Karl Klauser

GIUSEPPE VERDI, the last representative of the long line of Italian opera composers of the old school, was born Oct. 10, 1813, at Roncole, a little group of dwellings about three miles distant from Busseto, and occupied by some two hundred impoverished and ignorant laborers. His origin was very humble, his parents being poor and the keepers of an insignificant inn and also of a small shop where were dispensed sugar, coffee, pipes, tobacco and liquor. Of Verdi's earliest infancy little is known. His surroundings were miserable enough, and the atmosphere in which he lived was not of a nature to foster art aspirations. As a child he was sad and taciturn, and showed no inclination to indulge in those amusements that are so eagerly enjoyed by youngsters generally. He manifested at a tender age that fondness for music which has been so often chronicled in this work of the youth of those who afterwards became famous as composers. His only enthusiasm was when an organ-grinder passed through the village, for then he could not be kept at home, but would follow the ambulant music-maker from place to place. This is almost all that is current regarding his earliest musical taste, and it is by no means an evidence of any abnormal partiality for music, since it is not rare in children to be attracted by street music even when the player is not a pied piper of Hamelin to draw them after him by a magic spell. However, the child Verdi must have borne other testimony to his instinctive love of music, for when we next hear of him it is as the owner of a spinet, which, by the way, is still in the composer's possession. He was then seven years old. That a poor innkeeper should have squeezed from his scanty earnings sufficient to buy his son such an instrument must be received, in absence of other proof, as evidence that his musical gifts were of a precocious order that caused them to be considered worthy encouragement. An old friend of Verdi's father has placed on record the earnestness with which the lad practised on this spinet. We are told that he was at first content with his ability to play the first five notes of the scale, and then busied himself in trying to combine the notes in chords, falling into a rapture of delight when he by chance sounded the major third and the fifth of C. We read, furthermore, that when he could not find the same chord again the next day he lost his temper, and seizing a hammer began to break the spinet to pieces, for which foreshadowing of a certain school of pianoforte playing that has since then come into vogue, he received an exemplary blow on the ear from his angry father. The next we hear of him is as a pupil of one Baistrocchi, the organist of the little church of Roncole, who had been engaged by Verdi's father to give the boy music lessons. At the end of a year the old story so often told of the youth of great artists was repeated. Baistrocchi confessed that the pupil had learned all that the teacher had to impart, and therefore young Verdi's connection with him ceased. As the boy was then only eight years old, the question is rather one regarding the extent of the pedagogue's knowledge than of the pupil's capacity. Be this as it may, two years later Verdi, at the age of ten, replaced Baistrocchi as organist of the church. His salary the first year was about $7.20 of our money. The second year it was increased by eighty cents and consequently amounted to $8.00, or a trifle over two cents a day!—certainly far from munificent. In the mean while Verdi had received no schooling, and his father thought it time to look after the lad's education. A cobbler who lived at Busseto and by name Pugnatta, agreed to give young Verdi board and lodging and to send him to the principal school in the town, in return for six cents a day to be paid by the elder Verdi. Extortionate charges were not the rule in and about the birthplace of the future composer of "AÏda," the "Manzoni Requiem" and "Falstaff." At school the boy studied industriously, and walked the three miles between Busseto and Roncole twice every Sunday and feast-day to play the organ at his church in the latter place. His wretched income was increased annually by some ten or twelve dollars, received from christenings, weddings and funerals; and at the annual harvest festival, when it was customary for the organist of the place to go about from door to door with a sack over his shoulder to make a collection for himself, he added a trifle to his finances. Such experiences were severe for a sensitive boy.

In two years at Busseto, while under the protection of the cobbler, whose lodger and ward he was, Verdi learned to read, write and cipher. About this time he made the acquaintance of a Signor Barezzi, who took a deep interest in him, gave him employment, and aided him in enlarging his musical knowledge. In the house of Barezzi the rehearsals and concerts of the Philharmonic Society of Busseto took place. Here, for the first time, Verdi had an opportunity to study music seriously. He attended all the rehearsals, and seemed so absorbed in his love for the art that Signor Ferdinando Provesi, who was the conductor of the concerts as well as chapel master and organist of the cathedral, took a fancy to him, and under his excellent guidance Verdi was led into a more serious course of study. Under Provesi, who was a good contrapuntist, a composer of numerous operas of which he was the author of both words and music, and who was, in addition, a man of wide reading, Verdi studied until he was sixteen years old. In the mean while he had improved rapidly, and he frequently replaced his master as organist at the cathedral and as conductor of the Philharmonic concerts. He likewise wrote numerous works, which he copied, taught and conducted himself. Nevertheless, as a composer he manifested no very brilliant precocity and no special genius. His talent for music was clearly indicated, but nothing has appeared to show that his early artistic development was akin to that of a Mozart, a Schubert, or a Mendelssohn.

At the age of sixteen it was thought advisable that he should go to Milan in order to study in the conservatory there. His own means did not encourage any hope of realizing this step forward. However, Signor Barezzi came to the front again and induced the Monte di PietÀ, an institution with a fund to assist promising young men without means in the study of art or science, to award Verdi six hundred francs a year for two years. To this Barezzi added the funds for music lessons, and for board and lodging in Milan. Under these encouraging conditions Verdi went on his way to Milan, where he arrived in due season, full of hope and enthusiasm; and with this incident ended the least interesting and the most painful period of the young composer's life: not that he did not suffer afterward, for his first experience in Milan was a very discouraging one; but he was never again to know the extreme misery of poverty and obscurity that had colored his life up to that time.

