One day she refused absolutely to sing a part which he had assigned to her; his patience, small at the best, gave out totally, and he was going to throw her out of the window, when she hurriedly gave her consent to sing.
Händel’s losses and trials as operatic manager, temporarily drove him crazy.
Rossini also had his troubles in the operatic field. Once a manager, whose libretti he was bound by contract to set to music, took offence at some action of the composer, and sought to revenge himself by writing a wretched opera for him. The result nearly brought both to ruin, for Rossini retorted by writing a terribly poor score to the words; in the overture, during an allegro movement, the violins were arranged so as to stop at every bar, and tap the tin shades of their lamps with their bows. The audience nearly demolished the theatre. The “Barber of Seville” was a failure at its first performance.
There is a note to be made here, of a passage in one of his operas, which is of interest to conductors.
The overture to “William Tell” had been played from its first representation, August 3, 1829, for more than thirty years, with a major trill in the violincello at the cadence of the first part; (the andante at the beginning of the work), but on the 16th of November, 1861, the piece was played before the composer, who stigmatized as “a great fault,” the major trill in the third measure of the cadence.[289] “It should be minor” he said. And since that date it has been played so. But it is very uncertain whether the abrupt remark was not a mere whim of the composer. The trill is more satisfactory with G sharp, than with G natural; the earlier editions have none of them any mention of a minor trill and it is scarcely possible that “a great fault” like this, should have escaped notice so long.
Meyerbeer, was in all respects, a person well calculated to popularize opera. He knew how to work up dramatic effects, in which he was well seconded by his French librettists, and he did not hesitate at any innovation to ask if it were classical, or belonged to pure art; and he succeeded far better than the martinets who condemned him.
At the first representation of his “Robert le Diable,” an accident occurred which nearly resulted in disaster. In the last act, Bertram, the tempter, has to descend to the infernal regions, alone; Levasseur (who performed the character) leaped down the trap, and Robert (represented by the tenor Nourrit), who should have remained on earth, saved by the prayers of Alice,—after a moment of indecision (not remembering the denouèment) leaped after him.
There was general consternation on the stage, for all thought that Nourrit was injured. In the audience they must have thought that the opera had a rather immoral ending, since Bertram, the tempter, had triumphed over the prayers of Alice.
Fortunately the mattresses had not been removed; and Bertram was vastly astonished to find that he had bagged his victim after all; he asked Nourrit in amazement.—“Has the plot been changed?” but Nourrit recollecting his mistake, hastened back to the stage, where the audience were astonished to see him reappear, but soon grasping the situation burst into loud applause.
The curiosities of the opera of to-day are even greater than those of twenty years since, for the world has found an iconoclastic composer who is endeavoring to reform all that went before him, by pulling it to pieces. Yet he has done opera precisely the service which it at present needed, in showing composers the importance of bestowing a greater attention upon the libretto, and elevating the orchestra as well as the scene painter to their proper places; his idea that an opera should be a “perfect chrysolite,” a complete picture in all its accessories, is the true one, though his mode of effecting it may not be.