𝐂𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭-𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡 𝐛𝐲 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟏𝟖𝟖𝟎𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐎𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨” (𝟏𝟖𝟖𝟕).
2. 𝐂𝐃𝐕 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟎𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐃𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬” (𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟕).
3. 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐂𝐃𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟎𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 “𝐋𝐚 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐳𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨” (𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟐), 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢 𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨.
4. 𝐂𝐃𝐕 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟏𝟖𝟔𝟎𝐬: 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 É𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 (𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝟏𝟖𝟏𝟐 - 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐧, 𝟏𝟖𝟖𝟎), 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐢.𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐃𝐕-𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧.
From Masters of Italian music (1895) by Streatfeild, R. A. (Richard Alexander), 1866-1919:
Verdi was born on the 10th of October 1813 at Le Roncole, a poor village situated at the foot of the Apennines, a few miles from Busseto, a city which lies about half-way between Parma and Piacenza. His parents, Carlo Verdi and Luisa Utini, kept a little inn at Le Roncole, combined with a kind of village shop. Their house has been described as "a tumble-down stone building, standing almost alone in the midst of a fertile plain sown with maize and hemp;" but though their station was humble, it does not appear that their son ever experienced actual poverty. At the time of his birth Italy was a French province, and Busseto was therefore situated in one of the "Départements au delà des Alpes." This explains the fact of his certificate of birth being in French, and also the uncertainty which is attached to one of his names. In the certi-ficate he is described as Joseph Fortunin François, which is Italianised in the Catalogue of the British Museum as Giuseppe Fortunino Francesco. Signor Barrili, in his Life of Verdi, suggests Fortunato or Fortunio, but the point is not of much importance, since Verdi and the world have agreed to drop all but Giuseppe.
It was eminently suitable that one whose music in after-years was to be closely associated with the cause of Italian liberty should make an early acquaintance with the terrors of war.
In 1814 Italy was the prey of the allied armies before which Eugène Beauharnais, after an intrepid resistance, had been compelled to retreat. The plains of Lombardy were overrun by the Russians and Austrians, and even a corner so remote as Le Roncole did not escape their remorseless vengeance. One morning the alarm was given that the soldiers were ap-proaching. The terror-stricken women ran with their infants in their arms to the church, the only sanctuary which the village afforded. But even this was a poor protection from the violence of the Cossack troops, who spared neither age nor sex in their inhuman ferocity. One woman alone, Luisa Verdi, had the presence of mind to conceal herself in the narrow staircase of the Campanile, where she and her baby lay in breathless terror until the danger was past.
Verdi's first introduction to music was through the medium of a travelling fiddler, whose scraping threw the child into such ecstasies of delight that the man took upon himself to advise the elder Verdi to have his son instructed in music.
Thirty years later, when Verdi bought the estate of Sant' Agata, in the neighbourhood, he found his old friend "infirm and old" as the Last Minstrel himself, but still going his rounds with undiminished zeal. He was always wel-come at Sant' Agata, and used to mumble in return for some trifling gift of money or provi-sion, "Ah, maestro, I knew you when you were very little; but now”
Verdi's introduction to the organ is com-memorated in another anecdote. He was then seven years old, and was assisting for the first time as acolyte in the church at Le Roncole. When the organ began to play the little boy forgot all about his duties, and stood listening in open-mouthed delight, so that the demand of the priest for water fell upon deaf ears. The story goes that, after a second or third repeti-tion had proved equally ineffectual, the priest gave him a box on the ears which sent him rolling down the altar-steps. He was picked up insensible, but his first request when he regained consciousness was an appeal to be allowed to learn an instrument capable of producing such divine harmony. His father consented to his having lessons from the organist, whose name was Baistrocchi. He went further, and bought an old spinet for his son to amuse himself with in his leisure hours. This spinet is still in existence, and has been described with loving reverence by the late Antonio Ghislanzoni, the author of "Aida."