When the young artist presented himself at the Milan conservatory to pass the examination which was to test his fitness for entrance to that institution, he was refused admission because, as was claimed, he gave so little evidence of musical talent. This was a severe blow, and for a moment caused the applicant to doubt his capacity for the art he had adopted through the promptings of his instinct: but he soon recovered from the shock, and on the advice of Signor Alessandro Rolla, conductor of La Scala, offered himself as a pupil to the then celebrated composer Lavigna, who, after due consideration, consented to give him lessons in composition and orchestration; and it was from Lavigna that Verdi received his first valuable and practical instruction in music. Verdi was now eighteen, and for two years he devoted himself to the earnest study of harmony, counterpoint, fugue and composition. In 1833, Provesi, his earlier teacher in Busseto, died, and Verdi fulfilling a promise he had made before leaving for Milan returned to Busseto to take the place of Provesi. He went unwillingly, for he had higher aspirations than to become an organist in a small town; but such were the conditions that were made when his friends there subscribed money for his musical education, and Verdi felt that it would be dishonorable to break his word. It happened, however, that there was another candidate for the place, a certain Giovanni Ferrari, an indifferent organist and a still more indifferent musician, who, having influential friends in the church was warmly supported by them. The result was that Verdi was defeated and his rival elected. Verdi plodded along as best he could, and soon fell in love with the oldest daughter of his patron, Barezzi. The young composer was poor; the father of his beloved was rich: but Barezzi made no opposition to the betrothal of the young people, and in 1836 the lovers were made man and wife. Two years later Verdi again turned his back on Busseto, where he was little appreciated and where an art career was impossible. He went again to Milan with his wife and two children, carrying with him the score of his first opera, "Oberto, Conte di San Bonifacio," in the hope of having it performed. On reaching Milan he found that his former teacher and devoted friend, Lavigna, was dead. He experienced the usual difficulties in placing his earliest opera on the stage. At one moment he was full of hope, and then he was cast down by despair. He was bandied to and fro with his score under his arm, until at last his opera was accepted for La Scala and was put into rehearsal. Then, one of the principal artists was taken suddenly ill, and all chance of a performance vanished. The anxieties, the alternations of feeling he had experienced, caused the young composer to lose heart completely, until one morning he was summoned to the theatre by the impresario, who, informing him that having heard Ronconi speak very favorably of "Oberto," he was willing to produce it under certain conditions. These were agreed to eagerly, and on the evening of Nov. 17, 1839, "Oberto" was performed for the first time. The work, which is little else than a reflection of Bellini, was well received and was performed several times. Among the changes he had been called on to make in the score before it was finally accepted by the impresario, Signor Bartolomeo Merelli, was the introduction of a quartet which was one of the most successful pieces in the opera. Later, the composer achieved other and still greater successes with opera quartets.

VERDI'S BIRTHPLACE IN RONCOLE.

The favor with which "Oberto" had been received induced Merelli to engage Verdi to write three operas, to be played either in Milan or Vienna. Eight months' time was given in which to compose each opera, and the price that Verdi was to receive for each was 4,000 livres ($670.00), the profits of the copyright to be divided between composer and manager. Verdi agreed to everything, and Merelli commissioned the poet Rossi to write a libretto for the composer, "Il Proscritto" being the result. Verdi did not like the book, and had scarcely reconciled himself to set it to music when Merelli suddenly demanded a comic opera from him, whereupon Verdi began to compose "Un Giorno di Regno." Then disaster after disaster crowded on him. His two children died suddenly within a few days of each other, and his wife also died after of inflammation of the brain. Three coffins passed out of his house in three months, and he was left without a family. In the midst of this appalling affliction he was obliged to finish his comic opera. It was completed and was a dead failure, only one performance having been accorded it. What could be expected from a comic opera written under such terribly tragic conditions? Naturally, Verdi lost heart, and for the moment discouraged by the failure of his opera, resolved to compose no more. Merelli remonstrated with him, but Verdi was inexorable; and, therefore, the manager cancelled their contract. Later, Verdi and Merelli met again by chance, and the latter, after vainly urging the composer to resume his art, thrust a libretto on him and hastened away. It was the book of "Nabucco." On reaching home Verdi angrily threw the libretto on his writing-table, determined to have nothing to do with it; but his eye, falling on the open page, was attracted by a certain line which he read, and then he was impelled to read page after page and was much impressed by the poem. The result was, that after many struggles with himself the score was completed, and taken to the now triumphant Merelli. The parts were copied out, and at the end of February, 1842, the first rehearsal took place; and on March 9, twelve days later, the first performance was given. The work was an overwhelming success. With this opera, and when he was twenty-nine years old, Verdi's career as a composer began in earnest.

About one year later, or, to be more exact, on the evening of Feb. 11, 1843, "I Lombardi" was produced, and again success crowned the composer's efforts. It was a great advance on its predecessor in point of style and individuality, and is still performed. Commissions now began to pour in on Verdi, and his name was becoming known beyond the borders of his native land. Managers sought eagerly for scores from him, and the impresario of the Fenice Theatre in Venice obtained his next work, which was "Ernani." It was first performed March 9, 1844, and excited immense enthusiasm; and within the nine months after it appeared it was performed in no less than fifteen opera houses, making later a tour of the world, and remaining for many years one of the most popular of modern operas. In November of the same year "I Due Foscari" was brought out at the Argentina Theatre in Rome, and though it had a fair success, it did not increase Verdi's reputation. He was now writing with great rapidity, and in three months "Giovanna d'Arco" was played at La Scala. It did not become popular and has fallen into oblivion, its overture alone surviving. Six months after "Alzira" was produced at La Scala, and again the composer failed to repeat the triumph he had won in "Ernani." His next opera, "Attila," was written for the Fenice, and on the evening of March 17, 1846, it excited a furore equal to that which attended his "Ernani" at the same house. Then came "Macbeth" one year later, which was a failure owing to the absence of a part for a tenor singer.

