CHAPTER III.

NAPLES.

(1814-1816.)

When Manuel Garcia joined his parents in Italy in the summer of 1814, being at the time in his tenth year, he found Naples under the rule of King Murat.

Here he saw for the first time his sister Maria, who was now six years old, while his father he found installed in the position of principal tenor in the chapel choir of King Murat. The elder Garcia had held this post for about two years, having been appointed immediately on his arrival from Paris. Since then he had been devoting himself to a complete study of the art of singing under his friend and teacher, Ansani.

This celebrated tenor was able to hand on to him the Italian vocal traditions of that "Bel Canto" school which had come down from the old Neapolitan maestro, Porpora.

Soon after Manuel came to Italy he was taken by his father to see Ansani, who not only heard him sing, but gave him a few informal lessons. It was a case of winter and spring, for while the pupil was in his tenth year, the teacher was approaching his seventieth. With this fact we are brought face to face with an almost incredible link with the past. Ansani was nearly twenty when Porpora died, in his eighty-second year. A remark which Manuel Garcia once made rather points to the possibility that Ansani may have had a few lessons from Porpora himself. Whether this was absolutely true I know not,--at any rate it may well have been so. Accept the supposition, and those who had the honour of studying under the "centenarian" would at once be placed in a position to say that they were pupils of one whose master had himself received lessons from a man born in 1687. The possibility is a fascinating one.

Giovanni Ansani himself was an interesting personality. Born in Rome about the middle of the eighteenth century, it has been reported that he once met Bach. As, however, the German composer died in the year 1750, about the time that Ansani was still busying himself with the feeding-bottle--or its eighteenth-century equivalent--the story must be regarded with some suspicion, to say the least of it.

After a musical training received in Italy, he sang in various parts of the Continent. Twenty years before the close of the century he made his appearance in London, and at once took the first place. He soon left, however, on account of disputes with Roncaglia.

In 1781 he returned to England, and Dr Burney, who heard him sing in that year, has described him as the sweetest, albeit one of the most powerful, tenors of his generation. He was a spirited actor, and had a full, fine-toned, and commanding voice, while, according to Gervasoni, he had a very rare truth of intonation, great power of expression, and most perfect method both of voice emission and vocalisation. His wife, Maccherini, was also a singer, and accompanied him to London on his second visit. He himself was always noted for a quarrelsome disposition, and as a prima donna his wife had an almost equally bad temper. Such jealousy in fact existed between them that, when either was applauded for singing, the other was accustomed to go into the pit and hiss.

In 1784 Ansani appeared at Florence, and toured Italy. At the age of fifty he retired and settled in Naples, where he devoted himself to teaching. It was some twelve years later that he began to give lessons to the elder Garcia.

When Manuel joined his parents, he at once commenced to study singing under his father's guidance. The training of those days was a much slower process than that which is deemed necessary at the present time. Months, indeed years, would be spent in the practice of simple solfeggi, to be followed by exercises in rhythm and studies for intonation.

The monotony of the first portion of this training evidently became very wearisome in time, for Señor Garcia would afterwards recall how one day, after being made to sing an endless variety of ascending scales, his desire for a change became so great that he could not resist bursting out, "Oh dear! mayn't I sing down the scale even once?" The training of those days was indeed a hard one, but it turned out artists who had a very wonderful command over their voices.

After a time Manuel began to find these severe studies irksome. He seems, moreover, to have had no particular vocation for the lyrical stage, and the bent of his mind, even at that early period, had a leaning towards science.

As a boy, he had a soprano voice of beautiful quality, and it has been asserted that during the stay in Italy he was appointed to a place in the cathedral choir. Absolute verification of this statement is practically impossible to obtain, though there seems no reason for doubting its truth. On the other hand, there is a strong likelihood that it may have been confused with the fact that the _elder_ Garcia (whose name was also Manuel) was in the chapel choir.

From this time the training of his voice continued practically without intermission, under his father's tuition, till his twentieth year. It was largely due to the fact that work was not stopped during that dangerous period at the commencement of puberty, that he assigned the break-down of his voice in after years.

The elder Garcia took the greatest delight and pride in the early education and musical training of his son, and among many other valuable lessons, he impressed upon him that a singer must not only know how to use his voice, but must, above all, be a thorough musician.

