Shortly afterwards I produced another classical opera, which was gladly welcomed by all musical amateurs. The work I refer to was Gluck's Iphigenia in Tauris—a work not less remarkable for its intrinsic merits than for having been the cause of one of the most fierce and prolonged artistic controversies on record. Paris, ever the champ de bataille of such contests, was, figuratively speaking, shaken to its foundations by the antagonistic Gluckists and Piccinists; and the dispute was only ended by Gluck leaving France.
This work was likewise magnificently put upon the stage, Titiens, Santley, and Gardoni really surpassing themselves.
I afterwards had the honour of introducing Mozart's comic opera, Il Seraglio, in which Mdlle. Titiens appeared as "Constanza," the remaining personages being entrusted to Dr. Gunz, Signor, Stagno, Rokitanski, &c.
One evening, when the opera of Rigoletto was being performed, with Mongini as the "Duke," feeling tired, as I had been working in the theatre throughout the day, I went home just before the termination of the third act. I had been at home about three-quarters of an hour when my servant hurried up in a cab to inform me that the curtain had not yet risen for the final act, and that a dreadful disturbance was going on in consequence of some question with Mongini, who was brandishing a drawn sword and going to kill everybody. I immediately slipped on my clothes and went down to the theatre.
At the stage door, without her bonnet, I met the tenor's charming wife, the only person, as a rule, who could control him in any way; and she entreated me not to go near him, or there would be bloodshed. I insisted, however, on going to his room without delay, as the curtain was still down and the public was getting tumultuous. I took the precaution of buttoning my overcoat across my chest, and in I went, my first words being—
"This time, Mongini, I hear you are right (Questa volta sento che avete ragione)."
With this preliminary we got into conversation, but he still remained walking up and down the room with nothing but his shirt on and a drawn sword in his hand. I saw that I had to proceed very slowly with him, and began talking on indifferent matters. At last I asked him the details of all the trouble. He thereupon explained to me that the master tailor, who had been requested by him in the morning to widen his overcoat by two inches, had misunderstood, and contracted it by two inches. I wished to have a look at the dress, which, however, was lying on the floor torn to pieces. I assured Mongini that the man should be cruelly punished, and he and his family put upon the streets to starve early the next morning.
He then got calmer, and I casually observed, "By-the-bye, is the opera over yet, Mongini?" to which he replied, "No, it is not."
"Never mind that," I continued; "the public can wait. Everyone, by the way, is talking of the magnificent style in which you have been singing to-night."
His eyes brightened, and he said he should like to go on with the opera.