as much as possible to use the same incidents in his
libretto. "I thought," he worded it, "that, having taken this
precaution, I might consider myself safe from the censure of his friends
and his legitimate admirers. I was mistaken! On the appearance of my
opera, they precipitated themselves like wild beasts upon the beardless
maestrino, and the first performance was a most stormy one. I, however,
remained unconcerned; and, whilst the public hissed, I applauded my
performers. Once the storm blown over, at the second performance, my
'Barbiere' had an excellent razor, and shaved the Romans so well that,
to use theatrical language, I was carried home in triumph. There, my
good friend, I have done what you desired. Be happy, and believe me,
yours affectionately,
GIACOMO ROSSINI.
"PARIS, _22 Apr. 1860_."
* * * * *
The facts related were well known, but here they were confirmed by the
master's own narrative, and the recipient's happiness was unbounded.
The Jaques who was going to play to Rossini was my cousin, a partner in
one of the old banking firms of Hamburg, and, besides, a thorough artist
and virtuoso on that soul-stirring instrument, the violoncello. But it
was not to have his soul stirred that Rossini gathered young musicians
around him at that early hour of the day. They came to play his last
compositions to him, and they remained to practise them at his house.
You could often hear the sounds of various instruments proceeding from
as many various rooms. The piano predominated, for at that time of his
life Rossini was most assiduously composing for that instrument,
labouring, as it seemed to me, under the fond delusion that he had
discovered a new vein in the old mine which had produced such a fund of
musical wealth. Sometimes he reminded one of Hummel's style, sometimes I
thought I traced a Weber idea as it would be if filtered through the pen
of a Mendelssohn. He would on no account allow his MSS. to leave the
house. "Jamais," he said when my cousin expressed the wish to give the
violoncello piece a day's practising at home, "Jamais; je ne veux pas
dépendre du public." So the performers had to go to the Chaussée
d'Antin, and prepare themselves there for the Saturday evenings at which
the latest works of the master were produced.
Amongst those privileged young musicians was the pianist, Georges
Pfeiffer, who has since become so popular a composer. Rossini would give
him such curiously named productions to study as "Cornichons," "Radis,"
and the like. There was also a "Boléro tartare," and a certain Rondo in
the style of Offenbach, the famous composer of "La belle Hélène," "Orfée
aux Enfers," and other operettas that for years drew all Paris to the
"Bouffes." He was universally credited with exercising the baneful
influence of the evil eye, and Rossini, being superstitious, had headed
his manuscript with a drawing of a _gettatura_, which should act as a
charm to protect him. Georges Pfeiffer, no less superstitious--he always
asserted he had good reason to be so--had managed to play the opening
theme of the Rondo with the two fingers which in the _gettatura_ are
supposed to lay the evil spirit; and Rossini so fully entered into this
serio-comic solution of the difficulty, that he expressed his warm
approval, and added Pfeiffer's fingering to the manuscript.
Henri Wieniawski, the violinist, and his brother Joseph, the pianist,
were also great friends of Rossini's. He was present at Henri's wedding.
The bride, Miss Hampton, was lovely, the guests distinguished, and the
wedding breakfast sumptuous, and all would have gone well if the best
man--or the next best--had not unfortunately made an eloquent speech to
propose the health of a near and dear relative of the bride's who had
been buried not so very long ago.
On those famous Saturday evenings I was a frequent visitor and attentive
listener, but my own performances were reserved for those occasions when
I was alone with the master.
He knew me to be the unworthy bearer of an honoured musical name, but he
had by chance discovered that, however great my deficiencies, there was
a little musical vein in me which he thought I might exploit. It is
regrettable that one cannot write one's reminiscences without mentioning
one's self. Things go so smoothly as long as one records the doings of
others, but become so puzzling when one has to introduce the _Ego_.