After three years under Baistrocchi-that is to say when he was ten years old the little Verdi was appointed to succeed the old man on his retirement, at a salary of thirty-six francs a year, which was raised to forty francs upon the repre-sentation of the boy's father. This payment did not include the fees for marriages, baptisms, and funerals, which brought the grand total up to about a hundred francs per annum. There was a kind of tithe, too, of corn and vegetables which the organist was entitled to collect in person once a year. Verdi retained this post for seven years, in fact until he left Busseto for Milan. About the time of his appointment as organist to Le Roncole Verdi began to attend a school at Busseto. He lived there with a cobbler, a friend of his father's, who gave him board and lodging for thirty centimes a day. He appears to have been a boy of a grave and studious habit of mind. He devoted himself to work with singular application, and cared little for the games of his schoolfellows. Every Sunday and feast-day he walked over to Le Roncole before daybreak to fulfil his duties in the organ-loft. One dark Christmas morning he lost his way and fell into the canal which connects the two places, and would have perished in the icy water but for the friendly help of a passing contadina who fortunately happened to hear his cries for help. After two years' schooling he was taken into the warehouse of Antonio Barezzi, a merchant of Busseto, from whom his father had been in the habit of getting his stores. Verdi's entrance into Barezzi's house was undoubtedly the turning-point in his career. Barezzi was a thorough musician, and president of the Philharmonic Society of Busseto, which met at his house. The conductor of the society, Giovanni Provesi, who was also the maestro di cappella of the Cathedral, was not slow to recognise Verdi's talent, and offered to give him lessons in counter-point for nothing, while Barezzi kindly allowed him to practise on his pianoforte. made another friend in a certain Don Pietro Seletti, a Canon of the Cathedral, who was an enthusiastic violinist. He taught the boy Latin, and finding him an apt scholar, was inclined to pooh-pooh his passion for music. "What good will it do you?" he asked. "You are getting on capitally with Latin; you must be a priest. You will never make your living by music. Do you imagine that you will ever be made organist of Busseto?" But the Canon had to change his mind after one Sunday morning in the Jesuit College. The organist had failed to put in an appearance, and Verdi was unanimously voted to the vacant place, where he acquitted himself which he copied out himself and afterwards con-ducted. These compositions are still preserved among the treasures of the Society's library. Among them is Verdi's first symphony, written at the age of fifteen, and performed at Easter 1828.
After three years of this life his friends Barezzi and Provesi felt that Busseto no longer gave proper scope to the talents of the ambitious young musician. Provesi declared that Verdi knew all that he could teach him, and more besides, and they both felt that it was high time for the lad to go to Milan, the musical capital of Italy, to complete his studies. Fortu-nately, there was at Busseto a charitable institu-tion called the Monte di Pietà e d'Abbondanza, which had been founded in the seventeenth century by those whose heirs had died during a visitation of the plague. This institution, among other charitable offices, supported a public library, and gave annually four scholar-ships of three hundred lire a year for four years to assist young men who were going forth into the world to study arts and sciences. The interest of his patrons secured one of these for Verdi, but in his case the scholarship was commuted to six hundred lire a year for two years, for his friends had so firm afaith in his talents that they expected two years at Milan to turn him out a musician complete at every point-totus teres atque rotun-dus. But six hundred lire (£24) a year is not exactly a fortune; so the generous Barezzi lent Verdi all that was necessary for his board and lodging, while his friend the Canon recommended him most warmly to his nephew Giuseppe Seletti, a professor at the Ginnasio, in whose house Verdi lived during his stay in the Lombard capital.
