CHAPTER VIII.

ROSSINI AFTER "WILLIAM TELL."

The reason why Rossini, after producing "Guillaume Tell," ceased finally to write for the stage is still a mystery, which has been rendered only more mysterious by the various and often contradictory explanations given of the composer's silence.

In the first place, the coldness with which "Guillaume Tell" was received, and the successive mutilations to which that work was subjected, are said to have checked Rossini's ardour.

Secondly, Rossini himself is reported to have declared that a new work, if successful, would not add to his reputation; while, unsuccessful, it might injure it.

Thirdly, Rossini has been accused of feeling annoyed at the success of Meyerbeer.

Fourthly, Rossini's forty years' abstinence from dramatic writing is explained by "laziness," as though he had not written in the most industrious manner for the stage from the age of seventeen to that of thirty-seven, when, after taking six months to compose an opera (an age for Rossini), we suddenly find him abandoning dramatic composition for ever.

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Some of these pretended explanations may be disposed of at once. As for Rossini's alleged jealousy of Meyerbeer, it must be remembered that Rossini was the means of bringing Meyerbeer to Paris; that the two composers were always excellent friends; and that one of Rossini's last productions, probably the very last composition he ever put to paper, was a pianoforte fantasia it pleased him to write on motives from "L'Africaine," after attending the last rehearsal of that work.

As to the laziness with which Rossini is so often charged, it is curious to remark that this habit of mind or body, or both, was somehow compatible with the production of the thirty-four operas which Rossini wrote between the years 1810 and 1823. After he had settled in Paris, from 1824 to 1829, he still worked with prodigious activity, and did not produce less than one opera every year,--"Il Viaggio a Reims" in 1825, "Le Siège de Corinthe" in 1826, "Moïse" in 1827, "Le Comte Ory" in 1828, and "Guillaume Tell" in 1829.

Rossini must at this time have been richer by some two or three thousand a year than when he was working in Italy, and that without counting his "author's rights" from the Opera, and reckoning only the capital of seven thousand pounds which he had brought back from London, the four hundred a year from his wife's dowry, the eight hundred a year which he received from the Civil List and the sums for which he sold his scores year by year to Troupenas, the publisher. One reason, then, for Rossini's inactivity may have been that one great stimulus to activity, poverty, urged him no longer.

But as Heine says of a composer whose friends had boasted that he was "not obliged to write,"--a windmill might as well say that it is not obliged to turn. If there is wind, it _must_ turn; and when it ceases to turn, we know that the wind has gone down.

What makes the puzzle of Rossini's silence puzzling indeed, is, that he does not seem quite to have known why he was silent himself. It is astonishing how many persons had the coolness, not to say impertinence, to ask Rossini why he never composed anything for the stage after "Guillaume Tell;" and it is amusing, though also provoking, to find that to most of these inquisitive persons he returned very evasive answers.

But, from Rossini's recorded conversations with his friend Ferdinand Hiller, it is evident that it was not one cause alone which made him determine to produce no more operas. It struck Hiller, with reference to the maestro's physical condition in the year 1854, that, "when a man has composed operas during twenty entire years, and been worshipped during five-and-forty, it is really not surprising that he should feel somewhat worn out." "But a nabob is a nabob," he continues, "even after losing two or three thousand thalers, and in the same manner Rossini's mind is still what it always was; his wit, his memory, his lively powers of narration, are undiminished. And as he has written nothing for twenty years, he has at least not given any one the right of asserting that his musical genius has deteriorated,--the last work he wrote was 'Guillaume Tell.'"

It was just at this time that Rossini exchanged some remarks with the Chevalier Neukomm on the subject of industry and idleness, which again throw a little light on the much vexed and certainly most interesting question of Rossini's prolonged silence. "You are still indefatigable," he observed to Neukomm.

"Whenever I am no longer able to work," replied the latter, "you may place me between six planks and nail me down, for I shall not desire to have anything more to do with life."

"You have a passion for industry; I always had a passion for idleness," exclaimed Rossini.

"The forty operas you have composed are not a proof of that," answered Neukomm.

"That was a long time ago. We ought to come into the world with packthread instead of nerves," said the maestro, somewhat seriously; "but let us drop the subject."

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On several occasions Ferdinand Hiller seems to have asked Rossini point blank the great question--why, after "William Tell," he ceased to write.

"Is it not one of the greatest of all wonders that you have not written anything for twenty-two years--what do you do with all the musical ideas which must be welling about in your brain?" asked Hiller, who was thinking perhaps of Heine's windmill.

"You are joking," replied the maestro, laughing.

"I am not joking in the least," returned Hiller; "how can you exist without composing?"

"What!" said Rossini, "would you have me without motive, without excitement, without a definite intention, write a definite work? I do not require much to be excited into composition, as my opera texts prove, but still, I do require something."

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At another time Ferdinand Hiller succeeded in obtaining far more explicit reasons for Rossini's premature retirement, which neither the want of a libretto, nor the plea of constitutional idleness, nor shaken nerves, sufficed to explain.

"Had you not the intention," Hiller asked, "of composing an opera on the text of 'Faust?'"