"Ernani" and "Attila" had given Verdi a European fame, and it was not long before he received offers from managers from abroad. The first came from Lumley, then lessee of Her Majesty's Theatre; and Verdi at once accepted a proposition to compose an opera for England. "King Lear" was suggested as a subject, but was rejected because its plot did not turn on love. Schiller's "The Robbers" was at last decided on, and it was performed under the title, "I Masnadieri," in London, July 22, 1847, with Jenny Lind, Lablache and Gardoni in the cast. It was not a success there, and met with no more favorable reception elsewhere. As Costa, after the production of this opera, left Her Majesty's Theatre to join Covent Garden, Lumley made Verdi a proposition to become his conductor for three years at a very handsome salary. The offer was favorably entertained by the composer, but there stood in the way a contract with the publisher, Lucca, of Milan, by which Verdi had agreed to write two operas for him. Efforts were made to buy Lucca off, but he held to his bargain, and the result was that Verdi did not remain in London. He went to Passy, and there composed "Il Corsaro" and "La Battaglia di Legnano" for Lucca. The former was brought out at Trieste, Oct. 25, 1848, and was a complete failure. The other opera was produced in Rome, Jan. 27, 1849, with no more gratifying results. The composer, however, was not dismayed by these disasters, but set to work at once on "Luisa Miller" for the San Carlo of Naples, where, on Dec. 8, 1849, it was given for the first time with a success that was as merited as it was overwhelming. His next work, "Stifellio," first performed at Trieste, Nov. 16, 1850, culminated in failure, and even when rewritten and revived as "Aroldo" seven years later, achieved no very encouraging popularity. Verdi had now written sixteen operas, all of which have fallen into oblivion except "Ernani," "I Lombardi" and, perhaps, "Luisa Miller." Despite the failure of most of them, their composer had become a great favorite with the public, owing to the appeal that much in the texts of his operas made to the patriotism of his fellow-countrymen, then fretting under Austrian rule. For example, the chorus in "I Lombardi," beginning O Signore dal tetto natio, excited great enthusiasm because of the application the public fastened on the words. It was the same with the chorus, Si videsti I Leon di Castiglia, in "Ernani." The censorship was very severe in that day, and so easily excited were the people by anything that bore even the most remote reference to the spirit of revolution prevailing, that the authorities would not allow a conspiracy to be acted on the stage; and hence "Ernani" had to be changed before the police would give consent to its performance. In "Attila," the aria, Cara Patria giÀ madre e Regina, afforded the people an opportunity to testify violently to their animosity toward the Austrian government. The house was in an uproar; the audience shouted and screamed; hats, canes, umbrellas, fans, bonnets and flowers were hurled to and fro; the roaring of the public drowned the tones of the singers and the orchestra, and the police found the greatest difficulty in reducing the noise-makers to order. This all reflected favorably on Verdi as far as the public was concerned, and he became a popular idol of the time. With "Luisa Miller" ended what may be considered the first period of his musical development.

In 1851 he began that series of operas which established his fame as the greatest of living Italian opera composers. A libretto founded on Victor Hugo's "Le Roi s'amuse" was prepared for Verdi, with the title "La Maledizione." The censorship objected to a king being presented in the light in which Francis I. is made to appear in the original story, especially when cursed by a court fool.

GIUSEPPE VERDI.

From a portrait engraved by Deblois.

After much anger and much debating, the monarch was turned into a duke of Mantua and the title into "Rigoletto." Verdi retired to Busseto and labored vigorously at his score. It was completed in forty days, and was performed at La Fenice, March 11, 1851. Its success was enormous. The work was soon given in every opera house in Europe with the same results that attended it in Venice. The composer rested on his laurels for two years. Then "Il Trovatore" appeared at the Teatro Apollo, Rome, Jan. 19, 1853. Its triumph was immediate and brilliant, and this opera also made an instant tour of the civilized world. It was only some five weeks later when "La Traviata" was produced at the Fenice. This opera, however, fell flat and was an utter failure. The composer, who rated the work very highly, was in despair. The fault was not with his score but with the singers, especially with Signora Donatelli who sang and acted Violetta. She was an exceedingly fleshy woman, and when the doctor, in the third act, announced that the heroine was emaciated by consumption and had only a few hours to live, the audience burst into roars of laughter. The opera was damned for Venice. Nevertheless, elsewhere it experienced a better fate and met with an enthusiastic reception. These three operas may be pronounced the best as well as the last of the Italian opera school as developed through Rossini, Bellini and Donizetti.

