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 spicy4 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 abruptly5 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 concealed8 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 contemplating9 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 hip11.
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 conjure12 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 elicit13, 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 rehearsal14 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 joint15 ménage so peculiar16, 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 Rue17 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 dedication18, broke into raptures19 of gratitude20; I am not sure whether he wept or laughed on the other's shoulder; but I distinctly recollect21 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 continental22 hug, and he and the book were outside. So was I, for I thought it prudent23 not to await definite instructions, and I was dying to know what was the purport24 of the exciting inscription25.
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 retrieve26 for him the fortunes of a bad season. Rossini went on to say that he had written to Paisiello, who had previously27 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 libretto28. "I thought," he worded it, "that, having taken this precaution, I might consider myself safe from the censure29 of his friends and his legitimate30 admirers. I was mistaken! On the appearance of my opera, they precipitated31 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 hissed32, 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 theatrical33 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 narrative34, 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 banking35 firms of Hamburg, and, besides, a thorough artist and virtuoso36 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 proceeding37 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 delusion38 that he had discovered a new vein39 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 curiously40 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 belle41 Hélène," "Orfée aux Enfers," and other operettas that for years drew all Paris to the "Bouffes." He was universally credited with exercising the baneful42 influence of the evil eye, and Rossini, being superstitious43, 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 fully10 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 distinguished44, and the wedding breakfast sumptuous45, and all would have gone well if the best man—or the next best—had not unfortunately made an eloquent46 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 attentive47 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 smoothly49 as long as one records the doings of others, but become so puzzling when one has to introduce the Ego50. Between self-laudation and mock modesty51 there is not much to choose, and if you try to steer52 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 notably53 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 entrusted54 to their care. One will work a mezzo-soprano downwards55 to a contralto, the other upwards56 to a high soprano. With me the wiseacres never could settle which of my voices I ought to have developed—my bass57 voice, my tenor58, 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 accomplishments59. It came about in this way:—
Conversation had turned on the curious practice which prevailed formerly60, 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 banishing61 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 clandestinely62 met and resolved to fly from a tyrannic parent, they should compromise their safety by singing a duet of inordinate63 length: first warbling tender melodies, then shouting stern resolves, practising scales, shakes, and dangerous runs to illustrate64 the course of true love, and finally proclaiming their immutable65 determination to live and die together, in strains so wild and so powerfully backed by all the brass66 instruments of the orchestra, that the irate67 father is invariably brought on to the stage, naturally to wreck68 the lovers' fondest hopes.
By way of illustrating69 my meaning, I struck a chord or two, and did my worst in imitation of the lovers' cadenza, and more specially70 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 tangible71 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 devoted73 only to those celebrities74 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 collaborate75, 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 par3 Moscheles père," and signing it "Offert à mon jeune ami Felix Moscheles, G. Rossini, Passy, ce 20 A?ut 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 hitches76, 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 acting77 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 trumpet78.
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 enjoined79 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 scrupulously80 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 improvising81, 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 melodious82 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 pouncing83 on some ben marcato note, or triumphant6 rebounding84 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 predecessors85, 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 worthy48 to be considered by those who believe in re-incarnation. It would be interesting to learn what may have been the temporary abode87 of Mozart's spirit during those intervening three months. Perhaps it crossed the Alps and found its way to Rossini, for the Maestro, imbued88 as he certainly was with the spirit of his great predecessor86, 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 ribs89. 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 grudge90, 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 lugubrious91, 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 librettist92 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 proceedings93 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 intrigue94, and Fidelio, the devoted wife, changed into a plotting and ambitious spouse95.
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 motives96 were introduced.
The press was unanimous in its condemnation97 of the work itself, not of the garbled98 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 rendering99 of Gluck's masterpiece cannot be imagined; the grave full-toned quality of her voice seemed to suit the part of the bereaved100 husband, who goes forth101, lute102 in hand, to seek his spouse in the shades of Hades. From the first scenes, where she laments103 and implores104, to the last, where she succumbs105 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 artistic106 and literary attainments107. 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 connoisseur108 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, Matame," he said, carried away by the grandeur109 of his own creation. "N'est ce pas, Matame, que c'est suplime?"
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 Eternity110?