"Yes," answered Rossini, "it was for a long period a favourite notion of mine, and I had already planned the whole scenarium with Jouy; it was naturally based upon Goethe's poem. At this time, however, there arose in Paris a regular "Faust" mania; every theatre had a particular "Faust" of its own, and this somewhat damped my ardour. Meanwhile, the Revolution of July had taken place; the Grand-Opera, previously a royal institution, passed into hands of a private person; my mother was dead, and my father found a residence in Paris unbearable, because he did not understand French--so I cancelled the agreement, which bound me by rights to send in four other grand operas, preferring to remain quietly in my native land, and enliven the last years of my old father's existence. I had been far away from my poor mother when she expired; this was an endless source of regret to me, and I was most apprehensive that the same thing might occur again in my father's case."

The choice of a subject afterwards looked upon as unsuitable, the Revolution of July, the appointment of a private person to the direction of the Opera, the desire of Rossini not to be separated from his father in Italy during the last years of the old man's life--here is a whole catalogue of reasons given by Rossini himself for producing no more operas, in which we find no mention of the mutilation of "Guillaume Tell," nor of the composer's determination to rest on his laurels--a piece of conceit by no means in keeping with the character of Rossini, who, if he had had anything more to say would certainly not have been prevented from saying it by his own admiration for "Guillaume Tell."

Nor was there anything in the fate of "Guillaume Tell" to frighten him, and we have seen that his supposed laziness did not prevent his setting to work on a new opera, which he must have commenced immediately after "Guillaume Tell" had been produced.

Rossini went to live with his father in Bologna, it is true; but he did not go there until 1836, so that this could have had little influence in making him determine to send back his librettos six years before.

Rossini is neither a greater nor a smaller man, because, having produced thirty-nine operas when he was thirty-seven years of age, it did not, for no matter what reason, suit him to complete the fortieth. He was destined to write thirty-nine operas, of which he wrote thirty-four during the first thirteen years of his career. Ferdinand Hiller was no doubt right in saying that a man cannot go on perpetually writing operas with impunity for twenty years--and such operas as Rossini's, and at such a rate of production! Even when he had become comparatively inactive, Rossini produced four operas at the Académie in four successive years. Meyerbeer, his immediate successor at the Académie, brought out no more than three works at that establishment, and one at the Opera Comique, in twenty years: ("Robert le Diable," 1831, "Les Huguenots," 1836, "Le Prophète," 1849, "L'Etoile du Nord," 1851).

Of course, a composer is finally to be judged by his works, and not by the time it takes him to produce them. I am only considering whether the excessive labours of Rossini in the midst of his alleged idleness may not, after twenty years' continuance, have thoroughly fatigued him.

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No one seems to know what Rossini's precise agreement with the Académie was. M. Castil-Blaze states that Rossini had engaged to write three operas, of which "Guillaume Tell" was the first. According to Ferdinand Hiller, he had undertaken to write four operas in addition to "Guillaume Tell;" and it is certain that immediately after "Guillaume Tell," he seriously meditated a "Faust." M. Castil-Blaze says positively that M. Scribe had, in execution of a contract, furnished to Rossini, and received back from him, the libretto of "Gustave III.," the foundation of one of Auber's greatest works, and the "Duc d'Albe," on which Donizetti was engaged when he was attacked by the terrible malady to which he succumbed.

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Whatever influence the Revolution of 1830 may have exercised on Rossini's productive powers, it had a certain effect upon his pecuniary position. The Civil List of the dethroned king was abolished, and with it the pension of eight hundred a year, payable to Rossini. After going to law, the composer succeeded in getting a retiring pension of six thousand francs a year allowed him; and if one more reason for Rossini's abandoning dramatic composition be required, it may be looked for in the litigation to which he was now obliged to have recourse.

About this time, and in reference to the subject of this very lawsuit, Rossini had occasion to see M. Guizot, who, in his Memoirs has left a very interesting account of the interview. M. Guizot was not a dilettante, and judged Rossini as a man of the world. His general estimate of his visitor is perhaps for that reason all the more valuable; and the minister's statement as to Rossini's position with regard to the Civil List in the year 1830, must be accepted as unimpeachable.

"The same day," writes M. Guizot,[34] "M. Lenormant brought to breakfast with me M. Rossini, to whom the revolution of July had caused some annoyances, which I wished to make him forget. King Charles X. had treated him with well-merited favour; he was inspector-general of singing, and received, in addition to his author's rights, a salary of seven thousand francs; and some months previously, after the brilliant success of "Guillaume Tell," the Civil List had signed a treaty with him, by which he undertook to write two more great works for the French stage. I wished the new government to show him the same good will, and that he in return should give us the promised masterpieces. We talked freely, and I was struck by the animation and variety of his wit, open to all subjects, gay without vulgarity, and satirical without bitterness. He left me after half-an-hour's agreeable conversation, but which led to nothing; for it was not long before I resigned. I remained with my wife, whom M. Rossini's person and conversation had much interested. My little girl Henrietta, who was just beginning to walk and to chatter, was brought into the room. My wife went to the piano and played some passages from the master who had just left us, from 'Tancredi' among other works. We were alone; I passed I cannot say how long in this manner, forgetting all external occupations, listening to the piano, watching my little girl, who was trying to walk, perfectly tranquil and absorbed in contemplation of these objects of my affection. It is nearly thirty years since,--it seems as though it were yesterday. I am not of Dante's opinion,

'Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordasi tempo felice Nella miseria.'

"A great happiness is, on the contrary, in my opinion, a light, the reflection of which extends to spaces which are no longer brightened by it. When God and time have appeased the violent uprisings of the soul against misfortune, it can still contemplate with pleasure in the past the charming things which it has lost."