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STUDENT AND SINGER

Dawsons. Ph.Sc.
Cante
STUDENT AND SINGER
THE REMINISCENCES
OF
CHARLES SANTLEY
Les premières impressions de l'adolescence ne s'effacent pas ; elles aiden
comprendre les volontés, les paroles, les actes de l'âge mûr.'—PÈRE DIDON.
TTTT
THIRD EDITION
LL
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
37 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
Publisher to the Endia Office
1892
(All rights reserved ]
TO
THOSE WHO HAVE TAKEN AN INTEREST IN
MY PROFESSIONAL CAREER,
& Dedicate these Pages
THIS BEING
THE ONLY RETURN I CAN MAKE TO THEM, AS A BODY,
For the inßariable Kindness and Courtesy
They habé shoBn me.
Charles Sanders
Request
10f9-27
Rie
'
PREFACE.
Y
TTT
I NEVER had any intention of submitting my reminis-
cences to the public; it is only at the solicitation of
numerous acquaintances I do so now. So far was I
from harbouring such a notion that I have preserved
hardly any notes, programmes, or data to aid me; with
few 'exceptions, I have written them from memory.
I have no pretension to sufficient literary qualifica-
tion for book-writing ; I have an antipathy to autobio-
graphies, with one exception, that of Benvenuto
Cellini.* His style is not polished, at times uncouth ;
he records his merits and his failings. I have heard
him called egotistic; but surely, a man possessing
talents of such a rare order as he did, is not entitled
to the appellation, if he states unmistakable facts con-
cerning his artistic skill, adventures, and exploits.
Some of his failings he might have suppressed with
advantage to his memory, but no doubt, in recording
* I speak of Cellini's own work, not any translation.
viii
PREFACE
1
TIT
Un
them, he has shown his intention to give an honest
account of himself.
I have endeavoured to follow Cellini's plan of
jotting down any reminiscences and reflections
plainly, to the best of my ability, and I shall be quite
satisfied if those to whom I have dedicated them
find them sufficiently interesting to wade through.
C. S.
October, 1892.
11
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Sea : its Charms and Drawbacks-An Old Salt's Opinion-
Birth and Early Resolve to be a Sailor-Voyage to the Isle
of Man-Later Voyages and their Discomforts-Early Surround-
ings and Antecedents—My Father's Contemporaries-Hatton
and Sivori-Hatton at the 'Little Liver -A Double Inheritance :
Music and Nervousness- My First Song—The Tortures of School
Recitation-A Quakeress's Practical Joke and its Results—Stage-
struck at Five Years Old-Dramatic Aspirations-Dislike for
Music only Superficial—First Public Appearance in the Choir of
the Baptist Chapel-Profound Effect of an Orchestra in Church
— My Awakening to the Power of Music- My Debt to Haydn-
A Clumsy Conductor -
- 1-13
CHAPTER II.
Youthful Aspirations and subsequent Disillusionment-Artistic Cant
- The Need of Earnestness—The Singer's Difficulty-- First
Public Solo, Christmas Day, 1848-Bass or Tenor?- Desire to
play the Violin-I join an Amateur Orchestra— An Accomplished
Violinist !?—Elected a Performing Member of the Liverpool
Philharmonic Society-Performance at an · Eisteddfod - The
Dangers of the Stick-Performance of the “Elijah'-Over-
whelming Impressions-My First 'Domino'-Difficulties of the
Dress Question – Viardot Garcia and Ronconi - Ronconi's
Dramatic Genius–Lablache and Mario-Journey to London in
1851-Still singing Tenor-Joseph Lidel's Friendly Encourage-
ment-Elected Principal Second Violin in the Società Armonica'
-My Excess of Zeal: a Second Domino'-Unsuccessful
Attempt to join the Philharmonic Orchestra --I join the Basses-
Public Appearances-Stockhausen and Staudig! - - 14—29
CONTENTS
CHAPTER III.
PAGE
Carl Formes' Influence upon me—My Ignorance of Registers, The
Mistakes of Singing Masters : Jean de Reszke, Mario, and
Sims Reeves--A Plague of Doctors-Officious Friends predict
my approaching Decease— The Monotony of Business—A
Momentous Decision-My Farewell Concert-Sims Reeves'
Encouragement-Start for Italy, October, 1855–The Tyranny
of Fashion, The Art of Smoking—Mario's Fondness for
Tobacco
- 30—41
CHAPTER IV.
Farewell to Liverpool-Lack of Appreciation in my Native Town-
Experiences on my Journey—A Breakfast at Havre-I witness a
Performance at the Paris Opéra Comique-Cruvelli at the
Italian Opera-Journey to Basle-Passage of the St. Gothard-
Arrival at Milan-Scene at the Railway-station–The Milanese
Dialect--An Attack of Home-sickness – Travellers, Old and
New Style - - - - - - - 42—56
CHAPTER V.
