PASTA TO MARIO.
It is impossible in these chapters to make more than a passing sketch of
many famous singers, and we must therefore be content with the mere
mention of such as Fodor, Camporese, Pisaroni, and Damoreau, who all, in
their day, attained high renown.
We now come to Giuditta Pasta, who must be placed in the very front
rank, as an artist who could transform natural faults into the rarest
beauties, who could make the world forgive the presence of many
deficiencies, and who engraved deeper impressions on the memory of her
hearers than any other, even in an age of great singers. Her voice at
first was limited, husky, and weak, without charm, without flexibility.
Though her countenance _spoke_, its features were cast in a coarse
mould. Her figure was ungraceful, her movements were awkward, and, at
the end of her first season, she found herself a dire failure. She
suddenly withdrew from the operatic world and betook herself to study,
and when she reappeared she made a great impression. By sheer industry
she had increased the range of her voice to two octaves and a half. Her
tones had become rich and sweet, her shake was most beautiful, but her
genius as a tragedienne surpassed her talent as a singer.
Poetical and enthusiastic by temperament, the crowning excellence of her
art was a grand simplicity. There was a sublimity in her expression of
vehement passion which was the result of measured force, energy which
was never wasted, exalted pathos that never overshot the limits of art.
Vigorous without violence, graceful without artifice, she was always
greatest when the greatest emergency taxed her powers.
No one could ever sing "Tancredi" like Pasta; "Desdemona" furnished the
theme for the most lavish praises of the critics; "Medea" is said to
have been the grandest lyric interpretation in the records of art. She
had literally worked her way up to eminence, and, having attained the
height, she stood on it firm and secure.
Madame Pasta was associated in many of her successes with the tenor
Garcia, more celebrated as the father of Malibran and Viardot, and as
one of the greatest vocal teachers of the century; with the baritone
Bordogni, and the basso Levasseur.
Honors were showered upon her in all parts of Europe, and it is said
that her operatic salary of L14,000 was nearly doubled by her income
from other sources; but she lost nearly her entire fortune by the
failure of a banker in Vienna, and, in the endeavor to retrieve her
fortunes, she remained on the stage long after her vocal powers were on
the wane.
Rossini, the celebrated composer, married an opera singer, Isabella
Angela Colbran. She was born at Madrid, her father being court musician
to the King of Spain. Among her teachers was the celebrated Crescentini,
and her style and voice being formed by him, she was, from 1806 to 1815,
considered one of the best singers in Europe. After that time her voice
began to depart; but, as she was a great favorite with the King of
Naples, she remained at that city till 1821, and all good, loyal
Neapolitans were expected to enjoy her singing, which was sometimes
excruciatingly out of tune. She was born in 1785, but it was not until
1822 that she married Rossini, who was seven years her junior. In 1824
she went with her husband to London, and they made a great pecuniary
success, besides being greatly admired for artistic taste in private
concerts.
Some four years after the appearance of Madame Pasta another star of the
first magnitude appeared,--Henrietta Sontag, a beautiful and fascinating
woman, and, as some say, the greatest German singer of the century.
Nature gave her a pure soprano voice of rare and delicate quality,
united with incomparable sweetness. Essentially a singer and not a
declamatory artist, the sentiment of grace was carried to such a height
in her art that it became equivalent to the more robust passion and
force which distinguished some of her great contemporaries.
She began singing minor parts at the theatre at the early age of eight,
and her regular debut in opera took place when she was only fifteen.
"She appeared to sing," we are told, "with the volubility of a bird, and
to experience the pleasure she imparted." Her great art lay in rendering
pleasing whatever she did. The ear was never disturbed by a harsh note.
The most romantic stories circulated about the adoration lavished upon
her by men of rank and wealth, and it was reported that no singer ever
had so many offers of marriage from people of exalted station. But she
had met in Berlin a Piedmontese nobleman, Count Rossi, to whom she
became affianced, and Mlle. Sontag refused all the flattering overtures
made by her admirers. One of her most ardent lovers was De Beriot, the
great violinist, who, on his rejection, fell into a deep state of
despondency, from which the fascinations of the beautiful Malibran at
length roused him. Sontag's union with Rossi was for a long time kept
secret on account of the objections of his family, but she retired from
the stage and lived nearly twenty years of happy life in the various
capitals of Europe, to which her husband, attached to the Sardinian
legation, was accredited. At length, in 1848, her fortune was swept
away in the political revolution, and she announced her intention of
returning to the stage. She was at once offered L17,000 for the season
at Her Majesty's Theatre in London, and on her first appearance it was
evident that time had but developed the artist. What little her voice
had lost was more than compensated for by the deeper passion and feeling
which permeated her efforts, and she was rapturously greeted. In 1852
she made a tour of the large cities of the United States, where she
quickly established herself as one of the greatest favorites, in spite
of the fact that Malibran and Jenny Lind had preceded her, and that the
country had hardly recovered from the Lind mania. In New Orleans she
entered into an engagement to sing in the City of Mexico; but while her
agent was absent in Europe, gathering together an operatic company, she
was seized with cholera and died in a few hours.