As we have already seen, Manuel was taken to see Ansani, who gave him a few lessons. In addition to this, much help was received from Zingarelli, when the elder Garcia was too busy to take him. His intelligent brain could therefore make a blend of Spanish and Italian methods. To this he added in after life his own observations on the human voice, and applied the scientific theories which he formed and eventually corroborated by means of his laryngoscope. It was by the wise combination of this knowledge that he was able to evolve the magnificent Method which produced Jenny Lind.

Zingarelli was a man whose name is worth pausing over for a moment, for some episodes of his life are of considerable interest. In 1804 he had succeeded Guglielmi as Maestro di Cappella of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

When Napoleon in the zenith of his imperial power gave his son the pompous title of "King of Rome," he ordered rejoicings throughout his kingdom, and a "Te Deum" was arranged to be sung at St Peter's in Rome. When, however, the authorities, both French and Italian, were assembled for the performance of this servile work, Zingarelli refused to have anything to do with it, and added that nothing would induce him to acknowledge the rule of the Corsican usurper. Upon this he was arrested, and, by Napoleon's orders, taken to Paris. Here he was immediately set free and granted a pension, owing to the fact that Napoleon preferred his music to that of any other composer.

In 1810 he left Paris for Naples, where three years later he was appointed director of the Royal College of Music, and he was holding this important post when Manuel came from Spain. Some eighteen months later, just before the Garcia family left for Paris, he succeeded Paisiello as Maestro di Cappella at the Neapolitan Cathedral; and these two positions he continued to hold until his death at the age of eighty-five.

During the sojourn in Italy the elder Garcia was not only in Murat's private choir, but was also _primo tenore_ of the King's Opera Company at the San Carlo. I remember Señor Garcia one day giving an amusing account of his father's first appearance there.

Before he set out for his opening rehearsal he had come to the conclusion that it would be a splendid thing if he could hit upon some way of proving to the members of the orchestra that he was not one of the ordinary small fry possessed of a voice and little else. He wanted to gain their respect both as a musician and as a singer. This is how he managed to accomplish his desire.

His opening aria in the opera to be rehearsed was in the key of E flat. The orchestra played the introductory bars, and waited with a casual interest for the new singer's opening phrase. The tenor commenced, but, instead of doing so in the key in which they were playing, he began to sing a semitone higher, in E natural. At first they were horrified at the discords which resulted. Gradually, however, as the aria went on, and the vocalist still sang exactly a semitone above the key in which they were playing, it began to dawn upon them that, instead of being sharp through nervousness or lack of ear, he was keeping a half tone too high intentionally throughout the piece. Consequently, when they heard him continue in E natural, without a moment's hesitation, or a single false note (for so great a musician was he that he could abstract himself entirely from his surroundings and from the sound of the instruments), their disgust turned to surprise, then admiration, and finally enthusiasm. When the aria was concluded there was an enormous burst of applause and the wildest excitement among them all, for they saw what a really great singer they had found in this newcomer. Of course he sang the remainder of his part in the proper key, but by this novel entry he won the lasting respect of his comrades.

The anecdote afforded a good illustration of his exceptional powers. The elder Garcia was certainly a wonderful man, and in some ways a unique figure in the history of music, for it is doubtful if any other singer has duplicated his extraordinary talent and versatility. Attention has already been called to the fact that he was conductor and impresario. As a composer he was responsible for over forty operas, of which number seventeen were Spanish, nineteen Italian, and seven French; and in many cases he was even responsible for the libretto. The greater number of these works were performed in Spain, France, and America.

When he was in Paris "El Poeta Calculista" was given, as we have already said, with the greatest success in 1809, and three years later "The Caliph of Bagdad" received no less appreciation. His power as an actor was equal to that as a singer, while his Spanish temperament gave a fire to his impersonations which could not but awaken enthusiasm. "J'aime la fureur andalouse de cet homme," wrote a contemporary critic; "il aime tout."

But of all his qualities that which perhaps stood out most was a remarkable gift of extemporisation. It was this which first attracted the notice of Rossini, and led him to write the tenor _rôle_ in "Elisabeth" for the elder Garcia. The result was so satisfactory that when he set to work on his next opera, "Il Barbiere di Seviglia," he wrote the part of Almaviva specially for him.

The story of this production, as Manuel Garcia related it, was an interesting one.

In the December of 1815 Rossini had bound himself to produce a new opera by the 20th of the following month. He hesitated at first about accepting a libretto which Paisiello had treated so successfully, but having obtained that composer's permission he wrote the entire score in a fortnight. To avoid all appearance of rivalry with Paisiello he named his work first of all, "Almaviva, or The Useless Precaution"; and it was accordingly produced under this title in Rome at the Argentina Theatre on February 5, 1816, with the following cast:--

_Rossini_ Signora Giorgi Righetti. _Berta_ Signorina Rossi. _Figaro_ Signor Luigi Zamboni. _Bartolo_ Signor Botticelli. _Basilio_ Signor Vitarelli. _Count Almaviva_ Signor Garcia.

