|
Pietro Mascagni, the Author of the Cavalleria Rusticana
by Ashton R. Willard, New England Magazine, Volume VIII, March 1893 - August, 1893, 1893
I should not be trespassing upon the attention of anyone with
observations about the life and career of Pietro Mascagni, if it
were not for a very agreeable impression of him formed upon hearing
one of his operas produced for the first time in Rome, on which
occasion he appeared personally and received the adulation of a very
enthusiastic audience. I became so interested in him at that time as
to be induced to make some superficial examination into his personal
history, and from this to go farther, and make a more careful and
extended inquiry into his life, and into the steps by which he came
into prominence.
Here is an outline of the way in which his first opera, the
"Cavalleria Rusticana," came to be written. In July of 1888
Edoardo Sonzogno, one of the leading music publishers at Milan,
publicly invited all young Italian composers who had not yet had an
opera represented on the stage to compete for two prizes of three
and two thousand lire. They were to write an opera in one act, with
one or two scenes as they might choose, and upon any subject, grave
or gay. A jury of five men, well known either as composers or
critics, was named, which was to select of all the operas offered
the three best. These three, it was promised, should be produced at
one of the leading theatres of Rome at the expense of the publisher
who made the offer, and after they had been so presented the jury
should finally make their award and assign the prizes to the two
best works. After the first announcement was made everyone, except
the young men who had set to work under the stimulus of it, speedily
forgot all about the matter, and the general public gave no more
thought to it, until toward the close of the year 1889, when
inquiries began to appear why the jury did not made its report.
Signor Sonzogno, who had established the competition, then announced
that he had addressed a "fervid petition" to the commission — that
is, the jury — urging them to have their award ready if possible by
the close of February, 1890.
The commission, meanwhile, had been having no light task.
Seventy-three operas had been handed to them, and the jurors were so
conscientious as to imagine that their duty called upon them to
examine, individually, each score before holding joint sessions and
discussing the works with their associates. This duty was diligently
performed. Each score was examined separately, and then at a joint
meeting ballots were taken to eliminate those which were out of the
question. Fifty-five out of the seventy-three scores were set aside
in this way. The composers of the eighteen which remained were
summoned to appear before the jury and perform their works on the
piano. Fourteen came and did as they were requested; some members of
the jury undertook the task of playing the other four to their
associates. Plenty of time was taken for this work, only two operas
being rendered on one day. After that there was a final private
conference and comparison of results, and then on the evening of the
fifth of March, 1890, the commission announced its preliminary
verdict and named the three works which they deemed worthy to be
given a public hearing with orchestra, scenery and singers. These
were "Labilia," by Niccola Spinelli of Rome, "Rudello," by Vincenzo
Ferroni, a young professor at the Milan conservatory and successor
of Ponchielli, and "Cavalleria Rusticana," by Pietro Mascagni.
At that time no one had ever heard of Mascagni outside of the circle
of his personal friends. But here is an outline of his history. He
was born the seventh of December, 1863, at Leghorn, as it is
generally said; — as it was told me by a resident of Leghorn
not in the city but at Antignano, an outlying village two
miles down the coast. His family belonged to the humbler class. One
of his companions who grew up with him at Leghorn says he was a
happy, good-natured sort of a boy, but careless and with very little
persistence at anything except music. He had shown the ruling
tendency of his nature by composing some pieces of music before he
was ten years old. A national exposition took place in Milan in
1881, when he was seventeen, and Mascagni contributed to its musical
department a two-act opera or cantata, which secured him an
"honorable mention." He sent also some religious music to the same
exposition. Very soon afterward a gentleman of Leghorn, the conte
Florestano de Larderel, interested himself in Mascagni and sent him
to the Milan conservatory, where he remained for two years but did
not finish the regular course. His nature was too restless to make