Joseph Staudigl, who was born in 1807, at Wollersdorf, Austria, was one
of the most distinguished and accomplished bassos of the first half of
this century. He was a man of varied gifts and ardent temperament,
frank, open, and amiable. In 1825 he entered upon his novitiate in the
Benedictine monastery at Melk, but two years later he went to Vienna to
study surgery. Here his funds gave out, and he was glad to sing in the
chorus at the Kaernthnerthor Theatre. In due course the opportunity
offered for him to take leading parts, and he soon gained a great
reputation. He was also a great singer of church music and oratorio, for
which branches of music he had an inborn love.
Staudigl's last appearance took place in 1856, on Palm Sunday, for a few
days later he became a victim to insanity, from which he never
recovered. He made repeated tours abroad, and was much admired wherever
he went. As a singer of Schubert's Lieder he was without a rival, and
his performances of the "Erlkoenig," the "Wanderer," and "Aufenthalt"
were considered wonderful. His death occurred in 1861, and his funeral
was the occasion of a great demonstration.
Manuel Garcia, the tenor, had two daughters who both achieved the
highest distinction on the operatic stage. The eldest, Maria Felicien,
became Madame Malibran, and she is mentioned to-day as one of the most
wonderful operatic singers that the world has produced. Daring
originality stamped her life as a woman and her career as an artist, and
the brightness with which her star shone through a brief and stormy
history had something akin in it to the dazzling but capricious passage
of a meteor.
As a child she was delicate, sensitive, and self-willed, and she had a
prodigious instinct for art. Nevertheless, her voice was peculiarly
intractable, being thin in the upper notes, veiled in the middle tones,
and her intonation very imperfect. On leaving school she was taken in
hand by her father, who was more pitiless to her than to his other
pupils. He understood her disposition thoroughly, and said that she
could never become great except at the price of much suffering, for her
proud and stubborn spirit required an iron hand to control it.
Soon after making her debut she went with her father to America, for he
had conceived a project for establishing opera in the United States. His
company consisted of himself, Madame Garcia, a son, and his daughter.
Maria's charming voice and personal fascination held the public
spellbound, and raised the delight of opera-goers to a wild pitch of
enthusiasm. While in New York, a French merchant, M. Francois Eugene
Malibran, fell passionately in love with her, and she, being sick of her
father's brutality, and the supposed great fortune of Malibran dazzling
her imagination, married him, though in opposition to her father's
will. A few weeks after the marriage M. Malibran was a bankrupt, and
imprisoned for debt, and his bride discovered that she had been cheated
by a cunning scoundrel, who had calculated on saving himself from
poverty by dependence on the stage earnings of his wife. Garcia and the
rest of his family went to Mexico, where he succeeded in losing his
fortune. Madame Malibran remained in New York with her husband; but at
the end of five months she wearied of her hard fate, and, leaving him,
returned to Paris. Here she soon had the world at her feet, for the
novelty and richness of her style of execution set her apart from all
other singers as a woman of splendid and inventive genius.
Her voice was a mezzo-soprano, naturally full of defects, and, to the
very last, she was obliged to go through her exercises every day to keep
it flexible; but by the tremendously severe discipline to which her
father's teaching subjected her, its range extended so that it finally
reached a compass of three octaves. Her high notes had an indescribable
brilliancy, and her low tones were so soft, sweet, and heart-searching
that they thrilled with every varying phase of her sensibilities.
Mr. Chorley writes: "She may not have been beautiful, but she was better
than beautiful, insomuch as a speaking, Spanish, human countenance is
ten times more fascinating than many a faultless angel face, such as
Guido could paint. There was a health of tint, with but a slight touch
of the yellow rose in her complexion, a great mobility of expression in
her features, an honest, direct brightness of the eye, a refinement in
the form of her head, and the set of it on her shoulders."