My Lodgings—Milan under Austrian Rule : Vexatious Restrictions
-A Humorous Episode: Pollini, Capponi and Galli — A
Trying Interview with the Police—A Lucky Letter—My Inter-
view with Lamperti-Introduction to Nava-Nava’s Antecedents
— His Wide Culture, Kindly Nature, and Honest Advice-
Singing v. Gabbling-Duets with Ronconi and Belletti —Nava's
Views on Progress-His Kindly Interference-Halcyon Days-
My Lessons with Nava : Conversation as well as Singing-His
Family—The Dialects of Lombardy-Locomotion as an Aid
to Study--My Daily Walk- Milanese Soldiery-Performances
at the Cannobiana-Giuglini as a Singer and Actor—Marini and
Delle Sedie-The Scala Orchestra-Ristori - - 57-71
CHAPTER VI.
Vocalizzi and Solfeggi-Italian Vowel Sounds—Is Italian easy to
sing ?- My First Piece—The Value of Concerted Vocal Music
-Donna Pacifica -My Fellow-pupils : Luigia Perelli and
Luigia Pessina-My Friends the Maranis—'Il Signor Inglese'
-The Scala Programme, 1855-56—I become a Subscriber to
the Pit-Subsidies and Government Supervision-Gardoni's
Experiences - A Short Way with Nervous Baritones— The
CONTENTS
yi
PAGE
Vagaries of the Censorship-Libertà' and 'Lealtà'-Ronconi's
Humour-Description of the Scala in 1855–Recollections of
the Season-Italian Audiences: their Decided Way of expressing
an Opinion-A Ludicrous Performance of 'Marino Faliero' 72-86
CHAPTER VII.
A Cold Winter-Opera at the Carcano—The Caffè Martini, a Great
Musical Exchange--Struggles and Privations of Poor Singers-
A Generous Landlady—The Cruelty of Italian Audiences-
Pacini's 'Saffo’-Two Stentors-Dramatic Performances of the
Teatro Ré-Salvini—Goldoni's Comedies-Concerts at the Scala:
Felicien David's 'Le Désert' and the Stabat Mater'--Four
Conductors—Mendelssohn's 'St. Paul'-A Masked Ball— My
Lancashire Accent betrays me--A Dangerous Costume-English
Friends-An Irish Adventurer-The Value of Dialect-Change
of Lodgings—My New Landlady-Noisy Quarters-A Visit to
the Lakes : a Cheap Holiday— Music at the Duomo : an
Aggravating Conductor—A Great Preacher-Church Music in
Italy : Strange Voluntaries - -
. - 87—IOI
CHAPTER VIII.
Church Festivals and their Curious Customs—Plum-pudding at
Barcelona—The Feasts of San Giorgio, Sant Angelo, and
Corpus Christi-An Impressive Spectacle—My Delight in Open-
air Recreation-Milan : Palatial and Plebeian—The Best View
of the Duomo-Sad Accident to my 'Darlin' Pair o' Bags -
Gluttony and its Miseries-Advice to Singers about Food and
Drink--Trips to Monza-Anecdote of some English Excursionists
- Performances at the Conservatorio.— Pollini's Opera - My
Friend Rivetta-Our Excursion to Lecco-Comfortable Quarters
at the Croce di Malta—Demoralizing Effect of English and
American Travellers on Foreign Hotels—I turn Barber-- Davide
Nava and the Mountains_Visit to the Maranis - - 102–116
CHAPTER IX.
Efforts to obtain Work--Engagement at Pavia-A Conceited Tenor
and a Cross-grained Baritone-I escort an Aged Seconda Donna
-A Skittish Landlady—I appear in the 'Traviata' and 'Ernani'
- My Wardrobe-Failure of ‘Lamberto Malatesta'-A Stormy
First Night and a Disastrous Sequel—The Mayor proves a Friend
in Need-Christmas Day at Pavia : a Hospitable Landlord-
The Medical Student and the Raw Veal Cutlet-Hotels, Old
and New -
- 117-127
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER X.
Return to Milan–A Memorable Masked Ball- A Generous Agent-
Offer of an Engagement at Padua : a Foolish Refusal-Dark
Days and Short Commons-Suicidal Thoughts--A Welcome
Engagement-A Kind-hearted Prima Donna-I throw up my
Engagement-Arrival of Supplies from Home-Offer of a Five
Years' Engagement-A Trump of a Landlady-Good-natured
but Irritating Friends---Adverse Criticisms of Nava-Declama-
tion, True and False—Matters reach a Crisis—No Engagements
Forthcoming—Visit from Henry F. Chorley-His Appearance
and Prejudices—He urges me to return to England-His Kind-
ness and Generosity-A Tedious Journey–Home again - 128—140
CHAPTER XI.