confinement to systematic work tolerable to him at that time. At
Leghorn his friends were not surprised when they learned that he had
closed his books and yielded to the temptation of following the
fortunes of a travelling opera company, but they lamented at the
same time what they regarded as the loss to art of an unusual
genius. There can be no more miserable existence, no more
intolerable slavery to which an intelligent being ever binds
himself, than to journey about from one obscure place to another as
a player or companion of players. It was this that Mascagni
condemned himself to do — not as player but as a conductor or
director of some diminutive, perambulating, musical enterprise. He
annexed himself to the company at Cremona, went from there to
Piacenza, Reggio and Parma. The company came to dissolution at
Bologna in 1885, and he returned for a while to Leghorn. One of his
friends has spoken of encountering him there at that time, the same
vivacious spirit, but shabbily dressed; enthusiastic and still
hopeful of his future, but in a state of semi-vagabondage which made
one lament for him, and long to help him to some better development
of himself. He was off again speedily, and this time to the south of
Italy, taking up the same wandering life and directing the orchestra
in small opera companies. The companies went to pieces and left him
several times apparently at the end of his resources. Once in these
periods of distress being at Ascoli Piceno, a town at the end of a
railway, and at the head of one of the streams which pours down to
the Adriatic, he composed a few fragments of an opera to which he
gave the name of "Ratcliff." After other wanderings he brought up
sometime in 1887 at Cerignola, a place which no one out of Italy
would ever be likely to hear of except for Mascagni. It is a little
town in the remote province of Terra di Bari, the province which
runs down toward the heel of the boot. Mascagni became the director
of the municipal band there, but confessed afterward that it was a
struggle to contrive how not to "die of appetite" on a salary of one
hundred lire a month. The problem had become more serious because he
had married there. With his wife and child he lived in two rooms,
and managed to get on as best he could.
Mascagni and his Two Librettists. |
It was at Cerignola that he got news of the Sonzogno competition
shortly before the time had elapsed, two months only remaining.
Even then he lost some most valuable time in getting a libretto,
coming around after a brief scouring of the field to call in the
help of a friend at Leghorn, Giovanni Targioni-Tozzetti, just his
own age, already a professor of literature in the Royal Naval
Academy at Leghorn, and the author of a book of sonnets and odes,
looked upon favorably by so distinguished a judge of poetry as
Carducci. To Professor Targioni-Tozzetti occurred the fortunate
idea of selecting as the theme of the opera Verga's story and
drama, Cavalleria Rusticana. He called to his assistance another
young man of their fellowship at Leghorn, Dr. Guido Menasci, and
together they composed the libretto, sending it to Mascagni in
fragments, sometimes a few verses at a time on the back of a postal
card. The composer worked away at Cerignola without even a piano to
help him, because he was too poor to have one. He has said since
then that in his coarse garb, with the blouse of a peasant and a
leather belt about his waist, he was almost happy, despite poverty
and privations, in the fervor of the work. His score, which was
signed "Pax," was one of the last to come in, and indeed arrived in
the hands of the commission only upon the last day of grace.
The announcement of the name of the three men whom the jury thought
worthy to have their works brought out drew the attention of people
again to the Sonzogno competition, and the production of the operas,
which was promised to take place speedily at Rome, was looked
forward to by musical people with much interest. They were all given
there at the Costanzi Theatre in May, 1890, and although Spinelli's
"Labilia" and Ferroni's "Rudello" were both considered works of
merit and as giving much promise, the "Cavalleria Rusticana" was
not only unhesitatingly declared by every one the best of the three,
but it produced a great sensation. The commission met again and
unanimously assigned the prize of three thousand lire to Mascagni,
giving the second prize by a divided vote to Spinelli. The five men
who served upon this commission and whose duties terminated at this
point were the commendatore Platania, the marchese Francesco
D'Arcais, F. Marchetti, Giovanni Sgambati, pupil of Liszt and
composer for piano and orchestra, and Amintore Galli, who is signor
Sonzogno's editor-in-chief.