Between self-laudation and mock modesty there is not much to choose, and
if you try to steer clear of the one, you are sure to fall into the
other. I must take my chance though, and say that that vein of music,
encouraged by the kind maestro, has many a time been a source of
infinite delight to me, and to my friends too, or they would not have
dragged me to the piano whenever they felt that they had had enough good
music and now wanted the other thing. I would show them how easy it is
to compose a masterpiece if you only know the secrets of the trade, and
I would notably convince them that, if they would follow some very
simple directions of mine, they could then and there write an Italian
opera.
Singing-masters, it is well known, never agree as to the best way of
cultivating a voice entrusted to their care. One will work a
mezzo-soprano downwards to a contralto, the other upwards to a high
soprano. With me the wiseacres never could settle which of my voices I
ought to have developed--my bass voice, my tenor, or my soprano. In the
meanwhile I alternately used each, distributing them according to the
dramatic needs of the situation created, the story, to be sure, being
made up to suit the madness of the hour. In the front line came the love
duets between tenor and soprano, with moon-light accompaniment; then
peasants' dances interrupted by thunder-storms, and drinking songs for
the baritone, backed by an approving chorus. And so on and on till the
tragedy business was reached: "Ye padre furioso e figlia infelice," as
Du Maurier calls them, when he relates his performance at Blankenberghe
"in imitation of his illustrious friend, Felix Bobtailo."
I must have been endowed with an extraordinary amount of boldness and
recklessness in those days, or I never could have given the great
maestro an insight into these my accomplishments. It came about in this
way:--
Conversation had turned on the curious practice which prevailed
formerly, to write the principal men's part in opera for an artificial
male soprano, and that led to my remarking that Rossini and his
contemporaries had done good service in banishing that incongruous
personage from the stage, but that they had still left undisturbed some
puzzling anomalies in the distribution of parts. There remained the fact
that a man has a tenor voice as long as he is a bachelor and a lover,
but, when he becomes a father, he develops into a basso profundo; and,
by way of pointing to another anomaly, I wanted to know why, when the
prim'uomo and the primadonna, with whose affections we so warmly
sympathised, have clandestinely met and resolved to fly from a tyrannic
parent, they should compromise their safety by singing a duet of
inordinate length: first warbling tender melodies, then shouting stern
resolves, practising scales, shakes, and dangerous runs to illustrate
the course of true love, and finally proclaiming their immutable
determination to live and die together, in strains so wild and so
powerfully backed by all the brass instruments of the orchestra, that
the irate father is invariably brought on to the stage, naturally to
wreck the lovers' fondest hopes.
By way of illustrating my meaning, I struck a chord or two, and did my
worst in imitation of the lovers' cadenza, and more specially of the
effect produced by overpowering brass instruments. That led to further
developments, my brass gained me the maestro's sympathies, and of these
he gave me a tangible proof in the shape of a composition.
I never much cared to make a collection of autographs, but I treasure
the album I have previously spoken of, which Mendelssohn gave me as a
godfather's first present. It took me upwards of fifty years to fill the
little book, its pages being devoted only to those celebrities who were
also personal friends of mine. So I had not asked Rossini for his
autograph, as most people did on first acquaintance, and I had no reason
to regret the delay. "I must compose something for your horn," he said
one day; "I will write the notes; that is easy enough, but I can't draw
the staves, you must do that." I answered that I was proud to
collaborate, and so two pages of my album were filled. He composed an
allegretto-moderato of about thirty bars for the "Cor en mi," heading
it: "Thème de Rossini, suivi de deux Variations et Coda par Moscheles
père," and signing it "Offert à mon jeune ami Felix Moscheles, G.
Rossini, Passy, ce 20 Aôut 1860."
He sat down to the piano and spared no pains to teach me how to perform
it on the imaginary French horn--my vibrating lips. I introduced one of
those little hitches, not infrequent when moisture accumulates in the
tubes of the real instrument, a hiatus which the master graciously
approved of. "But," he said, "stand so that the audience cannot see how
it is done; you must keep up the illusion, and besides, remember this,
you must never show yourself at a disadvantage to the ladies." I have
never blown that horn of mine without thinking of his advice, however
little I have succeeded in acting up to it.