Verdi's next work was "Les VÊpres Sicilliennes," written for the Paris Grand OpÉra, and given for the first time there June 13, 1855. It is a brilliant work, but made no advance on its immediate predecessors from the same source. Then came "Simon Boccanegra," for La Fenice, produced March 12, 1857. It was an irretrievable failure, despite its fine and intensely dramatic last act. This was followed by "Un Ballo in Maschera," brought out at the Teatro Apollo, Rome, Feb. 17, 1859. There was again trouble with the police, who objected to the original title, "Gustavo III.," a monarch who was assassinated. The text was also deemed objectionable, and the composer was commanded to choose other words for his music. Verdi indignantly refused, and the manager of the San Carlo at Naples, for whom the work was written, brought an action against Verdi for damages to the extent of two hundred thousand francs. This affair almost excited a revolution in Naples. The populace assembled outside Verdi's house and cheered him and followed him through the streets, shouting "Viva Verdi!" his name, read acrostically, signifying "Vittorio Emmanuele Re Di Italia"; the cry, though apparently honoring the composer, carrying with it a revolutionary significance. However, the title was changed; a governor of Boston replaced Gustavo III., and the opera was one of Verdi's most decided popular successes. His next opera was composed for St. Petersburg, and was "La Forza del Destino." It was brought out with mild success Nov. 10, 1862. Then succeeded "Don Carlos," for the Grand OpÉra in Paris, produced March 11, 1867, and enthusiastically received; but it added nothing to Verdi's fame. He was now fifty-four years old, and had written twenty-six operas. His fame was world-wide, and he was the greatest living Italian opera composer. Wealth and honors had followed glory, and the son of the poor innkeeper of Roncole was now one of whom his native land was proud.

In the mean while Verdi was elected a foreign member of the AcadÉmie des Beaux Arts in Paris, to take the place vacated by the death of Meyerbeer. More than this; for, when the duchy of Parma resolved to annex itself to the new kingdom of Italy and formed its first legislative assembly, Verdi was elected deputy to this body by the district of Busseto. He became a member of the Italian parliament upon the urgent solicitation of Count Cavour, but at the end of two or three years sent in his resignation. This, however, did not prevent King Victor Emmanuel making him a senator in 1875; he had no taste for politics, and after having taken the oath, he never again sat in that body. The honors that were showered on him did not turn his head, and he was never more pleased than when his friends, forgetting his titles, addressed him simply as Signor Verdi. In 1862 he composed a cantata expressly for the inauguration of the World's Fair in London. Four great musicians had been called on to represent their country musically at this exposition. They were Auber for France, Meyerbeer for Germany, Verdi for Italy, and Sterndale Bennett for England. Verdi is the only one of these masters still living. His work was an "Inno delle Nazioni," which was performed at Her Majesty's Theatre, May 24, 1862. The hymn comprised an introduction, a chorus, and a soprano solo sung by Mme. Tietjens. The finale, which is on a vast scale, skilfully combined the English, French and Italian national airs.

After "Don Carlos," Verdi did not produce a new opera for four years, and then appeared "AÏda," written for the opening of the Italian Theatre in Cairo, in December, 1871, the most brilliant and most original work he had composed up to that time, and, on the whole, the most impressive evidence of his musical genius. His next achievement was his splendid Requiem, written to commemorate the anniversary of the death of Manzoni and produced at Milan, May 24, 1874, in the church of San Marco. Its success in the church was immense, and elsewhere it was no less enthusiastically received and admired. In April, 1881, a revised version of "Simon Boccanegra" was given at Milan. The work was more successful than it was in its original form, but it did not become popular. His other works up to this time were a string quartet, written at Naples and performed in the composer's own house, in April, 1873; a "Pater Noster" for two sopranos, contralto, tenor and bass; and an "Ave Maria" for soprano and strings. Both these last-named works were given for the first time at La Scala, April 18, 1880. Verdi was now sixty years of age, and could well afford to rest on his laurels. He had worked industriously and had reached a time of life when the inventive faculties begin to show signs of exhaustion. His growth in his art had been constant, and his latest works were his masterpieces. His fecundity, however, was not yet exhausted; for, after a silence of sixteen years, he produced "Otello," another magnificent opera, at La Scala, Feb. 6, 1887; and still later, when eighty years of age, he brought out "Falstaff," a work full of youth, inspiration and beauty, and marvellous as the invention of a composer who had reached fourscore years, though the opera calls for no excuse for shortcomings on account of its writer's advanced age. It is his latest effort, up to date, though there are reports that this wonderful old man is busy in the composition of an opera founded on Shakespeare's "King Lear."

In addition to the immense mass of music already mentioned, Verdi has published for the voice six romanzas, two bass songs, a nocturne for soprano, tenor, and bass, with flute obligato; an album of six romanzas, and other lighter compositions. His youthful works that remain unpublished include marches, symphonies, concertos and variations for the pianoforte, duets, trios, church compositions, including a "Stabat Mater," and cantatas. He also wrote choruses to Manzoni's tragedies, and set music to many of the same author's poems. In 1862 he was one of the thirteen Italian composers who combined to write a requiem as a tribute to the memory of Rossini. For this Verdi composed a "Libera me," which so impressed Signor Mazzucato that he urged Verdi to compose the whole work. Manzoni dying soon after, Verdi offered to write a requiem in the poet's honor, and the last movement is the same "Libera me" that was written for the Rossini memorial.

After mourning deeply the loss of the wife and children that had been taken from him with such agonizing rapidity, Verdi married Signora Strapponi, by whom, however, he has had no children. He resides on his handsome estate near Busseto, except during the winter months which he passes in Genoa. He has a beautiful garden and a large farm, to whose cultivation he devotes himself with enthusiasm. He is very fond of his animals, especially his horses. To young musicians he is especially kind. His modesty is excessive, and he objects strongly to talk of himself and his art triumphs. He lives quietly the life of a well-to-do country gentleman, and is delighted to see his friends, if they are not over-prone to discuss music. His disposition is charitable, and he gives freely but unostentatiously to the needy. Some of the splendors of his garden, which appear to be the mere caprice of a rich man with a taste for the luxuries of life, were conceived and carried out for the purpose of giving to poor working people out of employ, the means of earning a livelihood. He gave ten thousand francs toward building a theatre at Busseto, because the inhabitants desired one. It is a small but handsome and elegant building, on the front of which is inscribed, in letters of gold, the name of the great master, who years before, when a poor boy, played the organ in the church of the neighboring village of Roncole for the yearly pay of $7.20.

