Händel, a powerful man, austere in his life, vigorous in his works, abhorred nothing so much as the singing of these effeminate creatures; and all the luxurious cultivation of Signor Farinelli seemed to him only a miserable mockery of nature, as of heaven-born art. But, however much displeased at the soft trilling of the Italian,—whom Kellermann dexterously accompanied and imitated on his flute,—he could not refrain from laughing inwardly at the effect produced on the whole company. The men rolled up their eyes, and sighed and moaned with delight; the ladies seemed to float in rapture, like Farinelli’s tones. “Sweet, sweet!” sighed one to another. “Yes, indeed!” lisped the fair in reply, drooping her eyelids, and inclining her head. Signor Farinelli ceased, and eager applause rewarded his exertions.
The Duke now introduced Händel to the Italian.
Farinelli, after some complimentary phrases, addressed the master in broken English.
“I have inteso,” he said, with a complacent smile, “that il Signor Aendel has composed una opera—il Messia. Is there in that opera a part to sing for il famous musico Farinelli—I mean, for me?”
Händel looked at the ornamented little figure from head to foot, and answered in his deepest bass tone, “No, Signora.”
The company burst out a laughing; the ladies covered their faces. Soon after, the German composer, with his friend Hogarth, took his leave. In the vestibule the artist showed Händel a sketch he had made of Farinelli singing, and his admirers lost in ecstasy. “By the Duke’s order,” whispered he.
“That is false of him!” exclaimed Händel, indignantly.
The satirical painter shrugged his shoulders.
Händel sat in his chamber, deep in composition. Once more he tried every note; now he would smile over a passage that pleased him; now pause earnestly upon something that did not satisfy him so well; pondering, striking out and altering to suit his judgment. At length his eyes rested on the last “Amen:” long—long—till a tear fell on the leaf.