The theatre was packed with the adherents of the older composer, who resented the new effort as an intrusion on his rights. In consequence of this the work was unmercifully damned, but it was kept on the stage and continually grew in favour until it became one of the most popular comic operas ever written.

These two operas, "Elisabeth" and "Il Barbiere," were not by any means the only ones in which the elder Garcia undertook the tenor _rôle_ at the initial performance, for in the course of the long career which followed he had the honour of creating a number of other parts.

As a singer, according to his son, his forte lay in the rendition of the lighter and more florid music, the voice being remarkable for its extraordinary flexibility. It was this faculty which gave his inventive powers their full scope in the extemporisations which he was wont to introduce into the various arie. This custom, it may be well to point out, was quite in accordance with the tastes and actual wishes of the composers of that time.

Among the old musicians it used to be customary to write a mere outline or suggestion of the voice part. Particularly was this the case when there was a return to the original theme, while it applied equally to the conventional ending found in nearly all arie of that time. The singers were expected to elaborate the simple melody given them, and to raise upon this foundation a graceful edifice, adorned with what ornaments their individual taste dictated, and suited to their own powers of execution.

The following illustration will prove the truth of the above assertion. It is a story from the lips of the maestro.

While his father, the elder Garcia, was at Naples, one of the old Italian composers came to produce a new opera.

At the opening rehearsal the tenor was given his part to read at sight. When his first aria had been reached he sang it off with perfect phrasing and feeling, but exactly note for note as written. After he had finished the composer said, "Thank you, signer, very nice, but that was not at all what I wanted." He asked for an explanation, and was informed that the melody which had been written down was intended merely as a skeleton which the singer should clothe with whatever his imagination and artistic instinct prompted. The writer of the music asked him to go through it again, and this time to treat it exactly as though it were his own composition.

The elder Garcia was skilful at improvising: consequently, in giving the aria for the second time, he made a number of alterations and additions, introducing runs, trills, roulades, and cadenzas, all of which were performed with the most brilliant execution. This time, when the end of the music was reached, the old composer shook him warmly by the hand. "Bravo! Magnificent! That was my music, as I wished it to be given."

It may be noted that Lord Mount-Edgcumbe, in his 'Musical Reminiscences' (published in 1824), refers more than once to the same thing. In speaking of the famous male soprano, Pacchierotti, who made his _début_ in London in 1778, the following passage occurs:--

His voice was an extensive soprano, full and sweet.... His powers of execution were great; but he had too good taste and too good sense to make a display of them where it would have been misapplied, confining it to one _bravura_ song (_aria d'agilità_) in each opera, conscious that the chief delight of singing lay in touching expression and exquisite pathos.... He could not sing a song twice in exactly the same way, _yet never ... introduced an ornament that was not judicious and appropriate to the composition_.

Again Lord Mount-Edgcumbe writes:--

Many songs of the old masters would be very indifferently sung by modern performers, not on account of their difficulty but their apparent facility. Composers when writing for a first-rate singer noted down merely a simple _tema_ with the slightest possible accompaniment, which, if sung as written, would be cold, bald, and insipid. It was left to the singer to fill up the outline, to give it the light and shade and all its grace and expression, which requires not only a thorough knowledge of music but the greatest taste and judgment.

But to return to the elder Garcia and his family.

It was during this stay at Naples that little Maria made her first public appearance, when she was barely five years old. The anecdote was one which Manuel Garcia was very fond of relating.

The opera in which the diminutive vocalist made her _début_ was Paër's "Agnese," in which there was a child's part.

In the second act there is a scene where the husband and wife have quarrelled and are reunited through the intervention of their daughter. The tiny Malibran attended the rehearsals and knew the whole opera by heart. On the night of the performance the prima donna either forgot her part or hesitated a moment. Lo! the little girl instantly took up the melody, and sang with such vigour and resonance that the entire house heard her. The prima donna was about to interrupt when the audience shouted, "Bravo! don't stop her. Let her go on."

It was a period in which the public loved infant prodigies, both musical and dramatic, and Marietta was actually permitted to sing the part of Agnese throughout the rest of the scene--a piece of audacity which delighted the hearers and called forth an exhibition of true Italian enthusiasm. Two years after this the tiny musician commenced to study solfeggi with Panseron, while Hérold gave her the first instruction on the piano.