Verdi is described as "tall, agile, vigorous, endowed with an iron constitution and an energy of character that promise lifelong virility." His friend and collaborateur, Signor Ghislanzoni, says of him: "I have known artists who, after having been recklessly prodigal of good humor and affability in their youth, have become gloomy and almost irritable under the burden of glory and honors. Verdi, on the contrary, seems to have left behind him at each upward step in his career a part of that hard, rough exterior that belonged to his earlier years." At eighty he is still young, still vivacious.

That Verdi is one of the most popular opera composers of his time must be freely conceded. That he is a great musician in any exacting sense of the word cannot be so readily granted. He has been in no sense an innovator, and as far as his influence on opera is concerned, he leaves it where he found it, except inasmuch as he has followed the changes that the musical development of his time has made in every branch of the art. He has not been an epoch-maker in opera, as was Rossini, and in nothing that he has written has he made such an impression on his contemporaries in opera as was made by the "La Sonnambula" and the "Norma" of Bellini, and the "Lucia di Lammermoor" and the "La Favorita" of Donizetti. As it seems to us, he was the logical outgrowth of the latter, as Donizetti was of Bellini, as Bellini was of Rossini, and as Rossini was of the finales of "Il Nozze di Figaro." Gifted with an inexhaustive fund of melody, and a strong feeling for dramatic effect, he trusted to these gifts without paying especial heed to any philosophical principle on which operas should be composed, and appealed to the nerves and the ephemeral emotions of his public, rather than to its heart or its intelligence, for its plaudits. The immense vogue he has won, not only in his own country but in every land where a taste for opera is cultivated, shows that this form of appeal was not made in vain. Nevertheless, the twenty-seven operas which form the great bulk of his musical life-work, in spite of their wealth and variety of melody, the extraordinary resources of invention they exemplify in their composer, and the fluent skill exhibited by him in saying the same thing in an infinite number of ways, do not present anything of the highest order, even in their kind. Not one of these operas is great in the sense that Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Seviglia" is great, or in the sense that the first act and the meeting of the cantons in the same master's "William Tell" are great. There are beauties innumerable in them, but they do not lie deeper than the surface. They are affluent in inspiration of a certain order, but it is the inspiration of a prolific tune-maker, with an instinct for opera writing, and without any very high musicianship or any very sincere artistic feeling. More spontaneous, perhaps, than Meyerbeer, in the invention of melody, he has never risen to the height of the magnificent duet between Raoul and Valentine, in the fourth act of "Les Huguenots," and the fine trio in the last act of "Robert le Diable."

We have said that Verdi was the logical outgrowth of Donizetti. It would be more exact to say that, up to the time that "AÏda" appeared, he continued to follow in the same path as that trodden by the composer of "Lucia." The latter, after all, had a certain originality, inasmuch as his operas were, in many distinctive ways, different from those of any of his predecessors; though it may, with some show of justice, be claimed that the "I Puritani" of Bellini provided him with his model. The difference between Bellini and Donizetti, however, is far greater than is that between Donizetti and Verdi, though there is a marked family resemblance between all three, as far as conventional forms are concerned. Until quite recently, however, these forms were the monotonous characteristics of Italian opera. In saying this we do not mean that the operas of this school are not in harmony with the views that have of late prevailed regarding the absurdity of this form or the propriety of that form of opera: in other words, that Italian opera, with its cabballettas, duets, quartets, and its scenas, consisting of a recitative, an andante, and a brilliant allegro, its adherence to flowing melody and to tunefulness generally is wrong in principle, as opposed to that form of opera or music-drama advocated by Wagner and his followers, which, it is claimed, is more natural and more logical. When the characters in a drama, instead of speaking, resort to singing in order to express themselves, whether they do it according to the methods of Wagner or the methods of Verdi, the absurdity is equally great. Ortrud giving vent to her hate in song is no less untrue to nature than is Azucena. There is no more truth, no more logic, in the "endless melodies" of Wagner than there is in the regularly formed and terminable melodies of Verdi. The opera music of Wagner, when performed by an orchestra without the assistance of voices, says no more than does the music of Verdi given under the same conditions, except that the latter is more intelligible as music pure and simple. We do not intend to draw any comparison between the respective qualities of the music of these composers, but we insist that no one who hears the music of either master for the first time, as mere instrumental music, can tell what it is intended to express on the stage. Hence it is folly to urge that the opera music of any school expresses more than that of another. It is folly to speak of nature in connection with the emotions of love, hate, hope, despair, joy and woe, when sung by actors to the accompaniment of an orchestra. The only logic that can enter into so illogical a process is that which, having conceded that song may take the place of speech, concedes all the rest. The opera composer should not be judged by any other canon of art than that which he has followed in writing his work; and when Wagner's Tristan sings his love according to the composer's idea of musical and dramatic propriety, he is no less ridiculous, per se, than is Verdi's Ernani in the like situation. The composer who creates the precise impression that he strives to create by the music he places in the mouths of his characters is the composer who has made all that can be made of his art, whether he be Wagner or Verdi. It is not the way in which it is done, but it is the result achieved, that is to be considered. That the two masters will express the same sentiment by methods directly contrary is nothing to the point. The effect is all that is of importance, and it is in the power of nobody to prove that the one method is right and the other wrong, or to impress greater propriety on the one than on the other, except arbitrarily and irresponsibly.