Visit to Hullah : his Criticism–J. L. Hatton's Offer—My Début in
the Creation'-Manuel Garcia's Assistance-Appearances at
the Crystal Palace-Molique's Pedantry-Slow Progress-
Anecdotes of Chorley-Introduced to Costa by Chorley-A
Favourable Verdict-- Costa's Character-An Epoch-making
Party at Chorley's-Adelaide and Gertrude Kemble-Appearance
in the ‘Messiah '—The Trumpet shall sound' minus the Trumpet
--Operatic Aspirations—St. Paul' at Manchester—'Elijah’ at
Exeter Hall—The Royal Society of Musicians' Dinner-Sight-
reading, its Advantages and Drawbacks-Festival at Leeds in
1858-Abortive Negotiations with Operatic Managers—Rejected
by the Birmingham Festival Committee--I attend the Festival as
Chorley's Guest - Viardot Garcia and Sims Reeves - Private
Concerts—Kindly Encouragement from Reeves, Clara Novello,
Mario, and Grisi-J. G. Patey–His Taste in Dress—A Visit to
the Standard Theatre-An Unexpected Lobster - - 141--159
CHAPTER XII.
A Formidable Fellow-lodger-Engaged to Miss Kemble-Henry
Greville's Musical Parties-A Compliment from Mario-Visit to
the Pateys in Devonshire-Breakfast at a Private Lunatic
Asylum -- My Second Season — Married to Miss Gertrude
Kemble, April 9, 1859–Benefit Concerts-Engaged at English
Opera--Meyerbeer's Approval-Bradford Festival - Preparations
for 'Dinorah'-Diffidence and Despondency-Candid Criticisms
— Il Trovatore," "The Rose of Castille '--' Lurline '-Rhubarb
or Coral ?-A ‘Huguenot Rush'—The Queen attends' Dinorah'
CONTENTS
xiji
PAGE
-Concert at Windsor Castle-Wallace's 'Bellringer **_Winter
Season of English Opera at Her Majesty's, 1860-81, under Hallé
--Stage-management Extraordinary - An Unwelcome Dog -
E. T. Smith's Great Combination- Elijah' at the Birmingham
Festival-Costa and the Critics-English Opera at Covent
Garden, 1861-62—Howard Glover's “Ruy Blas'-A Dangerous
Dagger — Robin Hood' and 'The Puritan's Daughter'—
Tiresome Repetitions—Benedict's · Lily of Killarney'—'Billy'
West's Timely Lesson - -
- 160—177
CHAPTER XIII.
1862 : an Eventful Year-Costa suggests Italian Opera—I start for
Italy—My Visit to Rossini in Paris-Recalled to London by an
Offer from Gye-Costa's Advice in regard to Engagements-
Costa's Rebuke to Tamberlik-An Inauspicious Rehearsal-
Costa on Artistic Jealousy-A Flattering Reception and an
Unfounded Charge-Engaged by Mapleson-A Bad Start at
Her Majesty's—A Difficult Part-Concurrent Engagements at
Her Majesty's and Covent Garden-Production of Wallace's
'Love's Triumph-Charles Lucas's Prophecy—My Last English
Opera at Covent Garden-Balfe’s ‘Armourer of Nantes ?-A
Free Performance and a Stupid Audience-A Curious Bet-Four
Seasons' Work-English Opera, Old and New Styles-George
Honey-St. Albyn-Palgrave Simpson and Harrison - 178–191
CHAPTER XIV.
My New Comrades : Tietjeris, Alboni, Trebelli, and Giuglini-
Trebelli's Father-Dressing-rooms at the English and Italian
Opera-An Operatic Perquisite—The Advantages of Italianization
-A Visit to Paris–Madame Carvalho and Monjauze-I persuade
Mapleson to let me play Valentine-Gounod's Congratulations-
Divergent Opinions as to the Part-Origin of 'Dio Possente'-
The Season of 1863–Schira’s ‘Niccolò de' Lapi'-A Trying
Part-Mlle. Artôt in 'La Traviata'-A Dilatory "Faust'-
Revival of Oberon '-Alboni's Magnificent Singing and
Excessive Nervousness—My Holiday and Escape on the Lake
of Lucerne-Début at Worcester Festival-Schachner's New
Oratorio : his Criticism on Benedict's Cour de Lion'-
Mapleson's Operatic Tour—' Lucia’ at Dublin-My Dress as
Enrico-Mistaken for Oliver Cromwell—The Dublin Gods and
* Faust'- Mephisto’s Misadventures -- Return to London-
Wanted, a Faust-
- - 192-205
xiv
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XV.
.
Season of 1864—Faust' in English-- I play Mephisto at Short
Notice and under Difficulties—My Daughter's Terror at the Duel
Scene—“The Merry Wives of Windsor – Mirella'--The Shake-
speare Centenary—Music hath Charms’-Costa's 'Naaman?—
Operatic Tour-Off to Barcelona-We lose our Way-Stage
Properties in the Custom-house-A Land of Garlic-Opera at
Barcelona-‘Macbeth'—'Where's the Romance?—Return Home
-With Mapleson in Dublin
- 206—223
CHAPTER XVI.