My father, responding to Rossini's invitation, wrote two brilliant
variations and coda of considerable length, which it cost me not a
little trouble to learn. Once that I had mastered their difficulties,
the piece became my _cheval de bataille_, and whenever I performed it,
accompanied by one of the two composers, I invariably made a.... But
enough! Happily this is not a place where I am expected to blow my own
trumpet.
I called one day to take leave of Rossini, when I was about to leave
Paris for a short time on a visit to my parents in Leipsic. This was
before Rossini had become personally acquainted with my father, and he
enjoined me to deliver a message to him. "Tell him," he said, "that I am
a pianist. I daresay he knows that I have written operas, but I
particularly want him to understand that I am a pianist too, not, to be
sure, of the first class as he is, but of the fourth."
"Très bien, Maestro," I answered. "Je ne manquerai pas."
"Yes; but mind you deliver my message correctly," he insisted. "My ear
is exceptionally good, and I manage to hear what is said at a
considerable distance. I was not at all satisfied with the way Rosenhain
delivered a similar message I had entrusted him with."
I promised that I would scrupulously repeat what he had said, but I
added that I could not take the responsibility of stating that he really
was a fourth-rate one; he might be a third or a fifth rate pianist for
aught I knew.
"Oh, if that is all," he said, "I will play you something, and you can
judge for yourself." And with that he opened the small upright piano in
his study and began improvising, whilst I settled down comfortably to
listen to my own special fourth-class pianist. It was indeed
interesting. His plump little hands moved over the keys with a delicate
touch, suitable to the simple melodious vein in which he began. When
presently he broke into a rapid movement, and the pianoforte player
asserted himself, it was still with the touch of the good old legato
school. His execution was masterly, but not brilliant; whenever he
introduced passages or figures for the pianist as such, these seemed
commonplace and hackneyed. But when, on the other hand, the musical
thought sought expression, it flowed as from an inexhaustible store, and
took the dramatic shape, reminding one of his best operatic style and
his most brilliant orchestral effects.
His manner throughout was simple and unaffected. There was nothing showy
or self-conscious about him, no by-play of any kind, no sudden pouncing
on some _ben marcato_ note, or triumphant rebounding from it. In fact,
there was nothing to see but a benignant old gentleman playing the
piano; one wouldn't have been surprised if he had worn a pigtail like
those pianists his predecessors, who were not in a hurry, and treated
their little set of crowquills with loving care.
Rossini came into the world three months after Mozart's death, a fact
perhaps worthy to be considered by those who believe in re-incarnation.
It would be interesting to learn what may have been the temporary abode
of Mozart's spirit during those intervening three months. Perhaps it
crossed the Alps and found its way to Rossini, for the Maestro, imbued
as he certainly was with the spirit of his great predecessor, never lost
an opportunity of acknowledging his indebtedness to him, and was always
ready to talk of his favourite master.
"Beethoven," he said to me one day when conversation had turned on
German music, "I take twice a week, Haydn four times, but Mozart I take
every day of the week. Beethoven, to be sure, is a Colossus, and one who
often gives you a tremendous dig in the ribs. Mozart is always adorable.
But then he had the good fortune to go to Italy at a time when singers
still knew how to sing."
In answer to my question what he thought of Weber, he said, "Oh, il a du
talent à revendre celui là!" ("He has talent enough and to spare"). And
then he went on to tell me that when the part of Tancred was sung in
Berlin by a bass voice, Weber had written some violent articles, not
only against the management, but against the composer, and that
consequently Weber, when he came to Paris, did not venture to call on
the Maestro; he, however, let him know that he bore him no grudge, and
that led to their soon becoming acquainted.
I asked if he had met Byron in Venice. "Only in a restaurant," he said,
"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 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 put in instead; the
handkerchief turned into a _billet doux_, and the first singer would not
black his face. Singing, music, and dresses very good."
