Rossini’s famous opera on the same subject, in which Pasta and Malibran won renown in their day, was produced in Naples in the autumn of 1816. How it impressed Lord Byron, who saw it in Venice soon afterwards, we learn from an amusing postscript to his letter to Samuel Rogers, wherein he says:—“They have been crucifying ‘Othello’ into an opera; the music good but lugubrious; but as for the words—all the real scenes with Iago cut out and the greatest nonsense instead. The handkerchief turned into a billet-doux, and the first singer would not black his face, for some exquisite reason assigned in the preface.” In this curiously maimed and mangled version, Roderigo became of far more importance than the Moor’s crafty lieutenant. Odder still was the modified French version played in 1823, when the leading tenor, David, thinking the final duet with Desdemona unsuited to his voice, substituted the soft and pretty duet, “Amor, possente nume,” from Rossini’s later opera “Armida.” A contemporary French critic, who witnessed this curious performance, observes—“As it was impossible to kill Desdemona to such a tune, the Moor, after giving way to the most violent jealousy, sheathed his dagger, and began the duet in the most tender and graceful manner; after which he took Desdemona politely by the hand and retired, amidst the applause and bravos of the public, who seemed to think it quite natural that the piece should finish in this fashion.”
Verdi, with that healthy horror of tiring the public which has always distinguished him, declined Signor Boïto’s proposal to treat the subject in five acts; and, Shakespeare’s introductory act being discarded, the first act of the opera corresponds with the second act of the tragedy. After that the musical drama marches scene by scene, and situation by situation, on parallel lines with the play, with this important exception only—namely, that the “Willow Song,” as in Rossini’s opera, is transferred from the last act but one to the last act. There are no symphonic pieces in “Otello,” unless the brief orchestral presentation of the “Willow Song” before the fourth act can be so considered. The work is a drama set to music, in which there are no repetitions, no detached or detachable airs written specially for the singers, no passages of display, nothing whatever in the way of music but what is absolutely necessary for the elucidation of the piece. The influence of Wagner is perceptible here and there, but there are no leading motives, and the general style is that of Verdi at his best, as in “Aida.”
“It is well for the Italians that, in hailing Verdi as a great man of genius, they are not honouring one who moves the profane world to compassion, scarcely distinguished from contempt, by weakness of character. His work is so good throughout, so full of method, so complete, because his nature is complete and his life methodical; for the same reason, no doubt, he has preserved to a ripe old age all the essential qualities of the genius of his manhood. The leaves that remain on the Autumnal trees are yet green, and the birds still sing among them. ‘Otello’ itself will, in some form or other, soon be heard in London; and it is pleasant to think that the subject is taken from one of the greatest works of the greatest of all literary Englishmen. The theme is noble, and so, apparently, is the treatment. Nor should we forget that so distinguished a composer as Signor Boïto has not disdained, nay, has elected, to compose the libretto for the old maestro. That is a form and sample of co-operation we can all admire. Will Italy One and Free continue to produce great and original musicians? Verdi is the product of other and more melancholy times. Be that as it may, better national freedom, civil activity, and personal dignity, than all the operas that were ever written.”
CHERUBINI AND HIS PREDECESSORS.
I.
In France, as in Italy, the regular musical drama was preceded by mysteries, masks, and religious plays, which introduced short musical parts, as also action, mechanical effects, and dancing. The ballet, however, where dancing was the prominent feature, remained for a long time the favourite amusement of the French court until the advent of Jean Baptiste Lulli. The young Florentine, after having served in the king’s band, was promoted to be its chief, and the composer of the music of the court ballets. Lulli, born in 1633, was bought of his parents by Chevalier de Guise, and sent to Paris as a present to Mdlle. de Montpensier, the king’s niece. His capricious mistress, after a year or two, deposed the boy of fifteen from the position of page to that of scullion; but Count Nogent, accidentally hearing him sing and struck by his musical talent, influenced the princess to place him under the care of good masters. Lulli made such rapid progress that he soon commenced to compose music of a style superior to that before current in divertisements of the French court.
The name of Philippe Quinault is closely associated with the musical career of Lulli; for to the poet the musician was indebted for his best librettos. Born at Paris in 1636, Quinault’s genius for poetry displayed itself at an early age. Before he was twenty he had written several successful comedies. Though he produced many plays, both tragedies and comedies, well known to readers of French poetry, his operatic poems are those which have rendered his memory illustrious. He died on November 29, 1688. It is said that during his last illness he was extremely penitent on account of the voluptuous tendency of his works. All his lyrical dramas are full of beauty, but “Atys,” “Phaëton,” “Isis,” and “Armide” have been ranked the highest. “Armide” was the last of the poet’s efforts, and Lulli was so much in love with the opera, when completed, that he had it performed over and over again for his own pleasure without any other auditor. When “Atys” was performed first in 1676, the eager throng began to pour in the theatre at ten o’clock in the morning, and by noon the building was filled. The King and the Count were charmed with the work in spite of the bitter dislike of Boileau, the Aristarchus of his age. “Put me in a place where I shall not be able to hear the words,” said the latter to the box-keeper; “I like Lulli’s music very much, but have a sovereign contempt for Quinault’s words.” Lulli obliged the poet to write “Armide” five times over, and the felicity of his treatment is proved by the fact that Gluck afterwards set the same poem to the music which is still occasionally sung in Germany.
Lulli in the course of his musical career became so great a favourite with the King that the originally obscure kitchen-boy was ennobled. He was made one of the King’s secretaries in spite of the loud murmurs of this pampered fraternity against receiving into their body a player and a buffoon. The musician’s wit and affability, however, finally dissipated these prejudices, especially as he was wealthy and of irreproachable character.
The King having had a severe illness in 1686, Lulli composed a “Te Deum” in honour of his recovery. When this was given, the musician, in beating time with great ardour, struck his toe with his baton. This brought on a mortification, and there was great grief when it was announced that he could not recover. The Princes de Vendôme lodged four thousand pistoles in the hands of a banker, to be paid to any physician who would cure him. Shortly before his death his confessor severely reproached him for the licentiousness of his operas, and refused to give him absolution unless he consented to burn the score of “Achille et Polyxène,” which was ready for the stage. The manuscript was put into the flames, and the priest made the musician’s peace with God. One of the young princes visited him a few days after, when he seemed a little better.