Malibran could speak and write in five languages, and sing in any
school. She had the characteristic of being able to fire all her fellow
artists with her genius, and she was a tremendous worker. She was also
very fond of outdoor exercises, being a daring horse-woman and swimmer.
On the death of her husband she married De Beriot, the violinist, to
whom she had been passionately attached for some time, but shortly
afterwards she was thrown from her horse, while attending a hunt in
England. She sustained severe internal injury which eventually proved
fatal, though not until she had made heroic efforts to continue her
career, and fill all her engagements. Her death produced a painful shock
throughout all Europe, for she had been as much admired and beloved as a
woman, as she was worshipped as an artist.
The genius of the Garcia family shone not less in Madame Malibran's
younger sister, Pauline, than in herself. Pauline was thirteen years the
junior of Maria, and did not become celebrated until after the death of
her sister. In the meantime, Grisi and other great singers had appeared.
Pauline was the favorite child of Garcia. "Pauline," he would say, "can
be guided by a thread of silk, but Maria needs a hand of iron."
At the age of six she could speak fluently in French, Spanish, Italian,
and English, and to these she afterwards added German. She also learned
to play the organ and piano as if by instinct. In her early days she
went with her father to Mexico, where they met with many strange
adventures, notably on one occasion, when they were seized by bandits,
who plundered Garcia of his savings, bound him to a tree, and made him
sing for his life.
Pauline was seven years old on her return to Europe, and three years
later she became one of the pupils of Franz Liszt. When she was eleven
her father died, and she began to study voice with Adolph Nourrit, the
tenor, who had been one of her father's favorite pupils.
Her first public appearance was made in Brussels, at the age of sixteen,
and it was the first occasion on which De Beriot appeared after the
death of Madame Malibran, his wife.
Pauline Garcia's voice was like that of her sister in quality. It
combined the two registers of contralto and soprano, from low F to C
above the lines, but the upper part of an originally limited
mezzo-soprano had been literally fabricated by an iron discipline,
conducted by the girl herself with all the science of a master. Her
singing was expressive, descriptive, thrilling, full, equal and just,
brilliant and vibrating, especially in the medium and lower notes.
Capable of every style of art, it was adapted to all the feelings of
nature, but particularly to outbursts of grief, joy, or despair.
M. Viardot, the director of the Paris Opera, went to London to hear
her, and was so delighted that he offered her the position of prima
donna for the next season. She was then only eighteen, and by this
engagement she was fairly embarked upon a brilliant career. M. Viardot
fell deeply in love with her shortly after his introduction to her, and
in 1840 they were married. Returning to the stage after a short
retirement, Madame Viardot visited most of the great cities, and
invariably received the most enthusiastic welcome. On some occasions the
audience could scarcely be induced to leave the house at the end of the
performance. Once she played, on account of the illness of another
singer, the two parts of "Alice" and "Isabella" in "Robert le Diable,"
changing her costume with each change of scene, and representing in one
opera the opposite roles of princess and peasant.
After Madame Viardot's retirement in 1862, she held for many years a
professional chair at the Paris Conservatoire. In private life she has
been always loved and admired, and she is to this day recognized as one
of the great vocal teachers of Paris.
Adolf Nourrit, of whom the French stage is deservedly proud, was a pupil
of Garcia, and for ten years was principal tenor at the Academie,
creating all the leading tenor roles produced during that time. He was
idolized by the public, and was a man of much influence in musical
circles. He gave a distinct stamp and flavor to all his parts, and was
as refined and pleasing in comedy as he was pathetic and commanding in
tragedy. It was he who popularized the songs of Schubert, and otherwise
softened the French prejudice against the German music of his time. In
private life he was witty, genial, and refined, and was, therefore, a
favorite guest at the most distinguished and exclusive "salons." Nourrit
was subject to alternate fits of excitement and depression, and was
affected to such a degree by some articles praising his rival, Duprez,
at his expense, that his friends feared for his sanity. Eventually,
while filling an engagement in Italy, he threw himself out of his
bedroom window and was instantly killed on the paved courtyard below.
Duprez, like Nourrit, was a student at the Paris Conservatoire, and for
many years a leading figure at the Academie. At first he was not a
success in opera, but, by dint of study and hard work, he achieved a
high reputation. In person he was insignificant, but his tragic passion
and splendid intelligence gave him a deserved prominence. He composed
much music, including two masses and eight operas, and was the writer of
a highly esteemed musical method. After finishing his operatic career he
became a professor of singing at the Conservatoire.