The Maestro regretted his ignorance of the English language. He had been
in London in his early days, had given concerts there, and had even
taught aristocratic ladies, but nothing, he said, would ever induce him
to cross the Channel again, and, for the matter of that, to trust
himself to a railway. When he migrated from Italy to Paris, he made the
journey in his carriage. He told me he had given much time to the study
of Italian literature in his day. Dante was the man he owed most to; he
had taught him more music than all his music-masters put together; and
when he wrote his "Otello" he insisted on introducing the song of the
Gondolier. His librettist would have it that gondoliers never sang
Dante, but he would not give in.
"I know that better than you," he said, "for I have lived in Venice, and
you haven't. Dante I must and will have."
A companion picture to the crucified "Othello" was the performance of
"Fidelio," which all Paris was talking about at that time. One Sunday
morning I spent an hour alone with Rossini, and I had to give him full
particulars of the proceedings at the opera. These were characteristic
of the taste of the day. The libretto of Beethoven's opera was
completely changed, Florestan being replaced by Jean Galéas, Pizarro by
Duke Sforza. The Minister becomes Charles VIII., and Fidelio the
Countess Isabelle; the whole story turned into a political intrigue, and
Fidelio, the devoted wife, changed into a plotting and ambitious spouse.
A story in which a woman, actuated by her affection alone, nobly worked
for her husband's deliverance, must have been thought too tame to put
before a Parisian public, and so the stronger motives were introduced.
The press was unanimous in its condemnation of the work itself, not of
the garbled version. "Cette musique est très ennuyeuse," said one;
"Enfin c'est symphonique!" wrote another. "Si Beethoven n'avait pas
senti la faiblesse de sa production, il aurait écrit un deuxième opéra."
"Yes," said Rossini, remarking on the press and the public, "that is
just what I should have expected. Do you know what I owe my success to?
To my crescendos. Ah, my crescendos! What an impression they made on
them. Afterwards, to be sure, when I thought it well to give up that
little trick, they said, 'He's no longer what he was; he's beginning to
decline.'
"You know what happened to my friend T---- i, the tenor. He went to
F---- o, and asked him how much he would take for a good notice in his
paper.
"'Un billet de mille,'[11] said F.
"'Ah! I'm afraid I can't afford that,' sighed T.; 'couldn't you do it
for 500 frcs.?'
"'Impossible, mon cher monsieur,' replied F. 'J'y perdrais!'"[12]
Who was responsible for the irreverent production of "Fidelio"? I am
afraid it was, to a great extent, Berlioz and Madame Viardot. That I say
with bated breath, for nothing could exceed my respect for those
heaven-born musicians. But I wonder to-day, as I wondered then, why they
should ever have planned this adaptation of "Fidelio" to the French
stage. It was an unfortunate selection, if only because many numbers of
the chief part had to be transposed to suit Madame Viardot's voice. She
had but lately achieved one of her greatest triumphs in the character of
Orpheus. A grander or a more beautiful rendering of Gluck's masterpiece
cannot be imagined; the grave full-toned quality of her voice seemed to
suit the part of the bereaved husband, who goes forth, lute in hand, to
seek his spouse in the shades of Hades. From the first scenes, where she
laments and implores, to the last, where she succumbs to despair, she
held her audience spell-bound. How she had fitted herself for her task I
well remember. Classical scholar as she was, she read her Orpheus in the
Greek original, and the costume she wore was of her own designing.
I was much at her house in the Rue de Douai in those days, and it was
made doubly attractive to me by Monsieur Viardot, who himself was a man
of great artistic and literary attainments. His book on the "Galeries de
l'Europe" is a standard work; he had formed a collection of pictures by
the best Dutch masters, and he was devoted to them as only the true
connoisseur can be. Amongst the many celebrities that I met there were
Ary Scheffer, Tourgenieff, Saint Saens, and, on one occasion, Richard
Wagner. He had come with his manuscript score of "Tristan and Isolde."