Season of 1865–Loss of Giuglini-Advent of Di Murska-I play
Papageno, and sip a Cup of Castor-oil-A Panic averted-
Gloucester Festival—' Don Giovanni?—Telbin's Skeletons—My
Season at the Scala—'Trovatore’: a Critical Audience-Too
many Cooks—I escape from Milan - - - 224-238
CHAPTER XVII.
Season of 1866–Madame Grisi at Her Majesty's—A Gluck Per-
formance at Dudley House-Hoel makes a big Leap: his
Life saved by a Goat—' Ernani'—Season of 1867–Puffs and
Promises First Appearance of Mlle. Christine Nilsson—'La
Forza del Destino' produced under Difficulties—Mongini draws
Blood—I sing with Jenny Lind in “Ruth'-Her Majesty's
Theatre destroyed by Fire - - - - - 2394256
CHAPTER XVIII.
Death of J. C. Tully, Composer, Conductor, and Gourmet-A
Bumptious Yankee Tenor- La Gazza Ladra'-Florid Singing
- Decadence of the Florid Style Production'—'Rigoletto '-
Kellogg and her Drum-A Monstrosity at the Crystal Palace-
Dr. Wesley-Carl Formes-At Covent Garden-A Deluge and
an Empty House - - - - - - 257—269
CHAPTER XIX.
Season of 1869–Gye and Mapleson combine - A Phenomenal
Buffo–Nilsson as Ophelia- I play the Doge in 'I due Foscari'
-A Spirited Conductor-A Hard Day's Work-Rossini's 'Messe
Solennelle'-In a Railway Accident; an Insinuating Doctor-
Concert touring in 1870—Brutus and the Goat - - 270–283
CONTENTS
XV
CHAPTER XX.
PAGE
Mr. George Wood undertakes Italian Opera at Drury Lane- The
'Flying Dutchman'; first Representation of Wagner in England
-An Obtrusive Cat-I desert Italian for English Opera-We
start with 'Zampa'-Broken Promises-Friendly Critics-A
Season of Death-Friendship with Charles Dickens—Fechter's
Misfortunes—Trial of the Albert Hall-Stage v. Platform 284--296
CHAPTER XXI.
Off to America—A Farewell Concert-A Voracious Charmer-Cure
for Sea-sickness—New York Pavement - The American Oyster
-More Laurels than Pence-Lunch at Nine p.m.—'Where is the
Town ??—Oil preferred to Music—'Hearts of Oak'- Patriotic
Toronto-A Waiting Race for Supper - - - 297–311
CHAPTER XXII.
Success with ‘Zampa '—Italian Opera Season in New York-A Prim
Songstress-Realism and the 'High C'-A'Real Good Time'-
Return Voyage—Music hath Charms '—My Peaks of the Moun-
tain Range-Mario and John Parry - - - 312--323
CHAPTER XXIII.
Retrospect and Prospect- The Half-Amateur-Academies and
Students-A Musical Lord Mayor-A National School and a
National Theatre-A Lesson from Abroad
- 324-327
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PORTRAIT OF CHARLES SANTLEY IN 1855
-
- Frontispiece
To face page 218
SANTLEY IN “RIGOLETTO' .
SANTLEY IN 'FRA DIAVOLO'
1
2
290
STUDENT AND SINGER:
THE REMINISCENCES OF
CHARLES SANTLEY.
CHAPTER I.
The Sea : its Charms and Drawbacks-An Old Salt's Opinion,Birth
and Early Resolve to be a Sailor-Voyage to the Isle of Man-Later
Voyages and their Discomforts – Early Surroundings and Ante-
cedents—My Father's Contemporaries-Hatton and Sivori-Hatton
at the 'Little Liver'-A Double Inheritance : Music and Nervous-
ness — My first Song - The Tortures of School Recitation -- A
Quakeress's Practical Joke and its Results-Stage-struck at Five Years
Old- Dramatic Aspirations-Dislike for Music only Superficial
First Public Appearance in the Choir of the Baptist Chapel-Pro-
found Effect of an Orchestra in Church—My Awakening to the
Power of Music- My Debt to Haydn- A Clumsy Conductor.
* I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea ! Though there I
would not ever be, spite of its wonderful attractions,
so graphically depicted by Barry Cornwall. What a
powerful imagination he must have possessed, for he
was one of the sickest of sailors, and detested the sea!
I had it from Mrs. Proctor, who told me she used to
tease him, humming a strain of his jovial sea-song as
he lay, a very log, huddled in shawls and a tarpaulin,
I
TIT
left to utter, 'For God's sake, my dear, don't !
I am on the sea; on the way from Auckland to
st
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
Y
1
Wellington, New Zealand. Since my arrival in the
Colonies I have travelled a great deal on the sea. I
always had an affection for it, and love it—to be on it
(not at a seaside resort, but with the blue above, and
the blue below, and sunshine wheresoe’er I go!).