Since that day, as the "Cavalleria Rusticana" has made its
triumphant progress around the world, the Romans have taken great
credit to themselves for having known a masterpiece when it was set
before them. Six representations only were given of it, but these
were marked by every incident of the most clamorous success, — a
crowded auditorium each time, competition for admission, continuous
demands for the repetition of passage after passage, and
enthusiastic rhapsodies over it in the Roman journals. More was said
and written about the new composer and his opera in two weeks at
that time — it has been stated — than about Rossini and Verdi in as
many years at the beginning of their career. Mascagni's days and
weeks from that time on for a year were almost wholly consumed in
superintending the production of the "Cavalleria" at all the
principal theatres of Italy. Every one wanted to see the young
composer as well as to hear his work. Properly enough it was at
Leghorn that it was first given after Rome. The people of his own
city demanded an opportunity to lionize him. Not only the house
where the Mascagni family then lived in Leghorn, but the whole Via
San Francesco, was decked out with flags in his honor, though he
might have walked from the station to his own door three months
before with the certainty of being recognized by no one except his
personal friends. A public banquet was given to him in the great
imposing, marble-corridored Grand Hotel which faces the sea upon the
Viale Regina Margherita, the stopping-place of princes. The
"Cavalleria" was presented at the beautiful Teatro Goldoni, which
had its accommodations taxed to the utmost for several nights. And
then in theatre after theatre all over Italy the same enthusiasm was
repeated for a year, the great wave of it sending its undulations
at length even up into the retired towns.
And now not to detain the reader longer with the "Cavalleria
Rusticana," I turn to another chapter of Mascagni's story which is
chronologically the next in order. In the summer of 1891 it came to
be known that he had nearly completed another opera, a sort of idyl
based on the Erckmann-Chatrian story of L'Ami Fritz. It was to
form as complete a contrast as possible to the "Cavalleria," to be
something quiet, placid, pastoral. Mascagni's state of mind as he
felt this new trial coming on, as he read in the papers the
eagerness of every one to hear the new work and the prediction of
another colossal success, is very clearly shown by the following
letter which he wrote to one of his Roman friends, a musical critic,
and which I am tempted to translate both because it shows his own
hopes and fears, and also because it is to a certain extent, like
all letters written freely and without thought of publication, an
indication of character:
"CERIGNOLA, September 11, 1891.
"Dear Tom:
"You know already the names of the artists who are going to take
part in Fritz. I selected Lherie myself because I wanted an
artist who would create the type of the Rabbin; and you will see
that he will do very well. The mise en scène will be very
correct, and the execution ought to turn out perfect.
"Still all this does not set my mind at rest about the outcome
of my new work. I have horrible fears, I cannot eat, I cannot
sleep, and I live in a state of perpetual anxiety.
"It is the puffing that frightens me — because an opera of the
kind that this is cannot come up to the expectation of the
public. All of this stir about Fritz before it is brought out
will hurt me, and those of you at Rome who have any regard for
me ought to say just as little about it as possible. There is
nothing to be gained by it either for you or for me. Just let us
wait until we have got the public verdict before we talk about
it. Give the public an opportunity to calmly form its opinion,
and then talk all you will.
"Personally I feel satisfied with the Fritz. It came to me in a
rush. I never had a hesitation or a regret. I felt every bit of
it, felt it sincerely, and worked with complete serenity of mind
and conscience. It is the atmosphere in which the story moves
and the extremely simple and modest character of the story
itself which give me my misgivings.
"But there is no use talking about this now. I shall see you
very soon at Rome, and then we will discuss and discuss until
the public shall have passed its judgment. And from that
judgment there will be no appeal, for the public does not make
mistakes.
"Have I bored you? So much the worse for you, for you brought
it upon yourself. A rivederci presto, and keep a place in
your heart for
Your
MASCAGNI."
No one knew in Rome exactly what day the new opera would be produced
for the first time. It was announced in early October by large
advertisements after the Italian fashion, with the statement that it
would be given quanto prima, which may be interpreted "as
soon as it is ready," and the tickets were placed upon sale for
first, second and third evenings, undated, and with numbers to
indicate the representation to which they would give admission. At
last the definite announcement appeared that the first submission
of the new work to the public judgment would take place on the
thirty-first day of October. It was a shivery night, not the sort of
atmosphere which one imagines in Rome, not an evening when warm,
velvety breezes refresh one after the sultriness of the day. There
was the chill as of a tomb in the stone stairway as we descended to
set out for the theatre. We drew ourselves close together under the
hood of the carriage, pulled our wraps tightly about us, urged our
driver to speed, and were glad enough to be set down in the glow and
the warmth of the vestibule, with its red draperies and its many
lights.