Madame Viardot was at the piano reading it at sight, and mastering its
intricacies with the grasp of the true musician; whilst Wagner stood by
her side, turning the leaves and occasionally breaking in with a word or
two.
"N'est ce pas, Ma_t_ame," he said, carried away by the grandeur of his
own creation. "N'est ce pas, Ma_t_ame, que c'est su_p_lime?"
I chanced to be the only one privileged to be present on that occasion.
Close at hand stood a casket in which a treasure was preserved, the
original score of "Don Giovanni." No wonder I was fully impressed by the
situation, actually in touch as I felt myself with the master of the
past and the master of the present. If what I was listening to was well
named the Music of the Future, might not the score enshrined in that
casket be called the Music of Eternity?
An event that was looked forward to with the greatest interest by the
privileged group which enjoyed Rossini's hospitality, was the
performance of the "Stabat Mater" at his own house. Those who wanted to
be on the list of the invited did well to conciliate Madame; but that
was not always an easy matter. She knew her own mind, and would give one
a piece of it when she felt so inclined. The following is characteristic
of her little ways:--I called one day to introduce a Mr. Mertke, a young
musician just arrived from Leipsic, to Rossini. The master was busy
conducting a rehearsal of that "Stabat," and so, remembering it was
Madame's reception day, I thought I would improve the occasion by paying
my respects to her and introducing my friend. She received us politely,
but I noticed at once that she was not in the best of tempers and that a
squall might be expected at any moment.
My friend and I seated ourselves cautiously on the edges of our chairs
and awaited further developments. Happily the clouds gathering round her
dark brow were not to burst over our heads; the danger was averted by
the appearance of a very handsome and elegant woman. She was a
well-known operatic star, and swept into the room with all the assurance
that success and an up-to-date Parisian toilette can give. With charming
grace and affability she greeted Madame Rossini and beamed kindly on one
or two friends. "I have come, chère amie," she said, "to offer my
services to the Maestro. I hear he is going to perform his 'Stabat
Mater,' and, if he wants a good voice to join in the chorus, I am at his
disposal."
"There you are," answered Madame Rossini in her sternest manner; "we
have refused more than one of that kind. It's an age one hasn't seen
anything of you, and now there's something going on, and you want to be
in it, you vouchsafe to reappear."
"Mais chère amie," answered the other, "you don't for a moment believe
what you say; you know what has prevented my seeing my dearest friends.
Empêchement de force majeure, n'est ce pas?" And therewith she proceeded
to give us some interesting details connected with her first experiences
as a mother, and with her consequent inability to make afternoon
calls--details so minute that they did not fail to convince everybody
present excepting the obdurate Madame Rossini, who was about to retort,
when the primadonna managed, with marvellous skill, to change the
conversation. We soon found ourselves talking of the latest scandal; of
a phaeton which a certain lady had no business to show herself in at the
Bois, so soon after a certain duel which that particular phaeton had led
to. From that we got quite naturally to the chapter of _robes et
chiffons_, and all went so smoothly that my friend and I soon made
ourselves more at home on our chairs. But there was to be another brush
between the ladies. As the brilliant one rose to leave, she said with a
winning smile, "Adieu, très-chère; vous êtes bien la plus excellente des
créatures, but really," she added sadly, "just now you were not
_gentille_."
"I did not mean to be," answered madame, "and I did mean every word of
what I said." That was her parting shaft. But for all that the operatic
star was not to be frozen out. She managed to get an invitation to the
Easter performance, or came without, for aught I know; she told that
chère Madame Rossini that she positively adored her, and that she was
captivated by her _franchise_ and her _verve intarissable_ (her plain
speaking and her inexhaustible verve), sentiments which presently she
translated for my benefit with the words: "Ah mais, cette chère Madame
Rossini, elle est vraiment impossible" (That dear Madame Rossini, she is
really impossible).