Verdi's reputation began to spread after "Nabucco"; it increased with "I Lombardi" and was established firmly by "Ernani." In all these works, affluence of melody and rhythmical variety are conspicuous. In none of them is there any profound musicianship. They suggest brilliant improvisation rather than deep thought. In certain portions of the scores of "I Lombardi" and "Ernani" there is vigorous dramatic color, but it is of the perfunctory type made familiar by Donizetti. The orchestration is conventional, and orchestral color is rarely sought except by violent contrasts. The overture to "Nabucco" is one of the few works in this kind that the composer has attempted. It is made up of melodies from the opera, put together with no special skill, and, though effective after a noisy fashion, is of no musical value. It is the best of his overtures, but in common with the others, is wholly barren of thematic development. In this purely instrumental branch of his art he has written nothing as good as Donizetti's overture to "La Fille du Regiment," in respect to form, instrumentation, and musicianship generally. His overtures to "Giovanna d'Arco," "Les VÊpres Sicilliennes," "Aroldo" and "La Forza del Destino," though tuneful and effective in their way, are without any merit on which we need dwell.

Verdi did not attain to fame without meeting with opposition. It was claimed that he was over-noisy, a charge not wholly without foundation, notably in his "I Due Foscari" which succeeded "Ernani," and in which the predominance of the brass wind instruments, a novelty then, was almost overpowering. Then, too, it was charged that his music, if it should be sung much, would ruin the voices of the singers, so addicted was he to write for them in their highest register. It was not until "Rigoletto" appeared that his instrumentation showed any marked care, or that he seemed to be impressed by the variety of effects that could be produced by a judicious use of the wood wind. In Gilda's air, Caro nomo, the scoring is delightful in its grace, delicacy and charmingly contrasted coloring. In the last act of this opera, too, is the famous quartet, in which are so felicitously mingled impassioned love, mirth, suspense and vengefulness,—the best thing in its kind that had appeared since the sextet in "Lucia" and the trio in "Lucrezia Borgia," and which was soon to be followed by the more popular but less artistic Miserere in "Il Trovatore." It is true that he had written the stirring and effective Carlo Magno finale to one of the acts of his "Ernani," and that it attained to immense popular favor; but the "Rigoletto" quartet is the most brilliant and most musicianly of all his efforts in its kind. "Rigoletto," which was composed in forty days, has outlived the sixteen operas that preceded it, and its wealth of melody and its powerful dramatic effects, cause it to be listened to still with much of the pleasure and interest that attended its first production forty-two years ago. It is one of the works in which the composer will live.

In "Il Trovatore" Verdi made another stride in advance. During the two years that passed between the production of "Rigoletto" and that of "Il Trovatore," a great change had taken place in his style. There is observable in the score of the later opera a larger variety in his harmonies, and the basses move more independently and more fluently. The accompaniments are less perfunctory, and are given a more artistic taste than that of merely emphasizing the rhythms in a conventional way. The instrumentation is richer, the parts often move more freely, and the general effect is more serious and impressive; while the varieties of tone-color are more affluent than in any of the composer's earlier scores. In other respects, notwithstanding the popularity of the opera, we do not think it is superior to "Rigoletto." On the contrary, it seems to us to lack something of the artistic dignity that pertains to its immediate predecessor. It is overfull of mere tune-making that does not fairly echo the dramatic sentiment of the situations on which it is expended. In "Rigoletto," Verdi seems to have escaped wholly from the influence of Donizetti. In "Il Trovatore" the methods of Donizetti are constantly recalled, and the opera seems cast in the same mould as "Lucrezia Borgia." The music given to Azucena, graceful and ear-pleasing as it is, for the most part appears trivial and frivolous when it is considered in relation to the passion it is intended to emphasize. Still, forty years after its birth it remains one of the most popular operas on the stage, even in Germany. "La Traviata" overflows with exquisite melodies, but here the composer has been more successful in wedding sound to sense. His theme was sentimental rather than dramatic, and the sensuous tunes harmonized well with the spirit of the text. Elegance, refinement and warmth of style characterize the score throughout, and the proprieties are not violated except in the vulgar air, Di provenza, the music of which, to say nothing of its reiteration of the same rhythmical phrase bar after bar, is ridiculously inappropriate to the sentiment of the situation. "Les VÊpres Sicilliennes" showed no further change in the composer's methods, and the same may be said of "Un ballo in Maschera," "La Forza del Destino" and "Don Carlos." There are fine dramatic and instrumental moments in all these works, but in none of them is there any advance beyond "Rigoletto." Moreover, there are many lapses back to the composer's "Ernani" period. He was not yet able or willing to break wholly with the past. It is true that he continued to give more and more care to those portions of his score that dealt with the action of the drama, instead of bestowing attention on the composition of catching melodies and ensembles, to the neglect of the intermediate parts. In his "Simon Boccanegra," however, which succeeded "Les VÊpres Sicilliennes," he gave the first impressive indication of his sympathy with the more modern school of opera that existed outside of Italy; and in this work he essayed a more declamatory recitative, a deeper regard for tone-color, and a more serious devotion to the dramatic sentiment of the scene and action, and less to the mere formal aria. In other words, Verdi became, to some extent, a revolutionist in his art, and was the first Italian master to recognize what was going on in the world of opera beyond the confines of his own country. The work in which this cry of progress was sounded met with complete failure, and for a time he returned to the old order of things, or else approached the new with faint-heartedness. When, after four years' silence, he was heard again, he was boldly and unequivocally an advocate of the new movement, as "AÏda" amply testifies. Here he abandons, for good and all, the conventional forms to which he had so long adhered. He has considered his libretto as a whole, and not as so many opportunities for tune-making; he has attempted to maintain a proper and uniform local color—has tried to create the impression of an unbroken and self-consistent dramatic entirety; he has essayed to impart as much interest to the recitatives, and to the more declamatory aspects of his score, as to the more purely melodious. The melody flows on with the familiar fluency, but it is tempered by dignity. The orchestra looms into primary importance as part of a logical whole, instead of remaining the mere accompaniment, more or less artistic, that it is in the composer's other scores. It is Verdi still, but a Verdi matured in style and fully ripened in artistic judgment,—a Verdi thoroughly awake, for the first time, to the fact that the horizon of art is bounded only by the height from which it is viewed.