We were early, and within the auditorium of the Costanzi very few
people were to be seen except in the gallery at the top, where the
seats were not numbered, and where priority in time gave priority in
position. It was appropriate that the opera should be brought out at
this theatre, because it was here that the "Cavalleria" first
appeared and won its first success. And it was also a pleasant
thing, because the Costanzi is large and brilliant, the finest and
most imposing of the new theatres in Rome and in Italy. There is
much white and gold in the decoration, and over the proscenium arch
on either side of the clock six floating figures of the hours were
dancing themselves away in the most light-hearted fashion. Though it
was hardly more than half-past eight the public of the upper
regions, many of whom had been there since six, some of whom had
brought their suppers, were becoming restless. They were a wholly
unintimidated crowd, and broke out in very audible comments upon the
people gathering in the platea, varied by all the sounds of the
menagerie. Composer and musicians had every reason to fear them,
for they came there to exercise their traditional right of stormily
praising or stormily blaming, and their applause or marks of
disfavor might make or spoil the success of the opera. The Italian
demonstration of disfavor does not stop short with a hiss. It breaks
out in great cries of "Basta," — "No more." In the boxes
against red backgrounds gay toilets began to give gleams of delicate
color here and there. Off to the right there was a cloudlet of pink
gauze worn by some marchesina who judiciously banded her dark
tresses with fillets of pearls. Above her there was a principessa in
faint yellow; and to the left, near the stage, a damosel in pale
blue with tiara of diamonds and blue feathers, who might have
stepped from some ancient painting. Down in the first tier a large
box, made of two boxes thrown into one, was filled with officers in
striking uniforms, and another box above was filled with these same
handsome fellows in alta tenuta.
Almost at the instant of nine the conductor took his place, and
there was a weird commencement of the overture in complete silence;
we caught a dull muted clash of muffled cymbals, of soft wood notes,
suggestive of the peacefulness and simplicity of the country, a
fitting foreshadowing of the drama, which is idyllic and pastoral.
There was a transition to a second theme, soft, plaintive, sad,
unfolded in a silence as of the desert, which let the softest note
be heard; then a wailing of the violins, with more excited and
passionate music, as if about to lead to a climax in some noble,
elevated symphony; at the last a chord or two on the harp, a note or
two on the violins, and then a return to the first theme, and an
abrupt conclusion.
The opaque screen which had closed the proscenium was drawn away,
and we had the momentary enjoyment of a picture of unusual beauty in
arrangement and color. It was Fritz's home, where the good-natured
fellow had gathered his three friends about him to sit at his table,
enjoy his good living, and share with him for the moment his
easy-going existence. Behind them was a broad window which looked
out to a sunset glow upon Alsatian heights. Musically, I do not
think we felt very deeply the first hurried pages of the libretto,
summarizing the previous incidents necessary to the understanding of
the story. And no important moment in Mascagni's work was reached
until Suzel, the heroine, in her Alsatian dress with the
characteristic bow upon her head, had made her way to the table of
the convives and had timidly offered to Fritz her bunch of flowers
from the fields. It was a very quiet song, with a strange, weird
melody, and modern in the sense that it did not return upon itself
or repeat a phrase or in any noticeable way conform to the
traditional rules of composition, — which even the unprofessional
have come to recognize in their effects, if not in their causes. It
was accepted by the audience as a distinct invitation to be judged,
— a sample of the new work put forth by Mascagni as a proof that he
had not lost the cleverness of hand which had made of the
"Cavalleria" such a resounding success. The people who sat in the
shadows of the boxes rose while the song was proceeding, came to the
front, and stood by the parapet, so that the auditorium was lined
with tier after tier of critical, expectant faces. After it was
finished the ladies smiled in approval, the men brought their hands
together in a proper way, and from the heavens above descended a
mighty uproar, an uproar so loud, so long and so continuous that
Suzel walked to the door of Fritz's comfortable dining-room, opened
it, disappeared, came back and drew in a young man who was not at
all in Alsatian costume. He was in grey trousers of London cut, a
black frock coat, and a necktie imported from the immediate
neighborhood of Piccadilly. His hair was short and black, and stood
up straight all over his head like the bristles of a hair brush. The
young man was not entitled to be called handsome, for his features
were not finely chiselled or over regular. But there was a serious
and intense look about his eyes which gave decided dignity to so
youthful a face, and suggested occasional withdrawings from the
commonplace, possible absorption in great ideas, or moments of
communion with muses and deities who do not show themselves to
ordinary men. He had also an unmistakable look of friendliness and
good nature which drew one to him, made one glad that his success
was what it was, and stimulated one to help swell the torrent of
applause.