The "Stabat Mater," as we heard it on that evening, was the revised and
remodelled work, very different from the one Rossini had written in his
early days. The score of this he had given to a friend, a monk, after
whose death it passed into the hands of some musician, who published it
much to Rossini's annoyance. "On ne saute pas d'un coup du théâtre à
l'église" (One does not bound at a leap from the theatre to the church),
he said one day to Kuhe the gifted musician and impresario, as he was
alluding to the shortcomings of that early version and the necessity of
revising it.
Madame Rossini could, when she chose, be an excellent hostess, and she
was usually at her best on those Saturday evenings when she and the
Maestro received, and when naturally all that was prominent in the
musical world gravitated towards the salons of the veteran composer. On
one of these occasions, I nearly got into trouble with her. A lamp was
slowly but surely going out, and any one else in my place, just by the
tail of the grand piano, would have been prompted, as I was, to remove
it. I looked across the room at my hostess, my eyes respectfully putting
the question, "Hadn't I better take that lamp out?" From beneath her
dark Italian eyebrows shot an annihilating glance that made me tremble
in my dress shoes, and that plainly said, "Move if you dare, young
man--but if you do, you will repent it." I did _not_ dare, but the
situation was painful. The select circle of friends gathered around that
grand piano were one and all listening in religious silence, impressed
by the music and the presence of the Maestro; that irreverent lamp alone
showed unmistakable signs of collapse, and soon attracted general
attention. Would it or would it not hold out to the end? It would not;
Madame Rossini had to get up, cross the room and carry out the offender.
She did it defiantly, majestically; I should have done it meekly,
apologetically.
But, to be fair, I must add in conclusion that she could be very
friendly too, and playful in her way. It would be ungrateful of me not
to record how she greeted me with "Bon soir, cher amour," one evening.
But that was at Wieniawski's wedding, and I suppose the darts of Cupid
were flying about.
As far as I could judge, she made that illustrious husband of hers an
excellent wife; she knew what he liked, and she took care that he had
it, whether it was a favourite dish or a favoured visitor; and, what was
more, she knew whom to keep at a distance, a valuable quality in the
wife of a man whom every musician, good or bad, professional or
amateur, wanted to know, and who was besieged by autograph-hunters,
interviewers, and the host of nondescripts who are ever anxious to cling
to the tail of Pegasus.
I have known more than one wife of that most useful genus, and have not
always quite liked their methods; as when, on one occasion, I had run
over to Paris, I called on an old friend, also a great composer. His
better half, who always jealously guarded the approaches, espied me from
the top of a high staircase. "Ah, c'est vous, Monsieur Félix," she cried
with genuine delight. "Comme cela se trouve bien; justement j'ai un
paquet à envoyer à Londres." I had a long and interesting chat with the
master, in exchange for which I gladly took Madame's most undesirable
parcel.
In the summer of 1860 my father made a short stay in Paris. He was most
cordially welcomed by friends and colleagues, amongst these the Erards,
Viardots, Crémieux, Auber, Ambroise Thomas, and Rossini. The Maestro was
at that time staying at his villa in Passy. Referring to his first visit
there, my father writes:--
"Felix had been made quite at home in the villa on former occasions. To
me the Salon on the ground floor with its rich furniture was 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
in the lives of Palestrina and Mozart; in the middle of the room stands
a Pleyel piano.
"When Rossini came in, he gave me the orthodox Italian kiss, and was
effusive in expressing his 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 and brilliant satire on the present
study and method of vocalisation. 'I don't want to hear any more of
their screaming,' he said; 'I want a resonant voice, full-toned, not
screeching; I care not whether it be for speaking or singing, everything
ought to sound melodious.'
"He then spoke of the pleasure he felt in studying the piano. 'And, if
it were not presumption,' he added, 'in composing for that instrument. I
find it hard, however, to make my fourth and fifth fingers do their duty
properly.'