In "AÏda" there is little that can be detached from its stage surroundings without loss of effect. That Verdi was satisfied with the results achieved by him in this opera is evidenced by his revision and rewriting of "Simon Boccanegra," in which the earlier melodies are retained, but in which the dramatic portions of the score are deepened and intensified, and made even more impressive than were the like features in the score of "AÏda." His "Othello," if not a still further step in advance, maintains to the full the position now assumed by the master. It is interesting to compare his treatment of the tragedy with that of his predecessor, Rossini. In all that pertains to dignity, sympathy with the spirit of the poem, seriousness of style and sincerity of art, the advantage lies wholly with the modern composer. Rossini's "Othello," however, emphasized an epoch in serious opera, for it is the first opera written throughout in recitativo strumento to the exclusion of the customary recitativo secco.

"Othello" exemplified that Verdi's conversion to the methods of modern musical thought was complete. The spectacle of a composer whose fame is established, whose labors have met with a substantial return that has placed him beyond the need of further toil, who has reached an age at which most artistic careers have closed, beginning as it were, de novo, is a rare one. That he said anything in his more recent operas that he had not already said is doubtful; his methods of thought remained unchanged, but the language in which he uttered them was more refined and more dignified. He was, however, to make a still greater departure from his past; and it was accomplished in his "Falstaff," in which at fourscore he was to show himself a modern of moderns. The progress was astonishing: but after all, it only emphasized one of the composer's familiar sayings, "If you want the new in art, you must return to the old"; for he has gone back to the fundamental principles of opera as enunciated by Gluck. There is here a wholesale abandoning of the formal divisions in opera. Complexity has given way to simplicity. The music harmonizes with the characteristic spirit of the text; the melodies are brief; recitative is sparingly used, and musical declamation makes up the greater portion of the score. The orchestra no longer follows, but has risen to equal importance with the voice, and lends its own appropriate color and accent to the illustration and enforcement of the sentiment of the text. Graceful and exquisite tunefulness is maintained, but it falls into its proper place and continues no longer than it justly expresses the sentiment of the situation. There is a beautiful balance between the voices and the orchestra, and though the instrumentation is strikingly modern, it is free from the restless and wearying Wagnerian polyphony and excess of tone-color. Part-writing, an essential to which little attention has been paid by Italian composers of opera, comes into unusual though not brilliant prominence, and always with delightful effect. The scoring is never overloaded; the right touch always comes in the right place; and every change of color has its special meaning as a strengthening of the emotion of the moment, as indicated by the stage action. In brief, the latest work of the composer is his most masterly, musically considered; and what is most astonishing is, that it suggests nothing of its creator's age, except the experience, the mellowness, and the enlarged art feeling that have come with it. And yet it is more important as a manifestation of the composer's capacity to receive and to adopt new impressions in his extreme old age, than it is as a work of art. In other words, its value is of a personal rather than of a general nature, and Verdi remains to the end a great opera composer of world-wide popularity, who has exercised no influence and made no impression on the art of which he is so brilliant a representative.

In closing this estimate of Verdi as a composer of opera, we may add that even in his most absolute departure from the traditions of Italian opera, as he found them, he has remained essentially Italian. It has been argued that in his later works he falls under the sway of Wagner; but this, we think, would be difficult to demonstrate. He may not have remained uninfluenced by the German master's theories regarding the character of opera librettos, but musically, he is always a true son of his native land. His younger Italian contemporaries have far outrun him as reformers. From present indications it would appear that Verdi is destined to be the last of the long line of Italian opera composers whose theories were those of the old school, more or less modified in respect to style or fashion, as time passed. He has had no imitators and he will leave no disciples. In this he will also be singular, for from the dawn of opera to the present time every great composer of Italian opera has left behind him a survivor who has followed in his footsteps—at least until he has found out an individual path for himself. From the era when Nicolo Logroscino invented the concerted finale for comic opera, and it was first extended to serious opera by Pasiello, Italian serious opera began to break away from its earlier rigid form and to congeal into that which prevailed down to the period when the reform, with which we have just dealt, gave to it a death blow. From Pasiello and Piccinni, composer after composer appeared, each succeeding one overlapping his immediate predecessor and carrying the development of the school a step farther. Cimarosa followed Piccinni in this way, and was in turn followed by Rossini, who was succeeded by Mercadante, Pacini, Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi. Here, as we have already observed, the line abruptly ends, and not with the greatest of the brilliant group. Which, if any, of Verdi's operas will survive it is difficult to predict, but we think that "Rigoletto" has the best chance; but none of them is destined to the immortality of "La Serva Padrona," "Il Matrimonio Segreto," "La Sonnambula" and "Il Barbiere di Siviglia."