Though I am never troubled with sea-sickness, I am
not one of those enthusiastic mariners who are always
longing for a storm. I feel bored in rough weather ; I
cannot take any exercise ; I cannot repose, even in my
berth, propped in with pillows and other devices ; I
cannot settle myself to read much, and writing is out
of the question-consequently time hangs somewhat
heavily. I have many times resolved never to put my
foot on shipboard again unless compelled, and as often,
after a long spell of railway travelling north, south,
east, and west, I am attacked by a longing to be again
on the sea, which I am bound to satisfy.
During the time I was engaged at Her Majesty's
Theatre, an old salt named Thomas Downes used to be
a frequent visitor behind the scenes. He had been a
boatswain in the navy, and afterwards became a petty
officer in one of the Irish mail-boats, where I first
made his acquaintance, and where he was very attentive
to Mapleson and our company when we happened to
cross to or from Dublin in his packet, and so he
obtained the run of the house in the Haymarket. He
was one of my ardent admirers, always loud in my
praises whenever we met, but he invariably ended his
eulogy with, ‘But, Charlie, you're a good sailor spoiled !
You ought to be ordering your men on board ship,
instead of bawling and squalling your voice away in
that stuffy theatre !
TT
VIL
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
ds
La
I was born in Liverpool on February 28, 1834. At an
early age my greatest pleasure consisted in reading the
adventures of great travellers (I do not suppose I was
at all singular, for most boys delight in adventures),
such as Bruce's ‘Travels in Abyssinia,' Captain Cook's
Voyages,' Franklin's ' Expedition to the North Pole,'
and Ross's in search of him. At school—the Mechanics'
Institution, Mount Street—there was a large sprinkling
of sons of seafaring men and of men whose business
was connected with shipping; ship-store dealers, ship-
chandlers, ropers, ship-carpenters, ship-bread bakers,
etc., who could all relate 'tales of the sea.' For some
time I was determined to be a sailor, but I never
divulged my determination. Strolling about amongst
the shipping, I discovered many unpleasant vicissitudes.
attendant on a seaman's life, which entirely obliterated
the poetical conception I had formed of it. Yet,
although my illusion with regard to the life of a
sailor vanished, I still preserve a great attachment to
the sailor. I like those loose, baggy trousers, the wide
open collar and loose neckerchief; besides, I think sea
life (on a sailing-ship, not on a steamer) has a tendency to
make men more open-hearted. As a rule, sailors are
frank and good-natured, and in my experience I have
seldom found one sullen or unwilling to do a good
turn. Even the passengers on board ship become
imbued with the spirit of freedom, and many who on
land would scarcely deign to notice a stranger, on the
sea dispense with ceremony, and make themselves
most agreeable and attentive companions.
I made my first voyage when I was seven years of
age. I had gained a prize at school, and as a reward
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was
an
I was allowed to accompany my grandmother to the
Isle of Man. The steamer was an old tub called the
Mona's Isle. We must have had a rough time of it,
as, to the best of my recollection, we were nine or ten
hours crossing from Liverpool. We were steerage
passengers, and I was very sick ; and as I lay half-
dazed in a bunk below, a sailor came down and brought
out a cold sole and some potatoes, which he devoured.
I thought he must be a hard-hearted wretch to commit
such a barbarous action with a lot of sick people lying
about ; but I changed my opinion when, at my grand-
mother's request, he carried me in his arms on deck to
pay a necessary visit, and behaved as tenderly to me as
though he had been my nurse. We had to land in a
small boat. No sooner was I seated therein than the
sickness left me, and I was seized with such an
appetite that I could have demolished the sailor, with
the sole and potatoes for seasoning.
I do not profess to be a great traveller. In these
days, when you may meet shopkeepers from provincial
towns 'doing 'the Pyramids of Egypt, the mosques and
bazaars of Cairo, the catacombs of Rome, the wonders
of Jerusalem, and the ruins of Baalbec, I can scarcely
lay claim to be more than a Margate excursionist. I
may say that all my travelling by sea has been for
pleasure ; the voyage was my chief inducement to
accept engagements in America and the Colonies. As
I have before said, I have at times a longing to be on
the sea ; but I should like, if time permitted, to try the
real thing in a sailing-ship; for on board a steamer I
do not find the perfect repose I expected. True, there
is no post, no telegraph, but there is hurry, scurry,
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and bustle of one sort or another night and day ; the
least annoying of the noises which disturb the rest
being that of the machinery, which, after a day or two,
is only noticeable when it stops. In the night belated
roisterers bawl to each other along the corridors, throw
their boots out, slam the doors, or leave them un-
fastened, so that every roll of the ship causes them to
clatter. In the early morning stewards indulge in un-
timely hilarity over boot-cleaning, or rush about in
answer to emphatic appeals for tea and coffee. During
the day meals are rushed through as though every-
body had to catch an express train! Importunate
agitators, who have no taste for quiet themselves,
insist upon everybody joining in ridiculous uninterest-
ing games. It is difficult to take exercise, for no
sooner do one or two persons start for a walk than
everyone else seems to be seized with the same impulse,
so that between the crowd of people, the crowd of
chairs—which take up half the deck—and children
pushing about go-carts, there is nothing for it but to
submit to be hustled and jostled about, or relinquish all
idea of exercise. There is an attempt at a band, which
I, for one, would willingly pay extra fare to be rid of.