Verdi's first thought on arriving in Milan was to present himself at the Conservatorio. This institution was then under the direction of Francesco Basily, a very learned musician, and a pedant of the deepest dye. His counterpoint was irreproachable, but he seems to have had little sympathy with rising talent, and he failed to see anything in the youthful Verdi which indi-cated a promise of his subsequent success. At any rate, there is no doubt that the future com-poser of "Otello" was summarily and finally rejected. There has been a good deal of discussion on the question of this rejection, and friends of Basily have endeavoured to prove that his decision was not due to any inability to appreciate Verdi's talent, but to the fact that the young man had already passed the age (twenty years) after which pupils are not admitted to the Conservatorio. On this point, however, Verdi himself is the best authority, and he has stated explicitly that his examination took place in June 1832, when he had not completed his nineteenth year. The theory put forward by Fétis, that Basily rejected Verdi because he did not see in his face any trace of artistic faculty, is not a convincing tribute to the methods of examination which then obtained at Milan. Though the authorities of the Conservatorio would have none of him, Verdi did not by any means despair of himself. He was strongly recommended to apply to Vincenzo Lavigna, a theatrical composer of some success, and the maestro al cembalo, or accompanist, at the theatre of La Scala. In him Verdi found not only an excellent master but a true friend. Lavigna soon formed a high opinion of his pupil's merits, and told Barezzi that he would one day be an honour to his master and his country. Verdi soon had an opportunity of taking humorous vengeance on Basily. The old Professor used occasionally to visit Lavigna, and once, when Verdi happened to be in the room, he began to lament the decadence of the rising generation. "Why," said he, "the other day there were eight-and-twenty candidates for the post of organist to the church of S. Giovanni di Monza, and not one of them could write a decentfugue on the subject I gave them." "Ah," said Lavigna, "I have a pupil here whom I would back against any of your eight-and-twenty. Do you remember your subject? Let us see what he will make of it." Basily wrote down his subject, and Verdi sat down quietly with it in a corner of the room. Before long he came up with the exercise in his hand. Basily took it, and after reading it carefully had to admit that it was excellent; but whether he recognised Lavigna's promising pupil as the rejected can-didate of the Conservatorio, history does not relate. In 1833 the death of Provesi recalled Verdi to Busseto. He had not completed his two years at Milan, but he knew that Barezzi and his other friends wished to see him installed as organist in their own Cathedral and had in-deed contributed to the expenses of his musical education principally with that object in view. So he did not hesitate, though it must have been a severe wrench to give up his studies with Lavigna and his prospects at Milan, and bury himself in the obscurity of a provincial organ-loft.
But even at Busseto it was not at all plain sailing. Provesi had never been a persona grata to the clerical party. He was something of a humourist, and the Cathedral authorities had occasionally been the butts of his satire. Verdi was known to have been his pupil, and, besides, during his stay in Milan had given up all his time to secular music. So, in spite of his friend-ship with Seletti, he was passed over, and the post of organist was given to a nonentity named Ferrari, whose training had been strictly clerical. Barezzi and the Philharmonic Society were furious at the rejection of their protégé. They had been accustomed to assist every Sunday at the services of the Cathedral, but now they rushed off to the Duomo, turned everything topsy-turvy, carried off all their music, and vowed they would never enter the building again. This proceeding did not help Verdi much; so the municipality, which had hitherto paid the Cathedral organist three hundred lire a year to teach music to those who aspired to become members of the Philharmonic, arranged to transfer this to Verdi, whom they appointed director of the Society. Then began an inter-necine war between the two parties. It was a case of Gluckists and Piccinists over again. The town was divided into Verdiani and Ferrariani. The quarrels between the two were frequent, and the usually quiet streets of Busseto were the field of many an encounter between the adherents of the rival factions. When the Cathedral chapter increased the salary of its organist, the municipality, with the assistance of the Monte di Pietà, did the same for Verdi, and went one better by christening him "Maestro di Musica del Comune e del Monte di Pietà di Busseto," which is pretty good for twenty pounds or so a year. Though excluded from the Cathedral, Verdi found a field for his talents in the chapel of the Madonnina Rossa, which be-longed to a Franciscan oratory, and in the fine church of San Bartolomeo, where the Philhar-monic orchestra was warmly welcomed. The service here became so famous that the Cathedral was quite deserted, and Verdi's triumph was complete. At this time he wrote a great number of masses, vespers, and motets, which were per-formed under his direction at one or other of these churches, while he enriched the repertory of the orchestra with endless overtures and marches, which were played on Sundays in the Piazza to the delight of the holiday-makers.
