Late in the autumn of 1830, it was announced that a new artist, of great reputation in Italy, would appear at the Théâtre Italien in Paris. Great expectation was excited; as his progress through the cities beyond the Alps had been a continued triumph. The immense audience was hushed in suspense. Even after the curtain had risen, the connoisseurs seemed resolved that their applause should not be bestowed till it was fairly earned. But when the debutant appeared, there was a hum of admiration at sight of his majestic, imposing figure and noble countenance, expressive not only of power, but of frank good humor; and the first tones of that magnificent voice, swelling above the orchestra in lordly music, “like thunder amid a tempest,” yet piercing to the very depths of pathos, called forth a burst of rapturous applause. At the close of the piece the spectators vied with each other in his praises, and voted him by acclamation the first bassetaile of the age.
The tragic opera of Otello was announced for representation, amidst the shouts of admiring thousands.
“I will go to hear Otello, since you bid me, madonna,” said the ex-manager of an Italian opera company to the fair Rosina, now an admired singer, but in the midst of fortune and fame retaining the same excellent heart; “but I have no pleasure in listening to these French actors. They do not fill my idea of tragedy. Ah! the best days of the art are gone by!”
“But, Master Benevolo, you have not seen the new artist?”
“No, nor do I care to see him. I should not like what pleases these fantastical Parisians.”
“But you must hear him. He is an Italian. I have an invitation for you, written in his own hand.”
“Ah! that is courteous and attentive, seeing I am a stranger in Paris. How came he to send it to me?”
“He knew you to be a friend of mine,” answered the lady rather embarrassed.
“Ebbene, I will attend you, my lady.” And at the appointed time the ex-manager escorted the fair singer to the theatre.
“There is a figure for tragedy!” cried he in involuntary admiration, as the colossal form of the actor moved across the stage, and he bowed in dignified acknowledgement of the applause of the audience. “Ha! I should like him for the tyrant in Anna Bolena!” But when his powerful voice was heard in the part—when its superb tones, terrible yet exquisitely harmonious, carried the senses, as it were, captive, the Italian gave up his prejudices, and joined in the general enthusiasm. And at the point where the father of Desdemona curses his daughter, Benevolo uttered a cry, into which the very soul of emotion seemed to have passed.