To pass the evenings, dramatic entertainments, recitals,
and concerts are instituted, and, of course, I was
pestered to take part in them. I excused myself on the
ground that I required rest after a very fatiguing season;
however, I sang twice during my voyage to Australia,
as a small return for the kindness and attention I
received from our captain, a perfect gentleman, pro-
fessionally and privately. On my passage returning
from Townsville to Rockhampton, Queensland, I was
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pressed to sing, and declined. I had then the satis-
faction of hearing several of the songs I had been sing-
ing during my tour murdered by audacious amateurs.
At the time I was born my father was a journeyman
bookbinder employed in his father's workshop ; shortly
after he obtained a clerkship in the municipal offices,
and subsequently became a collector of rates. He
was always a very persevering man ; he had a great
love for music, and any spare time he could command
he devoted to studying the piano, without the aid of a
master, until by exercising strict economy he saved
enough to enable him to pay for lessons. He then
became a pupil of Michael Maybrick, an uncle of the
singer and composer of that name, known in the latter
capacity as Stephen Adams. One of his fellow-pupils
was John Liptrot Hatton, the composer of 'To
Anthea.' Hatton was a merry wag; he and Sivori,
the violinist, were one Sunday at St. Peter's Catholic
Church, Seal Street; Sivori, who was one of the
shortest of men, was standing on tip-toe looking
through the curtain which hid the singers from view
in the organ-gallery, when Hatton, spying a good
opportunity for a practical joke, seized him by the
heels and jerked him three parts over the reading-desk
and back again breathless, before he knew where he
was. When “Jack Sheppard' was first produced in
London with the inimitable Mrs. Keeley, Paul Bed-
ford, etc., it made such a sensation that the manager
of the Little Liver' in Church Street* determined
upon producing it with his own company rather than
11
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* A pet name for the Liver Theatre ; it was very small, and a great
favourite with the Liverpudlians.
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wait until the London company visited the provinces.
There was only one difficulty about casting the parts.
The company included some very good actors ; but
they had nobody who could play Blueskin and sing the
song, and Blueskin without · Jolly Nose 'would never
do. Hatton was always about the theatre. I think
he played in the orchestra, and went on the stage
occasionally among the crowd. He had a fairly
sonorous voice, plenty of humour, and his capabilities
were well-known to all connected with the theatres,
so in their dilemma he was applied to to play Joe
Blueskin ; his diffidence, which was not armour-plated,
was soon disposed of, and he consented. The drama
had a run of several weeks, and was received with
uproarious applause, Hatton having to sing the song
three times every night. When the London company
came down to Liverpool and played it at the Theatre
Royal it fell flat, spite of the 'only Jack. It had been
performed ever so many times better at the 'Liver.'
As to Paul Bedford, he was nowhere, after Jack Hatton!
My mother possessed, as did several members of
her family, a peculiarly sympathetic voice, so I presume
I inherited from my parents a musical nature. Both
were of very nervous temperament, which I inherited
also. The first song I ever learned was When I was
a little boy scarce thirty years ago,' which I was often
called on to sing for the amusement of visitors. I was
so nervous that I would have run miles away to escape
the dreadful ordeal ; but my nervousness was set down
to obstinacy and ill-will, and many a bitter moment I
endured in consequence.
I could not have been more than eight when my
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father commenced teaching my elder sister and me our
notes. I loved music, but my dread of singing before
anyone held me back, and I was constantly repri-
manded for obstinacy and indifference when no such
feelings influenced me; so that what otherwise might
have been a source of amusement and delight became
an intolerably irksome task. I began to loathe the
sound of the piano, and tried by every means in my
power to escape music in any form.
At school, at times, I was accused of idleness and
lack of zeal, when in reality nervousness prevented me
from putting myself forward. At examinations I never
could do myself justice. An hour each week was
devoted to recitations; my first was Bishop Heber's
hymn, 'From Greenland's icy mountains. Each week,
after it had been given me to learn, I sat shuddering,
cold as the “icy mountains,' my heart beating so
loudly that I fancied my neighbour could hear it, such
was my dread of being called on to recite before the
boys. I avoided the master's eye in the hope of
escaping his notice, but at length the fatal moment
arrived, and I had to go to execution. I tottered on
to the platform, my teeth chattering and the nerves of
my mouth twitching as though I had been seized with
St. Vitus's dance. I knew the piece perfectly, but I
had barely uttered the first line when I broke out into
a violent fit of sobbing. The professor, though a
strict disciplinarian, was very kind-hearted, and evi-
dently comprehending the cause of my distress, allowed
me to return to my place. When the class was dis-
missed he called me to him and spoke so kindly and
encouragingly that I determined to do my best to over-
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come my weakness. To a great extent I succeeded.