"Talking of the present style of playing, he said: 'How they maltreat
the piano! Ils enfoncent non seulement le piano, mais encore le fauteuil
et même le plancher!' (They smash not only the piano, but the chair and
the very floor).
"Every instrument, he went on to say, should be treated according to its
special character. Sor, the guitarist, and Vimercati proved the
possibility of obtaining great artistic results with slender means. I
happened to have heard both these artists, and could quite endorse his
views. He told me that, arriving late one evening at a small Italian
town, he had already retired to rest, when Vimercati, the resident
Kapellmeister, sent him an invitation to be present at a performance of
one of his operas. In those days he was not yet as hard-hearted as he
is now, when he once for all refuses to be present at the performance
of any work of his; so he not only went to the theatre, but played the
double-bass as a substitute for the right man, who was not forthcoming.
This reminded me of what I once experienced to the cost of my nerves at
York, when the part of the viola in Mozart's D Minor Symphony was
missing, and the bassoon was flat. I showed Rossini on the piano what
the effect was like, and he laughed heartily. Then he wanted a little
serious music. I improvised, and he said, 'Cela est il gravé? C'est de
la musique qui coule de source; il-y-a l'eau de réservoir et l'eau de
source; l'une ne coule que quand vous tournez le robinet, elle sent la
vase, l'autre, fraiche et limpide, coule toujours. Aujourd'hui on
confond le simple et le trivial; un motif de Mozart on l'appellerait
trivial si on osait!' (Has that been published? That is music which
flows spontaneously. There is tank-water and spring-water; one runs only
when you turn on the tap, and always savours of mud, the other ever
flows fresh and clear. But nowadays people do not know the difference
between the trivial and the simple; they would call a melody of Mozart's
trivial if they dared.)
"He was delighted to hear that encouragement was given to the serious
study of the organ at the Leipsic Conservatorio, and he regretted the
decay of church music in Italy. On the subject of Marcello's and
Palestrina's 'sublime creations' he was quite eloquent. When we parted
he made me promise to call on him once more before the day fixed upon to
dine with him. I was happy to do so, and, when I next came, Rossini,
yielding to my request, but not without modestly expressing diffidence
in his own powers, played an Andante of his in B flat, beginning
somewhat in this style:
[Illustration: musical notation]
in which, after the first eight bars, the following interesting
modulation is introduced:
[Illustration: musical notation]
"The piece is what we Germans would call tame. He also showed me two
manuscript compositions, an Introduction and Fugue in C major, and a
sort of pastoral Fantasia with a brilliant Rondo in A major, which I had
to play to him, and, when I added a missing [natural music symbol] to
the MS., he declared it was 'worth gold' to him. Clara, who was with me,
and had already mustered up sufficient courage to sing my
'Frühlingslied' and 'Botschaft' to Rossini's satisfaction, was obliged
to repeat both songs before the singers, Ponchard and Levasseur, who had
just come in. I accompanied, and, in answer to the Maestro's remark that
I had enough flow of melody to write an opera, I said: 'What a pity that
I am not young enough to become your pupil!' and when, referring to my
playing from his manuscripts, he dubbed me 'King of Pianists,' I told
him that whatever I was, I owed to the old school and the old master
Clementi. At the mention of that name he went to the piano and played
parts of his sonatas by heart.
"On another occasion he would have it there were barricades in my
'Humoristische Variationen,' so boldly did they seem to assail time-worn
traditions; and as for the 'Grande Valse,' he found the title too
unassuming. 'Surely,' he insisted, 'a waltz with some angelic creature
must have inspired you, and _that_ the title ought to express. Titles,
in fact, should pique the curiosity of the public.' That is a view
uncongenial to me; however, I did not discuss it."
At the dinner my father spoke of, the conversation turned on Meyerbeer
and on macaroni. He seemed much attached to both, more though to the
latter, I thought, and to other productions of the Italian chef, than to
the chef-d'oeuvres of his Franco-German colleague. He would speak in
very appreciative terms of Meyerbeer, but he did not seem displeased
when disparaging remarks on the works of his rival were made.
