The most formidable uproar arose that had ever echoed to the roof of the Fenice. The commotion only yielded to Clarina, and she, furious at the difficulties raised by Genovese’s obstinacy, sang Mi manca la voce as it will never be sung again. The enthusiasm was tremendous; the audience forgot their indignation and rage in pleasure that was really acute.
“She floods my soul with purple glow!” said Capraja, waving his hand in benediction at la Diva Tinti.
“Heaven send all its blessings on your head!” cried a gondolier.
“Pharaoh will now revoke his commands,” said the Duchess, while the commotion in the pit was calming down. “Moses will overwhelm him, even on his throne, by declaring the death of every first-born son in Egypt, singing that strain of vengeance which augurs thunders from heaven, while above it the Hebrew clarions ring out. But you must clearly understand that this air is by Pacini; Carthagenova introduces it instead of that by Rossini. This air, Paventa, will no doubt hold its place in the score; it gives a bass too good an opportunity for displaying the quality of his voice, and expression here will carry the day rather than science. However, the air is full of magnificent menace, and it is possible that we may not be long allowed to hear it.”
A thunder of clapping and bravos hailed the song, followed by deep and cautious silence; nothing could be more significant or more thoroughly Venetian than the outbreak and its sudden suppression.
“I need say nothing of the coronation march announcing the enthronement of Osiride, intended by the King as a challenge to Moses; to hear it is enough. Their famous Beethoven has written nothing grander. And this march, full of earthly pomp, contrasts finely with the march of the Israelites. Compare them, and you will see that the music is full of purpose.
“Elcia declares her love in the presence of the two Hebrew leaders, and then renounces it in the fine aria, Porge la destra amata. (Place your beloved hand.) Ah! What anguish! Only look at the house!”
The pit was shouting bravo, when Genovese left the stage.
“Now, free from her deplorable lover, we shall hear Tinti sing, O desolata Elcia—the tremendous cavatina expressive of love disapproved by God.”
“Where art thou, Rossini?” cried Cataneo. “If he could but hear the music created by his genius so magnificently performed,” he went on. “Is not Clarina worthy of him?” he asked Capraja. “To give life to those notes by such gusts of flame, starting from the lungs and feeding in the air on some unknown matter which our ears inhale, and which bears us heavenwards in a rapture of love, she must be divine!”