Madame Grisi, who made her debut in 1823, and held her place as one of
the greatest singers for many years, was the daughter of an Italian
officer of engineers, and her mother's sister was the once celebrated
Grassini, a contemporary of Mrs. Billington and Madame Mara.
Giulietta Grisi, as a child, was too delicate to receive any musical
training; but her ambition caused her to learn the pianoforte by her own
efforts, and her imitation of her sister Giuditta's vocal exercises
indicated to her family the bent of her tastes.
In due course she entered the conservatoire in her native town, and was
later sent to her Uncle Ragani at Bologna, where, for three years, she
was under the instruction of Giacomo Guglielmi. Gradually the beautiful
quality of her voice began to manifest itself. She was remarkably apt
and receptive, and profited by her masters to an extraordinary degree.
For three months she studied under Filippo Celli, and in 1828 she made
her debut in Rossini's "Elmira." Rossini was delighted with her, and
the director of the theatre immediately engaged her for the carnival
season.
The career thus auspiciously commenced, continued for more than a
quarter of a century, during which time Grisi delighted audiences
throughout the whole of Europe, and made a tour, with Mario, of the
United States.
The production of Bellini's last opera, "I Puritani," in 1834, was one
of the greatest musical events of the age, not solely on account of the
work, but because of the very remarkable quartet which embodied the
principal characters,--Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache. This
quartet continued in its perfection for several years, with the
substitution later of Mario for Rubini, and was one of the most notable
and interesting in the history of operatic music.
Giulietta Grisi's womanly fascinations made havoc among that large
class who become easily enamored of the goddesses of the theatre, and
she was the object of many passionate addresses. She married in 1836 a
French gentleman of fortune, M. Auguste Gerard de Melcy, but she did not
retire. This marriage was unhappy, and after her release from it by
divorce she became the wife of Mario, the great tenor.
Grisi united much of the nobleness and tragic inspiration of Pasta, with
something of the fire and energy of Malibran; but, in the minds of the
most capable judges, she lacked the creative originality which stamped
each of the former two artists. Her dramatic instincts were strong and
vehement, lending something of her own personality to the copy of
another's creation, and her voice as nearly reached perfection as any
ever bestowed on a singer.
Madame Grisi continued before the public until 1866, although her powers
were failing rapidly. In 1869 she died of inflammation of the lungs.
From the year 1834, when she made her debut at the King's Theatre,
London, until 1861, when she retired from the Royal Italian Opera, Grisi
missed only one season in London, that of 1842. It was a rare thing
indeed that illness or any other cause prevented her from fulfilling her
engagements. She seldom disappointed the public by her absence, and
never by her singing. Altogether her artistic life lasted about
thirty-five years. During sixteen successive years she sang, during the
season, at the Theatre des Italiens in Paris, her engagements there
beginning in 1832 with her appearance as Semiramide.
Both Grisi and her husband, Mario, were much admired by the Czar
Nicholas of Russia, and it is said that the Czar, meeting Grisi one day
walking with her children, stopped and said facetiously, "I see, these
are the pretty Grisettes." "No," replied Grisi, "these are my
Marionettes." Mario, too, is said to have been asked by the Czar to cut
his beard in order to the better look one of his parts. This he declined
to do, even when the Czarina, fearing that he might become a victim of
the Czar's displeasure, added her request. But Mario declared that it
was better to incur the displeasure of the Czar than to lose his voice,
saying that if they did not like him with his beard, upon which he
relied for the protection of his voice, they surely would not like him
without his voice.
During the height of their prosperity, Grisi and Mario lived in princely
extravagance. Their family consisted of six daughters, of whom three
died quite young, and they were enthusiastically devoted to one another.
Giambattista Rubini, who was for years associated with Grisi, was a
native of Bergamo, where he made his debut at the age of twelve in a
woman's part, sitting afterwards at the door of the theatre between two
candles, and holding a plate into which the public deposited their
offerings. During his early life he belonged to several wandering
companies, in which he filled the position of second tenor; but in 1814,
at the age of nineteen years, he was singing in Pavia for a salary of
about nine dollars a month. Before the end of his career he was paid
L20,000 a year for his services at the St. Petersburg Imperial Opera.
Rubini's countenance was mean, his figure awkward, and he had no
conception of taste, character, or picturesque effect; but his voice was
so incomparable in range and quality, his musical equipment and skill so
great, that his memory is one of the greatest traditions of lyric art.