This was the beginning of Pietro Mascagni's second appearance before
a Roman audience as a composer. He was brought upon the stage many
times after this, about thirty times before midnight. But never
once did he betray any vanity or inflate himself with any air of
importance. The repeated bowing was varied by a vigorous shaking of
the hands of señorita Calvé, the Suzel, and signor De Lucia, the
Fritz, as if by this pantomime he wished to attribute to them the
success and gracefully wave it away from himself. Often as he stood
there his face took on the peculiar, embarrassed smile of an
overgrown, bashful boy, — as if he felt the absurdity of his
position, standing and bowing in the midst of all this shouting and
hand-clapping, and would be glad to get out of it.
The story proceeded for a brief moment placidly after the first
outbreak of enthusiasm, until the dying away of the last notes which
float up to the window from the gypsy Beppe's violin. Clearly
Fritz, the confirmed bachelor, was silently and unconsciously
softening under the influence of Suzel's presence, and melted quite
visibly as he listened to the serenade by which the strolling
Bohemian, whom he had once befriended, made his return known. Once
the notes rose full and fell in a long cadence. It was an odd
succession, strange, fantastic, irregular, like the gypsy life.
There was no brilliant execution and there were no tours de
force, except some harmonics and double notes at the last. It
was a pity that the audience should break into the story and assert
themselves at the end. But they did, and with a division of
sentiment. A certain faction wished a repetition, or failing in
that, they were determined that the verdict upon the passage should
be one of approval. Another division, clearly a minority in number
but with great lung power, were determined that the violin passage
should not be repeated, and that the verdict upon it should be
unfavorable. There was a tempest of cries of "bis" and "bene" and
counter shouts of "basta." One was reminded of the arena and of the
controversy of thumbs up and thumbs down. The leader of the "basta"
forces finally drew all eyes upon himself. He was a short, full
bearded man, in the back of the platea, who uttered the cry with a
volume of tone which could have been heard above any tempest. The
clock hands moved along five minutes and no one seemed to know what
to do or what could be done. The neighbors of the excited man in the
platea were seen to expostulate with him, and he was seen to turn
upon them as if interfered with in the exercise of some super-sacred
right. Finally signor Ferrari, the conductor, waved his stick, the
orchestra resumed its interrupted course, and the placid and
tranquil story pushed out again like a little boat on troubled
waters. Somehow, no one knew just how or why, the tumult ceased; and
thereafter when the audience interrupted it was with undivided
applause. The gypsy Beppe, whose violin notes had caused so much
excitement, joined the friendly group about Fritz's table, told them
the story of Fritz's benefactions to him, listened to the jesting
about Fritz's unmarried state, and heard Fritz accept with
incredulous hilarity the wager that he would speedily forsake it. At
the last all four rushed to the window upon which the mellow evening
glow still rested to listen to the song of some alleged orphans
invisible without, a song which has the regularity, the geometric
precision of a gavotte and which the footnote of the libretto said
was based upon an Alsatian folkslied. After that the story was shut
out from our eyes, and the mimic actors in it appeared and
reappeared in their personal capacity and accepted, along with the
creative musical genius, the homage of the audience.