I gained sufficient command over myself to be able to
repeat the words, but rarely with the force and expres-
sion I felt.
At the breaking-up for the Midsummer vacation the
recitations were given in the lecture hall of the institu-
tion, in the presence of the pupils and their parents
and friends. On one occasion I had to take the part
of Miss Lucretia Mac Tabb in a scene from The
Poor Gentleman. I performed it very badly, for
besides my nervousness I felt I was an object of
ridicule to my schoolfellows in my attempt to portray
the vagaries of an ancient coquette. The summer I
left school I took the part of Hamlet in the scene with
the Gravedigger. I believe I did that fairly well, but
I was in great trepidation lest the skull should roll out
of my hand whilst I was delivering the lines, ‘Alas!
poor Yorick,' so violently did I tremble.
My natural nervousness was increased by a fright I
had when about ten years of age. I was out one
evening playing with my companions on some waste
ground near our house, when the maid came out and
informed me that my father wished to see me imme-
diately. I was loath to leave my play, but I knew I
must obey, so ran off in great haste, and knocked at the
door, which was opened by an awful-looking figure. I
uttered a fearful shriek and dropped almost insensible
on the steps. When I recovered I crawled back to
join my playfellows, but all my spirit was gone. I
remained out of doors until very late, and not until I
had been positively assured there was nothing to fear
would I venture home. A young Quakeress, a friend
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of my sister's, had coloured her face with Spanish
juice and clothed herself in some outlandish garments,
intending to create a bit of fun at my expense. For
some time I never entered the house without a
shudder. A year after, when the effect of the shock
had nearly worn off, the joke was repeated, with a
similar result, a hideous mask being substituted for the
paint.
Although nervousness at times has prevented my
WU
could always command myself to such an extent that
it was only apparent to those intimately acquainted
with me. I suffered from it when I took part with
others. The first few times I played in an orchestra
I could scarcely keep the bow steady on the strings of
my fiddle, and when I began to sing in the chorus I
had difficulty in keeping my breath and my voice under
control.
The intimate desire of my heart was to be an actor,
but of this I never breathed a word to anyone. My
family had been brought up with the Puritanical notion
that all stage-players, singers, and such-like were no
better than they ought to be, and in general much
worse. I seldom saw the inside of a theatre before I
was seventeen or eighteen ; on rare occasions I was
taken, and more rarely still allowed to accompany a
friend to see a play. When I was about four or five
my aunt took my sister and me to see Ducrow's circus.
The first part of the performance was the drama of
stage-struck. In spite of the nervousness I suffered
from when called upon to recite at school, I tried all in
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my power to obtain permission to have a whole play
acted by the boys as part of the entertainment at the
breaking-up, but without success. I read Shakespeare's
plays, of which ‘Macbeth' was my favourite, con-
stantly; two or three of them I knew by heart. My
father had some volumes of miscellaneous plays, among
them · Cato,' Venice Preserved,' 'Tamerlane,' “The
Hypocrite,' • The Jew, with the original casts and
descriptions of costumes, which I read and re-read. I
used to study all the playbills, and picture to myself,
when quiet at home in the evening, the scenes which I
longed to see represented.
I have said before that music became irksome to
me, and that I tried to escape from it in any form.
This was the result of making it a task instead of a
pleasure, an error which I imagine many parents fall
into through misunderstanding the child's nature. I
was called stubborn, whereas I was nervous and diffi-
dent, and very much averse to being shown off. I had
plenty of work to do at school, and tasks to prepare at
home, and I deemed it unjust that the little time I had
for recreation should be employed in a study which,
with my parents' ideas of professional life, could lead to
nothing
My dislike, however, must have been superficial ;
the spirit of music lay dormant in my heart, only
awaiting the proper touch to waken it into a passion-
and thus it happened. My father was organist at the
old Catholic church of St. Mary, Edmund Street,
for some years before it was demolished to make
room for a more convenient structure; he then
removed to the Baptist Chapel, Myrtle Street,
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1
which had just been opened. When the new St.
Mary's was completed, he was invited to return to his
old post; but having a good organ at his disposal, and
finding himself in all other respects at his ease, he pre-
ferred remaining at the new one. It was here I first
joined in public musical performances. I sang alto, and
I was so small that a platform was made for me to
stand on, in order that I might be on a level with the
other members of the choir. On the occasion of an
important Catholic festival they arranged to perform
Haydn's First Mass, with full orchestral accompani-
ment, at St. Mary's. The organist, having to conduct,
invited my father to preside at the organ ; he found a
substitute to take his own place, and accepted the
invitation. I accompanied him, curious to hear an
orchestra in church. The effect on me was profound ;
the chord was struck, and from that time I lived on
and for music.
It may be interesting to note how many of my first
experiences at the commencement of my career were
furnished by Haydn's works. My first awakening to
the charm and power of music was in the performance
of Haydn's First Mass, as I have related above. My
first attempt as a bass soloist was in Haydn's Second
Mass, and my first paid engagement was to sing in
Haydn's Third Mass at St. John's Cathedral, Salford.