Like so many of the great singers of his time, Rubini first gained his
reputation in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti, and many of the
tenor parts of these works were composed expressly for him. The immense
power, purity, and sweetness of his voice have probably never been
surpassed, and its compass was of two octaves, from C in the bass clef.
He could also sing in falsetto as high as treble F, and with such skill
that no one could detect the change into the falsetto.
Rubini died in 1852, leaving one of the largest fortunes ever amassed on
the stage.
Another member of the celebrated "Puritani" quartet was Antonio
Tamburini, a native of Faenze. Without any single commanding trait of
genius, he seems, with the exception of Lablache, to have combined more
attractive qualities than any male singer who ever appeared. He was
handsome and graceful, and a master of the art of stage costume. His
voice, a baritone of over two octaves in extent, was full, round,
sonorous, and perfectly equal throughout. His execution was unsurpassed
and unsurpassable, of a kind which at the present day is well-nigh
obsolete, and is associated in the public mind with sopranos and tenors
only.
An amusing instance of Tamburini's versatility was shown at Palermo
during the carnival season of 1822, when the audience attended the
theatre armed with drums, trumpets, shovels, and anything that would
make a noise. Tamburini, being unable to make his basso heard, sang his
music in falsetto, an accomplishment which so delighted the audience
that they laid aside their instruments of torture, and applauded
enthusiastically. The prima donna, however, was so enraged and
frightened by the rough behavior of the audience that she fled from the
theatre, and the manager was at his wit's end. Tamburini donned the
fugitive's satin dress, clapped her bonnet over his wig, and appeared on
the stage with a mincing step. He sang the soprano score so admirably,
burlesquing the action of the prima donna, but showing far greater
powers of execution than she possessed, that his hearers were
captivated. He did not shirk even the duets, but sang the woman's part
in falsetto, and his own in his natural voice.
He retired in 1859, and died at Nice in 1876.
Luigi Lablache, the basso of the "Puritani" quartet, is considered by
many authorities to have been the greatest artist among men that ever
appeared in opera. In stature he was a giant, and we are told that one
of his boots would make a good portmanteau or one of his gloves would
clothe an infant. His strength was enormous, and his voice magnificent;
the vibration thereof was so tremendous that it was dangerous for him to
sing in a greenhouse, though why this particular danger is noted must be
left to conjecture, for there is no record in history to show that it
was customary or essential to sing in greenhouses.
Anecdotes of Lablache's generosity and noble character are plentiful,
and there are some also which show that he was a lover of good jokes. Of
these, perhaps the following is the most amusing. Once when the
"Puritani" quartet was in Paris, Lablache was quartered at the same
hotel as General Tom Thumb, who was delighting audiences at a
vaudeville. An English tourist, who was making strenuous efforts to meet
Tom Thumb, burst into the great basso's apartment, but seeing such a
giant, hesitated, and apologized, saying that he was looking for Tom
Thumb. "I am he," said Lablache, in his deepest tones. The Englishman,
taken flat aback, exclaimed: "But you were much smaller when I saw you
on the stage yesterday." "Yes," replied Lablache; "that is how I have to
appear, but when I get home to my own rooms I let myself out and enjoy
myself," and he proceeded to entertain his visitor.
In his student days Lablache was so dominated by the desire to appear on
the stage that he ran away from the conservatorium no less than five
times, each time being caught and brought back in disgrace. On one
occasion he engaged himself to sing at Salerno for fifteen ducats a
month, and received a month's pay in advance. He lingered two days in
Naples and spent his money, apparently also disposing of most of his
clothes. As he could not well appear at Salerno without luggage, he
filled his portmanteau with sand, and set forth. A couple of days later
he was captured by the vice-president of the conservatorium, and taken
back to Naples. The impresario hastened to make good his loss by seizing
the portmanteau, which, however, proved to be very disappointing.
After Lablache made his first appearance in opera his fame grew
rapidly, and in a few years had reached colossal proportions. Among the
honors which fell to his lot was that of being music teacher to Queen
Victoria. His death, which occurred in 1858, drew forth expressions of
regret from all parts of Europe, for it was felt that in Lablache the
world of song had lost one of its brightest lights.