We watched with interest in the story and with musical enjoyment,
after that, the approach of Fritz and Suzel toward each other in the
midst of the pastoral surroundings of the Alsatian farm, with the
cherry tree ripening its fruit in the court yard. It is as she
offers to Fritz the basket of cherries which she has picked with her
own hands that the two sing the interchanging lines which upon that
first evening appealed to the audience the most strongly of all the
vocal passages in the opera, and have since been accepted as the
most beautiful in the whole score. The passage fastened itself to
people's memories, and the next day the musical multitudes were
humming snatches of it in the streets. It roused even the less
demonstrative occupants of the boxes to enthusiasm again, and they
joined hands with people in the paradiso and at the back of the
platea in swelling the token of favor and in calling for Mascagni.
The maestro appeared several times, and clearly looked happy with
his straightforward, honest face. Perhaps there was a thought in his
mind of his two babies up in the proscenium box to the left and his
young wife, and of the future which was seeming with every hour of
that evening to become more roseate for them as well as for him.
The last division of the story naturally sees the fulfilment of the
joking prophecy, and then there is a speedy, even an abrupt close
with three emphatic chords. But the listener does not lose or forget
the character, the individual mark of the whole, in its quietness,
its placidity, its tranquillity, so strongly contrasted to the
"Cavalleria Rusticana" with its blood-red Sicilian passion. There
was a dignity and nobility in Mascagni's undertaking to win in a new
field, which is a more difficult field, and not simply to follow the
lines of his first success. The newspapers of the next day were
already being sold in the theatre before the curtain descended for
the last time, and we had an opportunity to learn, even before we
left our places the judgment of public opinion. The attitude of the
Tribuna and the Popolo Romano at that time has been
with some exceptions the attitude of Italian criticism since then.
The work is not one to displace the "Cavalleria" in the affection
of Mascagni's fellow countrymen, but it was highly praised and
declared to possess many passages, both for the voice and in the
instrumental part, which were novel, individual, and of a very high
character of artistic merit. It demonstrated effectually that the
first opera was not a casual success, the chance reaching of great
results by one who did not know the road which led him there and
could not re-find it, but the work of a composer who can be counted
upon to do a great deal for the musical enjoyment of the world, and
who will help in a very honorable way to keep up the musical
prestige of Italy.
After the completion of "L'Amico Fritz" Mascagni went back to work
upon "I Rantzau," based like the other upon a story of
Erckmann-Chatrian. The tale has been written both in narrative
form and as a play, by the original authors, — the play entitled
"Les Rantzau" being produced for the first time at the Théâtre
Français in 1882. The events take place in the Vosges in 1829, and
the principal dramatic substance is the love of two young people and
the deadly enmity of their fathers, who are brothers. There is a
scene of violent rage where one of fathers endeavors to force his
daughter to marry against her consent in order to defeat the
possibility of any union between her and the son of his enemy. There
is another later passage of great pathos, where this same father,
broken down by his daughter's peril, for she lies at the verge of
death from refusal to take food, goes up the steps of his enemy's
house in humiliation, to ask his consent to the marriage which will
save the life of his own daughter. The play is entitled a comedy,
which signifies no more than that a reconciliation takes place at
the end. During the greater part of its progress it seems to point
certainly to a tragic conclusion.
It has been said that Mascagni did not wait until "L'Amico Fritz"
was out of the way before commencing the later opera. The very
contrary of this was the truth in the matter, as the "Rantzau," on
which he had been at work before August, 1890, was laid aside to
permit him to take up and finish "L'Amico Fritz." One of Mascagni's
friends who saw him during those triumphal days at Leghorn, when he
returned there after his successes at Rome to be made personally the
object of a great festival, spoke of the young composer as being
then at work upon the "Rantzau," and of the promise which it gave
of equalling in dramatic intensity the "Cavalleria Rusticana."
Mascagni produced the manuscript pages of his music and roused his
friend to enthusiasm by rendering to him with the help of a piano
the scene where the humiliated father forces himself to go to his
brother's door.
