Verdi: Man and Musician / His Biography with Especial Reference to His English Experiences

by Frederick James Crowest

That empress of song, Madame Patti, created the principal character in Aïda when it was first given in this country on the 23rd June 1876. The other principal singers were Mdlle. Ernestina Gindale (Amnéris), Signori Nicolini (Radamès), Graziani (Amonasro), Capponi (Ramfis), and M. Feitlinger (King of Egypt). As every frequenter of the opera who can recall that eventful night will remember, it was a brilliant night. The Royal box was fully tenanted, including the Prince and Princess of Wales, with the Princes Albert Ernest and George Frederick. The cantatrice thrilled the audience by the purity and tenderness of her singing, notably in her delivery of Aïda's agonised soliloquy in the third act. In no previous part had she shown greater powers, and the assumption of the part placed her in the front rank of lyric tragédiennes. On all sides it was admitted that Verdi had achieved a great and unexampled success. The main topic was the new order of Verdi's music in Aïda, of which more in another chapter.

In 1876 something much like a change of front takes place on the part of the Athenæum. It no longer gives Verdi his congé, but blames the English directors for allowing four years to elapse before producing Aïda:—"The reputation of Signor Verdi ought to have induced the directors to bring out, as promptly as possible, any new opera by him."[61] Referring to Aïda the notice runs:—"The consecration scene, in which Radamès is invested with the command of the Egyptian army, is highly dramatic; still finer is the finale of the second act. Here are found the most telling points, for the composer revels in the expression of extreme emotion; he has varied and conflicting passions to set; there is the glorification of the return of a victorious general with his army; there is the lament of the Ethiopian prisoners; there is the exultation of Amnéris at her father, the King, having awarded her to Radamès as the prize for his valour; there are the suppressed tones of vengeance of Amonasro, who is not recognised as the Ethiopian monarch and warrior in his thraldom; and there is the deep despair of Aïda at losing Radamès, and her grief at her father being in the hands of his enemies. The effect of the ensemble is most imposing; the parts are well and distinctly defined, and to the individual bursts are added the choral and orchestral combinations. This finale is the grandest number in the entire score; there is no other situation in which there is such variety and power. There are no less than six duets in the four acts, but in no one of them is there consistent and coherent writing; there are isolated breaks of beauty, such as passages here and there in the duet between Aïda and Amnéris, 'Amore! amore!' in the second act, in which the Egyptian princess discovers that she has a rival in her Ethiopian slave, who is a prisoner; and in the two duets in the third act, the first between Aïda and her father Amonasro, in which she is forced to turn spy in the subsequent duo with her lover Radamès, and induce him to disclose the secret pass by which his troops may be attacked by the enemy. The two duets in the last act—the first in which Amnéris endeavours to persuade Radamès to sue for pardon, and the second in the vault under the temple between Aïda and Radamès, 'Morir! si pura e bella'—are also excellent. There are few solos. The first is for the tenor, 'Celeste Aïda'; the second is the scena of Aïda, 'L'insana parola,' when she learns that Radamès is to be the chief to attack her father's army; the third is the romanza of Aïda in the third act, 'O cieli azzurri,' recalling the beauties of her own country; and the final solo is that of Amnéris while listening to the trial and condemnation in the vault of Radamès for his treason. The characteristics of these solos are peculiarly those of Signor Verdi, but their finest features forcibly recall airs which he has composed from other operas—thus the Miserere theme of the Trovatore is paraphrased more than once. The work is very heavily scored—over-instrumented in the brass particularly, and it would exact double the number and twice the tone of the strings at Covent Garden to counterbalance the blatant effects. But there are also some remarkably interesting parts in the orchestration; the prelude or overture is short, but it conveys the notion of the Eastern story which follows. It is dreamy and charmingly coloured; the March is magnificent, and is sure to be played by our military bands even if they do not possess the six long Egyptian trumpets used by Signor Verdi.... It is true that the composer in seeking for scientific combinations has not shown his former spontaneity, and that his themes are at times commonplace, while his instrumentation generally is too ponderous; but there are redeeming features in the elaborate score sufficient to prove that he still maintains that peculiar ascendency over the sympathies of audiences which asserts itself in striking situations so vividly. In short, Signor Verdi has the faculty, amidst trivialities, of never writing an opera in which there is not some display of emotional and sensational power."[62]

Of this criticism it is but fair to the Athenæum to state that, as regards the "excessive orchestration," it is consistent with one of the late Mr. Chorley's old charges; but in all other respects the apostate Verdi appears now to have claims both for the fullest admiration and attention.

A curious episode in connection with the publication of Aïda was the provocation it gave to one Signor Vincenzo Sassaroli, who was most surprisingly perturbed because of the success of the opera and the Requiem mass. He could not conceive how publisher and public could see anything in such music, and he went so far as to write to Ricordi challenging a setting of the Aïda libretto, which he would undertake upon certain conditions. The avowed object of the challenge was to prove to the world of art that the book could be set better than it had been!

Passing over Montezuma, in five acts, which Verdi completed in 1878, and which was given for the first time at La Scala, Milan, we come to the master's next great Shakespearean setting—Otello.

Otello, a lyric drama in four acts, with a book by Arrigo Boito, proved the second of the composer's matured period works. It was on the 5th February 1887 that Milan—Otellopolis, as it had been for the nonce christened—was all astir because that Otello was to be positively performed. Soon after daybreak the whole city was a mass of mixed, excited humanity—faces known and unknown from every part of the world—all bent on one eternal theme, Verdi and Otello. Ere 7 P.M. that evening La Scala was packed from pit to dome with perhaps the most brilliant audience that had ever filled the famous theatre. Faccio was to conduct, and no sooner did the distinguished leader appear than thunders of applause burst from all parts of the house, so feverishly expectant was every one concerning the music that was about to be unfolded. No overture, but a few preliminary bars of tempest music, and the curtain rose to a scene on the island of Cyprus, with Iago, Roderigo, and Cassio in evidence.

It was an open secret that an excellent libretto had been prepared by Boito, one to which the strictest of Shakespearean students could hardly take exception; and as number after number of the music proceeded, it became equally apparent that another great opera was born to the world. True, Boito had ignored the first act of the immortal bard's drama, and thus robbed Verdi of the chance of setting that fine declamatory passage: "Most noble, grave, and reverend seigneurs"; but the librettist had to curtail somewhere, and this first act was the rejected one.

The cast on this eventful night included Signora Romilda Pantaleoni (Desdemona), Signor Tamagno (Otello), M. Maurel (Iago), with Signori Fornari and Paroli as Roderigo and Cassio respectively, the part of Emilia being filled by Mdlle. Petrovich—artists who, on the whole, did justice to the masterly music put into their mouths. At the conclusion of the performance Verdi was called forward some twenty times amid a scene of enthusiasm, and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, indescribable. The excited people yoked themselves to the maestro's carriage, and drew him at a vexatiously slow pace (in order that he might catch the applause) to his hotel; and those who retired to rest that night did so to the accompaniment of singing and cries for Verdi, which had not ceased when all good people should have been asleep. There was a perfect Otello-Verdi mania.