It only remains for us to consider Verdi's Requiem, a work that has been praised with as much enthusiasm as it has been condemned with acrimony. Dr. Hans von BÜlow, speaking for one school of criticism, and with no very great discretion, asserted this composition to be a "monstrosity" that would do no credit to an ordinary pupil of any music school in Germany. It is possible that Dr. von BÜlow viewed the work from a purely pedagogic standpoint and with special reference to transgressions of musical grammar. In matters of this kind much depends on the esteem in which the composer holds arbitrary rules, and on his right to heed or to disobey them as he may see fit. Much, too, depends on the standpoint, prejudiced or otherwise, from which the critic considers the work. An ordinary pupil of any music school in Germany may or may not be able to write more correctly than Verdi has written in numerous places in this Requiem, but there is more in music than a strict observance of the rules of musical grammar; and it is in no need of demonstration that it is beyond the power of any ordinary pupil in any music school to write music of so high an order. In fact, be the work what it may, it has not been equalled in its kind by any contemporary graduates of one of the schools to which Dr. von BÜlow refers. Another fault that has been found with this work is that it is not sacred in character. Reduced to its simplest terms this charge means that Verdi's Requiem is not conceived in the same spirit that Bach conceived his "Matthew-Passion" and Handel his "Messiah." This, in turn, indicates a belief that it is compulsory on a warm-blooded and highly emotional Italian to appeal to God in the mood that is favored of the more stolid and less impulsive German. The mere matter of difference in temperament makes it impossible to institute a comparison between the sacred music of Verdi and that of Bach and Handel. Then, too, there is overmuch of cant in perfunctory discussion of what is and what is not sacred in music; and after all, the words to which the music is composed would seem to have more to do with the matter than does the music itself. Considered in the abstract, it is no more reasonable to argue that Bach's music is essentially religious than it would be to argue that Verdi's is not. The argument must be decided, in either case, on arbitrary principles and according to the prejudices of those who participate in it. It would not be easy to define exactly in what the religious element of so-called sacred music is apparent, whether such music be of German or of Italian origin. It is beyond all contradiction that Handel utilized many of his Italian opera airs for his oratorios, and that what began by being profane ended by becoming serious. These airs were none the more profane for their operatic origin, and none the more sacred for their transferences to oratorio. The English and German speaking races have accepted Bach and Handel as the noblest exponents of what is understood by them as the religious sentiment in music; but that acceptance does not make a law for the Latin races,—for the Italians, the Spaniards and the French. Of the unequalled genius of Bach and of Handel, and of the large nobility of their music, there cannot be two opinions; but they wrote after the fashion of their day, and the musical style they adopted was not chosen because it was abstractly religious in character, but because it was the only style they knew, and it was the style common to the stage and the church, save that when adapted to the latter it was more contrapuntal in treatment. That choral fugues, single or double, strict or free, are radically or essentially religious in feeling, still remains to be proved. No man and no body of men are entitled to decide dogmatically that this or that style is the only one appropriate for sacred music. If Handel can be permitted to take airs written for purely dramatic works, and in what was then considered a purely dramatic spirit, by the most dramatic composer of his time, and use them for sacred works, why shall Verdi be condemned for composing his Requiem in a dramatic spirit, at first hand? It may be argued that Palestrina, among Italians, set the pattern for a dignified and undramatic style of church music; but it can also be urged, and with justice, that the music which Palestrina set to solemn words differed in no wise from the madrigals he composed to words of far other import. In judging Verdi's Requiem, as in judging other works of art ably and conscientiously made, we should try to look at it from the composer's point of view. In the abstract, there is nothing more suggestively sacred in the music of I know that my Redeemer liveth, than there is in that of Home, Sweet Home. The text makes the only difference. The foundation of the art and science of music is wholly arbitrary, but the laws of the school stop at the point at which the individuality and the imagination of the master composer begin to manifest themselves.

Verdi's Requiem is conceived in a spirit wholly antipodal to that in which Bach and Handel conceived their works. His, however, is the spirit of his time and nation, as was also theirs. Those who have accepted the "Matthew-Passion" as the culmination of what music can achieve in religion, condemn this Requiem as theatrical, maintaining that its melodies are constantly suggestive of opera and its more vigorously dramatic moments of stage effect; but the composer does not view it in the same way. He has written as an Italian Roman Catholic of to-day felt inspired to write, and has made no pretence of attempting to write as a German Lutheran wrote over one hundred and fifty years ago. That the work is one of great power in its way, and often reaches a high point of impressiveness, has never been denied. Whether it is religious music or not cannot be determined except according to the prejudices of those who believe, on the one hand, that it is, and of those who believe, on the other, that it is not. Verdi and the majority of his countrymen are of the former opinion, and there is no universally received principle of musical art that can be brought forward to prove that they are in error. It is an argument that must be settled on either side by race partialities. Moreover, at what point a composer shall be checked in interpreting his text as he best understands it, cannot be easily decided. The Requiem was written to do honor to the memory of Verdi's friend, Manzoni, and that the composer acquitted himself of his task in a spirit of sincerity, both devotional and artistic, admits of no doubt. It is an Italian Requiem, and was so intended to be; and, therefore, it is useless, and something more, to find fault with it because it is not German. Its ultimate fate will not be decided by the critics, but will rest on the success or the failure of the appeal it makes to posterity. Verdi, though he has left no permanent mark on his art, has been the most popular opera composer of his time, and his extraordinary musical growth toward the close of his career indicates that there was in him a capacity for far higher work than he achieved. It is to be regretted that he did not sooner fall into line with the musical spirit of the age; nevertheless, he has made an honorable and dignified name in his art, and one that must always be mentioned with veneration.