During his stay at Busseto, Verdi lived in the house of his friend Barezzi, who had been one of his most ardent supporters in all his difficulties. In 1835, at the age of twenty-three, he married Barezzi's eldest daughter Margherita, by whom he had two children. When his three years' engagement with the municipality of Busseto had expired, Verdi returned to Milan, taking with him his wife and children. He had many friends at Busseto, but his genius must have been stifled by the atmosphere of a narrow provincial town, with all its petty squabbles and scandals, and he probably felt that the more spacious life of Milan was necessary to his artistic development.
The tale of Verdi's début at the theatre is best told by himself. His account is already well known, but I have ventured to translate it once more, not merely because of the intrinsic interest of the events which it describes, but because of the light which it throws upon the character of the man himself:
"In 1833 or '34 there was a Choral Society in Milan, which contained some excellent vocal material. It was conducted by a man named Masini, who, if not a very scientific musician, had at any rate any amount of patience and per-severance, very necessary qualities for the con-ductor of a choir of dilettanti. They were practising Haydn's 'Creation' and my master Lavigna asked me if I should not like to attend the rehearsals, as a part of my musical education. I accepted his proposal with alacrity.
The rehearsals "No one noticed the insignificant young man who sat modestly in a corner. were generally directed by one of three musicians, Perelli, Bonoldi, and Almasio, but one fine day, for some mysterious reason, not one of our accompanists turned up. The gentlemen and ladies of the choir showed signs of impatience, and Masini, who did not feel equal to sitting down at the piano and playing from the score, turned in despair to me and begged me for once to act as accompanist. Perhaps he could hardly be expected to have much faith in the powers of a young and unknown artist, so he added, 'It will be enough if you only play the bass.' I was then just fresh from my studies, and certainly saw nothing to be afraid of in an orchestral score. So I took my post at the piano and made ready to begin the practice. I remember quite well even now the half-ironical smiles of some of the singers, and after all I suppose that my slight boyish figure and shabby clothes were not calculated to inspire much confidence. Well, we began the rehearsal, and as I warmed to my work I did not stop at merely accompany-ing, but began to beat time with my right hand, playing with the left alone. I made a great success, as great as it was unexpected. When the practice was over I was overwhelmed by compliments and congratulations, especially from Count Pompeo Belgiojoso and Count Renato Borromeo. Finally, whether the three maestri to whom I have referred were all too busy to keep their engagements, or for some other reason, the matter ended in the concert being entrusted altogether to me. It came off with so much success that it had to be repeated.
The second performance was held in the great hall of the Casino de' Nobili, in the presence of the Archduke and Archduchess of Raineri and all the grandees of the city. Not long after-wards, Count Renato Borromeo commissioned me to compose the music to a cantata for voices and orchestra, which as far as I remember was to be performed at the marriage of some mem-ber of his family. I may as well say that I got nothing for all this; it was all done for honour and glory. Masini, who seems to have believed in me all along, now proposed that I should write an opera for the Teatro Filodrammatico, where he was conductor, and gave me a libretto, which was afterwards touched up here and there by Solera, and became 'Oberto di San Bonifacio.' I hailed the offer with delight, and returned to Busseto, where I was engaged as organist. I stopped at Busseto about three years. When the opera was finished, I came back to Milan, bringing with me the score of the opera and the vocal parts all neatly copied out by my own hand.
"But here my difficulties began. Masini was no longer conductor at the Filodrammatico, so the chances of getting my opera performed seemed rather remote. However, I think he must have really believed in me, or perhaps he wanted in some way or other to show his gratitude, for after the 'Creation' I had helped him several times in getting up and conducting other things, the 'Cenerentola' for one, without getting a penny for it At any rate, he told me not to be discouraged, for he would do his best to get my opera performed at La Scala for the benefit of the Pio Istituto. Count Bor-romeo and the advocate Pasetti promised us their support, though truth compels me to say that it never amounted to more than a few words of recommendation. Masini, on the other hand, worked nobly, and he was backed up by Merighi, the violoncello professor, who had known me when he played at the Filodram-matico, and seemed to think that I had a future before me. At last everything was arranged for the spring of 1839. I was doubly fortunate in having my work produced at La Scala, and in getting such artists as Signora Strepponi, * Signor Moriani, Signor Morini and the famous Signor Ronconi to sing it.