One of the stories current concerning the two masters was this:--
Rossini was going along the Boulevards with a friend, when they met
Meyerbeer, and exchanged cordial greetings.
"And how is your health, my dear Maestro?" asks Meyerbeer.
"Shaky, cher maître, very shaky. My digestion, you know, my poor head.
Alas! I'm afraid I am going down hill."
They pass on. "How could you tell such stories?" asks the friend; "you
were never in better health, and you talk of going down hill."
"Ah, well," answered Rossini, "to be sure--but why shouldn't I put it
that way? It gives him so much pleasure."
Another time the following short dialogue:--
"Eh bien, cher maître, que faites-vous maintenant?"
Meyerbeer: "Je me corrige toujours."
Rossini: "Moi je m'efface."
Whatever may have been the relative merits of the two masters in matters
musical, it is certain that Rossini was acknowledged _facile princeps_
in all concerning the cuisine, and we used to listen with due respect to
his remarks on the mysteries of the culinary art.
Crémieux, the eminent lawyer, who was a guest at that dinner, had the
reputation of being the plainest man in France, a sort of missing link.
A story is told of him and Alexandre Dumas. The great novelist was
unmistakably of the mulatto type, and Crémieux, who must have been
addicted to making personal remarks, indiscreetly questioned him as to
his descent. "Was your father a mulatto?" he asked. "Yes," answered
Dumas, "my father was a mulatto, my grandfather a negro, and my
great-grandfather a monkey; my family began where yours ends."
Quick at repartee as Dumas was, he did not always have the last word, as
on an occasion when he received a letter from some playwright--I have
forgotten his name--offering to collaborate with him in the writing of
a play. "It is not usual," replied Dumas, "to yoke a horse and an ass
together." "Comment done!" retorted the other. "How dare you, sir,
insinuate that I am a horse?"
* * * * *
That Villa Rossini I visited ten years later under very different
circumstances. It was in May 1871, after the terrible events that marked
the reign of the Commune. I had not witnessed these, but had crossed
over from London shortly after the Versailles troops had succeeded in
making themselves masters of Paris.
The villa stood in its own grounds. The municipality had desired to
present Rossini with the site; he would not, however, accept the
gracious offer unreservedly, and so it was arranged that he should
occupy it on very advantageous terms.
As I passed the gates that led to the grounds I knew so well, the first
thing that struck me was a notice posted up and signed by the military
authorities, to the effect that all unexploded bombs and other
projectiles should be buried underground, awaiting the time when they
would be collected by competent artillerymen.
I left others to do the burying, and made for the house. There was no
Madame Rossini on the look-out, as she used to be in former days, ready
to guard the approaches to her husband's study with Cerberus-like
fidelity. It was some time before I could find anybody at all. A
man-servant finally emerged from the basement; he was the only soul on
the premises, and evidently much shaken by recent events. It needed
nobody to open the door, for one could walk in through large gaps in the
walls, where the shells had done their work. Part of the staircase had
been blown away, but enough of it stood to take me to the upper floor,
to the room in which, three years ago, Rossini had died. The house until
lately had been occupied by his widow; now all the furniture had been
removed; but a large iron safe stood in the middle of the music-room,
like a solid island, surrounded by a sea of brick and mortar rubbish.
I had looked round in vain for something worth preserving as a memento
of this my last visit to the great Maestro's house, and had found
nothing better than fragments of wall-paper and pieces of a shattered
looking-glass. As I gave a final look at the scene of destruction, I
descried a black-bordered paper all but buried in a thick layer of
débris. Where all else was destroyed, that paper seemed a living thing.
I brought it to the surface, and found it was an old copy of _The
Musical World_, containing the obituary notice of Giacomo Rossini. When
I returned to London I gave it to J. W. Davison, the editor of the
journal in which it was published, so that it might be preserved to
record the incidents of the master's life, and to attest the grievous
disasters that befell the villa he loved so well.