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 gathering111 round her dark brow were not to burst over our heads; the danger was averted112 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 kindly113 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 vouchsafe114 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 obdurate115 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 duel116 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 shaft117. 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 positively118 adored her, and that she was captivated by her franchise119 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 remodelled120 work, very different from the one Rossini had written in his early days. The score of this he had given to a friend, a monk121, after whose death it passed into the hands of some musician, who published it much to Rossini's annoyance122. "On ne saute pas d'un coup123 du théatre 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 impresario124, as he was alluding125 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 salons126 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 eyebrows128 shot an annihilating129 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 repent130 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 collapse131, 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 offender132. She did it defiantly133, majestically134; I should have done it meekly135, 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 darts136 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 besieged137 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, espied138 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 undesirable139 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 villa140 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 Salon127 on the ground floor with its rich furniture was new, and, before the Maestro himself appeared, we looked at his photograph in a circular porcelain141 frame, on the sides of which were inscribed142 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 effusive143 in expressing his delight at my reappearance, and very complimentary144 on the subject of Felix. In the course of our conversation he was full of hard-hitting truths and brilliant satire145 on the present study and method of vocalisation. 'I don't want to hear any more of their screaming,' he said; 'I want a resonant146 voice, full-toned, not screeching147; I care not whether it be for speaking or singing, everything ought to sound melodious.'
"He then spoke72 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 endorse148 his views. He told me that, arriving late one evening at a small Italian town, he had already retired149 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 Minor150 Symphony was missing, and the bassoon was flat. I showed Rossini on the piano what the effect was like, and he laughed heartily151. Then he wanted a little serious music. I improvised152, 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 motif153 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 'sublime154 creations' he was quite eloquent. When we parted he made me promise to call on him once more before the day fixed155 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:
musical notation156
in which, after the first eight bars, the following interesting modulation157 is introduced:
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 ? to the MS., he declared it was 'worth gold' to him. Clara, who was with me, and had already mustered158 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 dubbed159 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 sonatas160 by heart.
"On another occasion he would have it there were barricades161 in my 'Humoristische Variationen,' so boldly did they seem to assail162 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 pique163 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'[oe]uvres of his Franco-German colleague. He would speak in very appreciative164 terms of Meyerbeer, but he did not seem displeased165 when disparaging166 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 ma?tre, very shaky. My digestion167, you know, my poor head. Alas168! 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 ma?tre, 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 cuisine169, and we used to listen with due respect to his remarks on the mysteries of the culinary art.
Crémieux, the eminent170 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 addicted171 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 repartee172 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 yoke173 a horse and an ass7 together." "Comment done!" retorted the other. "How dare you, sir, insinuate174 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 reign175 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 advantageous176 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 projectiles177 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 fidelity178. 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 premises179, 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 mortar180 rubbish.
I had looked round in vain for something worth preserving as a memento181 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 descried182 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 obituary183 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 attest184 the grievous disasters that befell the villa he loved so well.
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1
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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23
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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26
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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libretto
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| n.歌剧剧本，歌曲歌词 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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31
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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32
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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42
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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50
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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51
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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52
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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53
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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54
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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57
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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58
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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60
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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61
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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62
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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63
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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64
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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66
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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67
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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70
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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71
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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72
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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73
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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74
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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75
collaborate
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| vi.协作，合作；协调 | |
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76
hitches
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| 暂时的困难或问题( hitch的名词复数 )； 意外障碍； 急拉； 绳套 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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78
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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81
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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82
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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83
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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84
rebounding
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| 蹦跳运动 | |
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85
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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86
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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87
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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88
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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89
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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90
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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91
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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92
librettist
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| n.(歌剧、音乐剧等的)歌词作者 | |
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93
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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94
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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95
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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96
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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97
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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98
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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100
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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103
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
succumbs
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的第三人称单数 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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106
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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107
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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108
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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109
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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110
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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111
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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112
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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113
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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114
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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115
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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116
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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117
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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118
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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119
franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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120
remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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122
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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123
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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124
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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125
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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126
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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127
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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128
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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129
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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130
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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131
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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132
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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133
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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134
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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135
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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136
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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137
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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140
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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141
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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142
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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143
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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144
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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145
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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146
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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147
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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148
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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149
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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150
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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151
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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152
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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153
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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154
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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155
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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156
notation
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| n.记号法，表示法，注释；[计算机]记法 | |
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157
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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158
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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159
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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160
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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161
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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162
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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163
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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164
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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165
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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166
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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167
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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168
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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169
cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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170
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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171
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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172
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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173
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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174
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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175
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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176
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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177
projectiles
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| n.抛射体( projectile的名词复数 )；（炮弹、子弹等）射弹，（火箭等）自动推进的武器 | |
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178
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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179
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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180
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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181
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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182
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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183
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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184
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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