Occasionally when the chorister was not at hand, or when he was called upon, to give his autograph in presence of other persons, Fancelli found himself in a sad plight; and I have a painful recollection of his efforts to sign his name in the album of the Liverpool Philharmonic Society, which contains the signatures of a large number of celebrated singers and musicians. In this musical Book of Gold Fancelli made an earnest endeavour to inscribe his name, which with the exception only of the "c" and one of the "l's" he succeeded in writing without the omission of any of the necessary letters. He had learned, moreover, to write the glorious words "Primo tenore," and in a moment of aspiration tried to add to them his favourite epithet of "assoluto." He had written a capital "A," followed by three "s's," when either from awkwardness or in order to get himself out of the scrape in which he already felt himself lost, he upset the inkstand over the page. Then he took up the spilt ink on his forefinger and transferred it to his hair; until at last, when he had obliterated the third "s," his signature stood in the book and stands now—
"FANELI PRIMO TENORE ASS—"
Some rude critics having declared of Signor Fancelli's singing that it would have been better if he had made a regular study of the vocal art, he spoke to me seriously about taking lessons. But he declared that he had no time, and that as he was making money by singing in the style to which he was accustomed it would be better to defer studying until he had finished his career, when he would have plenty of leisure.
About this time the strange idea occurred to him of endeavouring to master the meaning of the parts entrusted to him in the various operas.
"In Medea," he innocently remarked, "during the last two years I have played the part of a man named 'Jason'; but what he has to do with 'Medea,' I have never been able to make out. Am I her father, her brother, her lover, or what?"
Fancelli had begun life as a facchino or baggage porter at Leghorn, so that his ignorance, if lamentable, was at least excusable. On retiring from the stage he really applied himself to study; with what success I am unable to say. At his death he left a large sum of money.
It has often astonished me that singers without any education, musical or other, should be able to remember the words and music of their parts. Some of them resort to strange devices in order to supply the want of natural gifts; and one vocalist previously mentioned, Signor Broccolini, would write his "words" on whatever staff or stick he might happen to be carrying, or in default of any such "property," on the fingers and palm of his hand. In representing the statue of the Commander, in Don Giovanni, he inscribed beforehand the words he had to sing on the bâton carried by the Man of Stone; but to be able to read them it was necessary to know on which side in the scene of the cemetery the rays of the moon would fall. On one occasion he had majestically taken up his position on horseback, with the bâton grasped in his right hand, and reposing on his right hip, and was expecting a rush of moonlight from the left, when the position of the orb of night was suddenly changed, and he was unable to read one syllable of the words on which he depended. Having to choose between two difficulties, he at once selected the least, and, to the astonishment of the audience, transferred the Commander's bâton from the right hand to the left.
The vanity of an opera singer is generally in proportion to the lowness of his origin. This rule, however, does not seem to apply to dramatic artists, for I remember that when I once called upon Mdme. Ristori at Naples I found her principal actors and actresses, who had apparently begun life as domestic servants, continuing the occupations of their youth while at the same time impersonating on the stage the most exalted characters. "Sir Francis Drake" waited at table, the "Earl of Essex" opened the street door, "Leicester" acted as butler; and I have reason to believe that "Dirce" dressed "Medea's" hair.
Two more anecdotes as to the caprices and the exactions of vocalists. My basso, Cherubini, on one occasion refused to go on with his part in Lucia because he had not been applauded on entering.
An incident of quite an opposite character occurred at Naples during the Titiens engagement. Armandi, a tenor of doubtful repute, who resided at Milan, always awaited the result of the various fiascos of St. Stephen's night (26th December) which marks the beginning of the Carnival season, when some hundreds of musical theatres throw open their doors. He had a large répertoire; and, after ascertaining by telegraph where his services were most in need, and where they would be best remunerated, he would accept an engagement as a kind of stop-gap until another tenor could be found. Generally, at the close of the first evening he was paid for his six performances and sent back to Milan.