"The music had been given to the singers, and we were just beginning the rehearsals, when Moriani fell dangerously ill. Everything was at once broken off, and all thoughts of performing my opera were put on one side. I was left stranded, and had serious thoughts of going back to Busseto, when one morning, as I was sitting at home, up came a man from La Scala and grunted out, 'Are you the maestro from Parma whose opera ought to have been done for the Pio Istituto? The manager wants to see you. Come to the theatre.' 'What do you mean?' said I. 'It is all right,' said he. 'The manager told me to go and bring the maestro whose opera was to have been done. If you are the man, come along.' And I went. The manager was a man named Bartolomeo Merelli. One evening he had If I heard Signora Strepponi and Ronconi talking about my opera behind the scenes in the theatre. Both of them seemed to like it exceedingly, and this was the result of his eavesdropping. When I found Merelli he came at once to business. He told me that he had heard a very good account of my opera, and wished to perform it next season. agreed to this I should have to make some alterations in the vocal parts, as he had not now got the four artists who were to have sung it before at his disposal. It was a noble offer. Here was I, young and unknown, and by good luck had stumbled upon an impresario who offered to put my new opera upon the stage without demanding payment of any sort. Merelli undertook all the expense of the production, and only bargained that, in case I managed to sell the opera, he should have half of what I received, a perfectly honourable proposal considering that I was a mere begin-ner. As a matter of fact, I got two thousand Austrian lire for it, for when the opera turned out a success I managed to sell it to the pub-lisher Ricordi. When the season was over Merelli made a proposal which, as times went, was really a magnificent one. The terms of the contract were that I should write three operas, one every eight months, and that they should be produced either at Milan or at Vienna, where he was manager of a theatre. I was to get four thousand Austrian lire for each opera and half the profits upon the sale of the scores. Of course I jumped at the agreement, and Merelli left for Vienna after commissioning the poet Rossi to provide me with a libretto, which turned out to be 'Il Proscritto.' His poem was not at all to my taste, and I had not even begun to set it to music when Merelli returned and told me that I must write him a comic opera at once for the autumn season, and then I might finish 'Il Proscritto' at my leisure. I did not refuse the proposition, and Merelli gave me several old, forgotten libretti by Romani to choose from. None of them seemed very first-rate, but I re-chose the one I thought the least bad, 'Il Finto Stanislao,' which we afterwards christened 'Un Giorno di Regno.'
"At that time I was living in very humble quarters near the Porta Ticinese with my wife and our two children. I had scarcely settled to my new opera when I was struck down by a bad attack of quinsy, which kept me in bed for weeks. When I began to get well again I remembered that the rent, which amounted to fifty scudi, would be falling due in three days. The sum was not a large one even for my not too well-filled purse, but my illness had prevented my attending to business, and our exchequer had got rather low. There was no time to get the money from Busseto, so I decided to apply to Merelli for the necessary amount, either as an earnest of the payment of my contract or simply as a loan. reasons upon which it is not necessary to For dwell, Merelli failed to comply with my request. There was nothing to do but let the quarter-day pass without settling up. But my wife, seeing my disappointment, collected the few ornaments she possessed, went out, and some-how or other contrived to raise the necessary sum, which she brought back in triumph. I can hardly say how deeply I was touched by this proof of her unselfish affection, or how fervently I vowed to pay her back to the full directly I got the money for my opera.