"He mounts the little stairway, places his hand upon the
knocker, but cannot even then force himself to the ultimate
decision. The humiliation is too great for him, and he descends
slowly from that Calvary which he has not the force to mount.
From the church tower the curfew tolls, and at a distance a
curfew song of the villagers is heard. I do not know how to
express adequately the profound impression which this made upon
me. I have no adjectives. It has an originality and moving
power, a clearness in its abstruse harmonic combinations and an
individuality and depth of religious feeling, which I have never
before heard. The unhappy father remains in doubt, turns back
to the foot of the stairway, mounts the first step again, and
remains motionless under an access of feebleness, conquered and
oppressed by doubt and anguish. The voices still sustain the
distant harmony, and the rhythmic notes of the deep-toned bell
measure the beatings of his heart. He rouses himself to a
resolution. The evening prayer brings to his consciousness that
his daughter languishes and dies. He makes a superhuman effort,
casts aside all hesitation, mounts to the top of the steps and
knocks resolutely upon the door."
The impression which this passage made upon Mascagni's friend was
such as to give him then the conviction that another success was in
store not inferior to that of the "Cavalleria," and how far it was
justified has been learned by the reports which have since come to
us of the production of the "Rantzau" at the theatre of the Pergola
in Florence. It was produced there on the tenth of November, 1892.
The Pergola is the great theatre of the Tuscan capital, as La Scala
is of Milan, La Fenice of Venice and San Carlo of Naples. Every
place was filled upon the opening night. Florence itself felt
honored by being selected as the city to witness the first
representation of the opera, the first of Mascagni's which had
received its initial performance outside of Rome, and its
distinguished society took pains to appear in the boxes. There were
journalists present representing newspapers all over Europe. The
welcome given to the drama by this audience was very brilliant.
Mascagni himself was compelled to appear thirty-five times. Of the
singers who assisted, one of them, the tenor, was the same who had
sung the title role in "L'Amico Fritz," but the Señorita Calvé was
replaced by Madame Darclée. The conductor of the orchestra was the
same as at Rome.
The passage which was looked upon with the most favor of any in the
opera was the one where the father of the heroine forces himself to
go to his brother's door, the same which Mascagni rendered to his
friend at Leghorn. Composers do not always accurately foresee the
effect of their own music, or know what passages will certainly
prove the most stirring, but here Mascagni seems to have anticipated
rightly what was and would prove to be the most powerful scene in
his new work. Critics, who usually declare their opinions with many
reservations, and who are little given to losing their heads, spoke
in unqualified admiration of this passage. The correspondent of the
London Times allowed himself to say that "the great scene
outside Giacomo's house" was "treated with absolute mastery." And in
the general review of the opera the same critic arrived at the
conclusion that "Mascagni must now be considered a permanent and
potent factor in European art." The letters to other London papers
were even more highly colored, more fervid, one of them placing the
"Rantzau" first among Mascagni's compositions, giving it precedence
even over the "Cavalleria Rusticana."
Mascagni must be added to the list of men who disprove the assertion
that the Southern nature is sluggish and indolent. Since success
gave him opportunity to apply himself to the work of his
predilection, without distractions and without the imperative
necessity of leaving his writing to enter upon some wandering
bread-winning expedition, he has been industry itself. The care of
superintending the production of his operas upon the stage might
well have engrossed all his time. But he has made time in the midst
of all this to go on with the work of composing; and now the
production of another work is announced for the coming fail, and two
more are rumored to be under way. The opera definitely announced is
"Guglielmo Ratcliff," of which some portion was composed before the
"Cavalleria."
What a transformation has come over the life of Mascagni in three
years! There can not be a week of his busy existence, which does
not thrust upon him some new and surprising indication of his
totally revolutionized position. While the "Rantzau" was in
preparation an organ builder of Pistoia sent him an organ with
orchestral stops especially contrived to assist him in composing, in
case he should wish to experiment in advance upon his orchestral
effects. Compare this with the humility of the original process of
making an opera as it was conducted in those narrow rooms at
Cerignola, where his pinched purse would not afford him even a
month's rental of a piano.
Comments, additions, corrections are welcome.
|