Mario, who followed Rubini as tenor in the celebrated "Puritani"
quartet, was more closely connected with the career of Madame Grisi than
any other singer, for he became her husband. His proper title was Mario,
Cavaliere di Candia; but, in order to soothe the family pride, he was
known on the stage by his Christian name only. When he first went to
Paris, in 1836, he held a commission in a Piedmontese regiment. The
fascinating young Italian officer was welcomed in the highest circles,
for his splendid physical beauty, and his art-talents as an amateur in
music, painting, and sculpture, separated him from all others, even in a
throng of brilliant and accomplished men. In Paris he fell into debt,
and, having a beautiful voice, he accepted the proposition of Duponchel,
the manager of the opera, and entered upon stage life. Though his
singing was very imperfect and amateurish, his princely beauty and
delicious, fresh voice took the musical public by storm.
Mario will live in the world's memory as the best opera-lover ever seen.
In such scenes as the fourth act of "Les Huguenots," and the last act of
"Favorita," Mario's singing and acting were never to be forgotten by
those that witnessed them. Intense passion and highly finished vocal
delicacy combined to make these pictures of melodious suffering
indelible. As a singer of romances he has never been equalled; in those
songs where music tells the story of passion, in broad, intelligible,
ardent phrases, and presents itself primarily as the vehicle of violent
emotion, Mario stood ahead of all others of his age. For a quarter of a
century he remained before the public of Paris, London, and St.
Petersburg, but he did not finally retire until 1867.
The story of Mario's life reads like a romance. At times he was steeped
in the depths of poverty; at others, he enjoyed great wealth and lived
in princely style. Shortly after his first arrival in Paris, he found
himself deeply in debt, and so poor that he was obliged to sleep in a
very cheap lodging-house where several people occupied one room. One
night he awoke and found a man kneeling over him, to rob him. "What do
you want?" asked Mario. "Your money," was the reply. "Take all you can
find, my friend," answered Mario, "but please let me continue my dreams
and my sleep."
Mario was as careless in regard to time as to money. It is related that
once upon a time he arrived half an hour early, to keep an appointment.
Nobody was more surprised than Mario himself, and, after investigation,
he discovered that he had mistaken eleven o'clock for five minutes to
twelve, and would have been the customary half hour late if his
calculations had been correct.
Mario had a particular aversion to writing letters, and when he received
an invitation from some person of high degree he would frequently say,
"Oh, I will write to-morrow," and Mario's to-morrow was the proverbial
one which never came. He was nevertheless kind and thoughtful for every
one, and to his personal graces and charms he owes his reputation as
much as to his art, for he was always more or less of an amateur. His
wonderful gifts were not developed by study, like the equally wonderful
voice of Rubini, who surpassed in this respect every tenor before or
after.
As an instance of the admiration in which Mario was held by the fair
sex, we are told that a certain lady followed him wherever he sang. She
never spoke to him, never tried to press herself upon him, but never
missed a performance in any part of the world in which he sang, except
on three occasions when she was prevented by sickness. This continued
for a period of forty years.
Like all men of similar disposition, Mario was subject to fits of wild,
unreasoning jealousy, and his domestic life with Grisi was not always of
the smoothest nature, though there was absolutely no cause for jealousy
on either side. On one occasion, Mario is said to have worked himself up
into such a state of excitement that he smashed everything in the room.
Grisi, too, once reached so great a depth of despair that she rushed out
to drown herself. A fleet-footed friend followed her, and reached her
just as she was preparing to make the final plunge. All kinds of
arguments were used to turn her from her purpose, but in vain, until her
rescuer pictured to her how dirty and muddy she would look when taken
out of the river. This argument prevailed, and the prima donna deferred
her demise.
In spite of the large amount of money earned by Mario, he retired from
the stage a poor man. His improvidence was magnificent. Twice the public
subscribed for his needs, and once, the old unthriftiness about him
still, he flung away his capital and was royally penniless again.
At Rome, in which city he spent his last days, he was given the post of
curator of the Museum; but the glory of his past still adhered to him,
and he was surrounded by a host of admirers, who enjoyed hearing the old
man talk about his adventures. He died, in 1883, in the arms of Signor
Augusto Rotoli. His life had been triumphant beyond the lot of all but
the most fortunate, and the memory he left was singularly kind and
beautiful.
A memorandum, published at the time of Mario's retirement, states that
during his career he gave, in London alone, 935 performances, of which
225 were in operas of Donizetti, 170 Meyerbeer, 143 Rossini, 112 Verdi,
82 Bellini, 70 Gounod, and 68 Mozart, the remaining 65 performances
being operas of seven other composers.