"I know that better than you," he said, "for I have lived in Venice, and you haven't. Dante I must and will have."
A companion picture to the crucified "Othello" was the performance of "Fidelio," which all Paris was talking about at that time. One Sunday morning I spent an hour alone with Rossini, and I had to give him full particulars of the proceedings at the opera. These were characteristic of the taste of the day. The libretto of Beethoven's opera was completely changed, Florestan being replaced by Jean Galéas, Pizarro by Duke Sforza. The Minister becomes Charles VIII., and Fidelio the Countess Isabelle; the whole story turned into a political intrigue, and Fidelio, the devoted wife, changed into a plotting and ambitious spouse.
A story in which a woman, actuated by her affection alone, nobly worked for her husband's deliverance, must have been thought too tame to put before a Parisian public, and so the stronger motives were introduced.
The press was unanimous in its condemnation of the work itself, not of the garbled version. "Cette musique est très ennuyeuse," said one; "Enfin c'est symphonique!" wrote another. "Si Beethoven n'avait pas senti la faiblesse de sa production, il aurait écrit un deuxième opéra."
"Yes," said Rossini, remarking on the press and the public, "that is just what I should have expected. Do you know what I owe my success to? To my crescendos. Ah, my crescendos! What an impression they made on them. Afterwards, to be sure, when I thought it well to give up that little trick, they said, 'He's no longer what he was; he's beginning to decline.'
"You know what happened to my friend T—— i, the tenor. He went to F—— o, and asked him how much he would take for a good notice in his paper.
"'Un billet de mille,'[11] said F.
"'Ah! I'm afraid I can't afford that,' sighed T.; 'couldn't you do it for 500 frcs.?'
"'Impossible, mon cher monsieur,' replied F. 'J'y perdrais!'"[12]
Who was responsible for the irreverent production of "Fidelio"? I am afraid it was, to a great extent, Berlioz and Madame Viardot. That I say with bated breath, for nothing could exceed my respect for those heaven-born musicians. But I wonder to-day, as I wondered then, why they should ever have planned this adaptation of "Fidelio" to the French stage. It was an unfortunate selection, if only because many numbers of the chief part had to be transposed to suit Madame Viardot's voice. She had but lately achieved one of her greatest triumphs in the character of Orpheus. A grander or a more beautiful rendering of Gluck's masterpiece cannot be imagined; the grave full-toned quality of her voice seemed to suit the part of the bereaved husband, who goes forth, lute in hand, to seek his spouse in the shades of Hades. From the first scenes, where she laments and implores, to the last, where she succumbs to despair, she held her audience spell-bound. How she had fitted herself for her task I well remember. Classical scholar as she was, she read her Orpheus in the Greek original, and the costume she wore was of her own designing.