In the autumn of the year 1815 an event occurred which brought the Garcia family into a vivid realisation of the changes which had been taking place in European affairs during the earlier part of the year, with the battle of Waterloo.

Scarcely had the news of Napoleon's downfall reached Naples when the townsfolk witnessed the closing scene in the life of his brother-in-law. The month in which Napoleon landed in France King Murat declared war against Austria, whose queen, it will be remembered, had but recently died. He was defeated at Tolentino, and retired first to France, then to Corsica. In the autumn the brilliant but headstrong ex-king of Naples was mad enough to make an attempt to regain his forfeited throne, on which Ferdinand had been reinstated by the Congress of Vienna. Having landed with about thirty followers on the coast of Lower Calabria, he was almost instantly arrested by a detachment of the Neapolitan troops, by whom he was handed over to a court-martial and sentenced to death.

The closing scene is well described in Colletta's 'History of Naples':--

After the passing of the sentence the prisoner was led into the courtyard of the castle of Pizzo, where a double file of soldiers was drawn up, and, as he refused to have his eyes bound, he looked calmly on while their weapons were made ready. Then, placing himself in a posture to receive the balls, he said to the soldiers, 'Spare my face and aim at my heart.' After these words the muskets were discharged, and he who had been King of the two Sicilies fell dead, holding in his hand the portrait of his family, which was buried with his sad remains in the very church which had owed its erection to his piety. Those who believed in his death mourned it bitterly, but the generality of the Neapolitans beguiled their grief by some invention or other respecting the events of Pizzo.

Manuel Garcia was in his eleventh year when the tragedy took place, and in after years would recall the sensation which the gruesome incident made among the Neapolitans.

Almost immediately after Murat's death the Neapolitans found cause for great affliction and terror in the appearance of the plague, which seemed to them almost a judgment from Heaven.

The epidemic had only ceased a few months in Malta when it broke out again in Dalmatia, spreading thence from place to place, till it attacked the inhabitants of Cadiz at one extremity of the Mediterranean and Constantinople at the other. At the same time it reached Noia, a small city of Puglia, situated on the Adriatic.

Eagerness for gain by men carrying on illicit trade caused its introduction with some goods from Dalmatia.

The first death occurred on November 23, 1815, but a cordon was not placed round the city till six weeks later; traffic went on as usual, people left the city and returned, and merchandise was carried into the provinces and as far as Naples. Fortune, however, or divine providence, saved the kingdom and Italy, for out of the number of men and quantity of goods leaving Noia, none happened to be infected.

At last, on January 1, precautionary measures were taken, and the unhappy city was surrounded by three circuits of ditches, one at a distance of sixty paces, the next at ninety, and the third, which was rather a boundary-line than a barrier, at ten miles. Sentries were placed along these, and numerous fires lighted up the country at night. Whoever dared to attempt passing the line was punished with death; and more than one case is recorded of a poor wretch, maddened with the horrors of the town, rushing across the boundary-line, only to fall instantly under the musket-fire of the soldiers.

Throughout the winter the Garcias, in common with the other inhabitants of Naples, lived in constant fear that the plague might break out in the town.

Since, with the coming of spring, the danger showed little sign of ceasing, the elder Garcia determined to leave the country and remove with his family to Paris, from which he had been more than four years absent. It must have been just about the time of their departure that the theatre in which the tenor had been appearing during four successive seasons was destroyed by fire.

The scene which took place is well described by Colletta. The opera company, it appears, were on the spot rehearsing when the fire broke out, and at once fled in consternation. Their cries, with the volumes of smoke issuing from the building, made the danger known, and people hastened from all parts of the city, but too late. The conflagration spread, the king and royal family left the palace which adjoined the theatre, and the fire, catching the whole of the immense structure that composed the roof, sent forth raging and brilliant flames, which were reflected on the Monte St Elmo and in the sea below. The sky, which had been calm, became stormy, and the wind blew the flames in the direction of Castel Nuovo, until they licked the bare walls of the castle.

Happily the danger did not last long, for in less than two hours the noble structure was burned to ashes; and the mistake of having from financial avarice abolished the company of firemen was now acknowledged too late.

The king ordered the theatre to be rebuilt in the shortest possible time, and in four months it rose more beautiful than ever, though Manuel Garcia was never to see it after its phœnix-like reappearance.