The "But now began terrible troubles. My little boy fell ill at the beginning of April. doctors did not seem to know what was the matter with him, and the poor darling pined away and died in his mother's arms. But this was not all. A few days afterwards our little daughter fell ill in her turn, and died, and, to crown all, at the beginning of June my dear wife fell a victim to a violent attack of brain fever. On the 19th of June the third coffin was carried from my house, and I was left alone. In little more than two months the three persons dearest to me upon earth had been taken from me, and in the midst of my terrible anguish, lest I should fail at the appointed time, I had to sit down and write a comic opera. No wonder that 'Un Giorno di Regno' failed. The music, I admit, was bad, but the interpretation had a good deal to do with its unfavourable reception. My private sorrows, coupled with the bitterness of this disappointment, reduced me to the lowest depths of despondency, and I made up my mind never to compose again. I did all I could to make Merelli cancel our contract. He sent for me and talked to me like a wilful child, and would not hear of my being cast down by one failure. However, I was obsti-nate, so he gave me back my contract, and said: 'Listen, Verdi; I cannot make you write by force, but my belief in you is unshaken. If you ever decide to take up your pen again, only let me know two months before the season begins, and I promise to produce your opera.' I thanked him, but my mind was made up, and I went away. I pitched my camp in Milan near the Corsia de' Servi. I was in very low spirits, and had given up thinking about music, when one winter's evening I met Merelli coming out of the Galleria De Cristoforis on his way to the theatre. It was snowing hard, and he took me by the arm and made me go up into his little room in La Scala. We chatted as we walked along, and he told me that he was in terrible difficulties about the new opera which he was bound to produce. He had commis-sioned Nicolai to write it, but the composer was not satisfied with the libretto. Fancy that,' said Merelli; 'a libretto by Solera, on the story of Nebuchadnezzar, stupendous, magnifi-cent, extraordinary-such effective scenes, such beautiful verses!-but that mule of a maestro will not hear of it, and declares that it is an impossible book. I don't know how I am to get him another all in a moment.' 'I can get you out of the difficulty,' I replied. There is "Il Proscritto." I have not written a note of it. It is quite at your disposal.' 'Oh, capital: this is a real stroke of luck. By this time we had reached the theatre. Merelli called Bassi, who was poet, stage-manager, call-boy, and librarian all in one, and told him to look among the archives for a copy of 'Il Proscritto.' He soon found it, but mean-while Merelli had seized another manuscript, which he held out to me, crying, 'See, here is Solera's libretto! Such a lovely plot! Fancy that man refusing it! Take it away and read it.' 'What the devil am I to do with it? Reading libretti is not in my line.' 'Oh, it won't hurt you to look at it; read it, and let me have it back again.' I ended by taking the manuscript. It was a huge copy written in big letters, as the custom then was. I rolled it up and started home. As I went along I felt myself possessed by a kind of vague uneasiness, a sense of despondency which amounted almost to positive pain.
"I reached my lodgings and threw the roll of manuscript upon the table. As it gradually unfolded my eye somehow caught the words,
Go, thought, on golden wings.'
I skimmed through the lines which followed, and was much impressed by their beauty, per-haps because they were often almost a paraphrase of the Bible, which I have always been fond of reading. I read one passage, then another. Then I remembered that I had made up my mind not to write any more, so I shut the book and went to bed. But all the time 'Nabucco' was running in my head. I could not sleep, and I ended by getting up and reading the libretto, not once or twice, but three times, from beginning to end, so that when morning came I think I could almost have said it by heart. All the same, it never occurred to me to change my mind, so I went back to the theatre and gave Merelli the manuscript. 'Well, it is fine, 'Set it to music, isn't it?' he said. Very fine.' then.' 'Not I. I'll have nothing to do with it.' 'Set it to music, set it to music. So saying, he took the libretto and thrust it into my coat-pocket, seized me by the shoulders, and with one mighty shove pushed me out of the room and locked the door behind me. What was I to do? I went home with 'Nabucco' in my pocket. Day by day the music came to me, now one season. line and now another, until bit by bit the whole opera was finished. We were then in the autumn of 1841. I remembered Merelli's promise, so I told him that 'Nabucco' was written and was ready to be performed in the next Carnival Merelli declared that he was ready to redeem his promise, but at the same time he pointed out that it would be impossible to pro-duce my opera during the coming season. The programme was already arranged, three new operas by well-known composers were to be given, and to give another by one whose career had scarcely begun would be a great risk for every one concerned, for myself most of all. It would be better, he said, to wait until the spring, when he would be bound by no engagement, and he promised to engage good singers. But I refused. Either in the Carnival or not at all. I had good reasons for my obstinacy, for I knew that it would be impossible to get two artists better suited for my opera than Signora Strep-poni and Signor Ronconi, who I knew were engaged, and for whom I had written the music.
But "From his own point of view, Merelli's con-duct was quite right. It was running a great risk to produce four operas in one season. then I had plenty of arguments on my side, too. However, in spite of arguments and promises, the prospectus of the season was published and 'Nabucco' was not announced in it. I was young and hot-tempered. I wrote Merelli a foolish letter, in which I gave full vent to my anger and disappointment. No sooner had I sent it off than I repented of it. I thought that I had ruined my chances once and for all. Merelli sent for me, and when I came, said angrily, 'Is this the way to write to a friend? Never mind, you are quite right, we will do "Nabucco." But you must remember that the other new operas will be very expensive, so that I cannot afford either new scenery or costumes for you. You will have to make the best of what we already have.' I agreed, of course, so long as my opera was performed. A new prospectus was published, in which I had the delight of reading the name of 'Nabucco.' At the end of
February 1842 the rehearsals began, and twelve days after the first piano rehearsal, on the 9th of March, the first performance took place. The opera was sung by Signore Strepponi and Bellinzaghi, Signori Ronconi, Miraglia and Dérivis. With this work my artistic career really began. 'Nabucco' certainly was born under a lucky star, for everything which seemed to threaten its existence turned out well in the end. My stupid letter was alone enough to make most impresari throw up the whole con-cern. Then the threadbare costumes, judiciously patched and tinkered, looked magnificent, and the old scenery, touched up by the painter Perrani, was tremendously effective. Altogether 'Nabucco' was a real triumph. But it does not do always to trust to a lucky star. I have lived to find out the truth of our pro-verb 'Fidarsi è bene, ma non fidarsi è meglio' ('Trust is a good dog but distrust a better.')"
The success of "Nabucco" was very great, but it was surpassed by that of Verdi's next work, "I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata." The libretto of this was also the work of Solera, and though extravagant and even ludicrous in parts, it contained many fine and effective situations, of which Verdi availed himself to the full. With "Ernani," which was produced at Venice in 1844, Verdi scored another great success, and placed himself indisputably at the head of living Italian composers. At this time of day no one would care to read long accounts of operas which we now look upon as hopelessly old-fashioned, but it may be worth while to glance at some of the reasons for Verdi's great and immediate triumph. Before his advent the most popular Italian composers were Bellini and Donizetti. The former had an exquisite gift of melody, but little or no dramatic power; the latter, though by no means without passion, had allowed his originality to be stifled by man-nerisms, and during the later years of his life produced opera after opera in which to our eyes there is no perceptible difference except in the names of the characters. In looking through the long list of Donizetti's operas it is difficult to find out why one succeeded and another failed. All seem to us exactly alike. The heroes and heroines, whether French, Scotch, or Italian, always sing the same kind of airs; there is no local colour, no characterisa-tion, nothing but an endless stream of facile melody accompanied by the inevitable "big guitar." Into this dreary waste of nothingness Verdi burst like a breath of fresh air. His early operas, "Nabucco," "Ernani" and the rest may seem vulgar to modern ears, but there is a spirit and a directness about them which even now it is impossible to ignore. From the first, too, Verdi had a distinct feeling for charac-terisation. The utterances of Charles V. in "Ernani" have an undeniable element of grandeur. Silva's music, too, suggests the reserve and dignity of the Hidalgo, and the final Trio in its queer way is dramatic. We may not derive much pleasure now from a performance of "Ernani," but if we had to endure a week of Donizetti we should all go into raptures over "O Sommo Carlo."