The first time I assisted in the chorus at a public per-
formance was in the Creation,' when Jenny Lind sang
at the Collegiate Institution, Liverpool, in 1849. The
first oratorio I heard in London was the Creation,' at
Exeter Hall, in 1851. I made my first appearance in
London at St. Martin's Hall, November 16, 1857, and
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13
same oratorio. I had an experience of another kind
in the same work at Southampton in 1869. Twice I
received a blow on my crown, enough to stun me, from
the bâton of a clumsy individual who was trying to
conduct for the first time.
CHAPTER II.
Youthful Aspirations and subsequent Disillusionment–Artistic Cant-
The Need of Earnestness-The Singer's Difficulty-First Public
Solo, Christmas Day, 1848–Bass or Tenor ?-Desire to play the
Violin-I join an Amateur Orchestra—“An Accomplished Violinist !
-Elected a Performing Member of the Liverpool Philharmonic
Society--Performance at an Eisteddfod - The Dangers of the Stick
-Performance of the “Elijah'-Overwhelming Impressions-My
First' Domino'—Difficulties of the Dress Question-Viardot Garcia
and Ronconi-Ronconi's Dramatic Genius - Lablache and Mario-
Journey to London in 1851--Still singing Tenor-Joseph Lidel's
Friendly Encouragement-Elected principal Second Violin in the
"Società Armonica'-My Excess of Zeal: a Second 'Domino'-
Unsuccessful attempt to join the Philharmonic Orchestra-I join the
Basses-Public Appearances-Stockhausen and Staudigl.
OX
The chord was struck !-how, I know not. Though
I remember every sensation the music roused in me, I
cannot describe one. Disillusion and disappointment
have long since warped the pure, innocent feeling of
delight, and the aspirations it gave rise to, which filled
my boy's heart. Indeed, it would not be difficult to
indulge in sarcastic comments on the innocent belief
which I then cherished in the omnipotence of artistic
merit. I had not then learned that talent, unaccom-
panied by the blast of trumpets, has a weary, toilsome
road to trace in order to obtain, if ever it does obtain,
due recognition. I did not then know (as now I do
know) that it was necessary for an artist himself to tell
the world he was great, and wherein his greatness lay,
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in order that the world might recognise his great quali-
ties. I did not know that pinchbeck was frequently
preferred to gold, impudent sham to modest reality ;
and I had not read “Sartor Resartus,' nor meditated
on the fact that 'man is not only a gullible animal, but
that he prefers to be gulled. I have learned all this in
the course of my career, as much greater men than I
have done. I have seen that monstrous incompetency,
aided by backsheesh' of one kind or another, is more
than a match for titanic genius, and that a pat on the
back from a royal hand is of more avail than con-
summate talent. And I have learned that fuss and
talk about Art, Poetry, Painting, Architecture, Music,
is mostly cant and hypocrisy.
I never read one of Hazlitt's essays, but I came
across this quotation in a little book called 'Noon,' by
Sidney Lear:
'I think that, though there is very little downright
hypocrisy in the world, there is a great deal of cant.
Cant is the voluntary overcharging or prolongation of a
real sentiment; hypocrisy is the setting up of a preten-
sion to a feeling you never had and have no wish for.
'Though very few people have the face to set up
for the very thing they in their hearts despise, we
almost all want to be thought better than we are, and
affect a greater admiration or abhorrence of certain
things than we really feel. There are people who are
made up of cant—that is, of mawkish affectation—but
who have not sincerity enough to be hypocrites—that
is, have not hearty dislike or contempt enough for
anything to give the lie to their puling professions of
admiration and esteem for it.'
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masse
Of all cants I believe that most in vogue is the
cant about Art. It displays itself in various ways;
very commonly in the way of patronage-patronage
bestowed on the deference paid to the patron, rather
than on the merits of the patronized ; patronage, the
destruction of many young people who might have
been usefully and profitably employed in trade and
commerce, but who, carried away by the flattery of
ignorant would-be patrons of Art, have dared to pass in
at the door of her temple, only to be shouldered out
and left to starve by the roadside.
There is the cant about educating the masses from
their childhood, and teaching them to appreciate Art,
which, as far as music is concerned, costs the British
nation a large sum of money-money which, instead of
being thrown in the gutter, as it is, might be employed
in the endowment of establishments where those who
by hard work have made themselves worthy to be
called artists could find sure employment for their
talents.
And there is the worst cant of all, about a National
Opera, which, as every schoolboy knows (to use a
well-known and favourite cant phrase), will never exist
unless the British nation agrees to subsidize theatres
and pension singers as in Germany and France. But
even then the patrons of Art must be prepared to sup-
port the undertaking by constant attendance, not merely
by putting in an appearance to hear a favourite singer.
The greatest disappointment I have met with
through life has been the lack of earnestness I have
experienced in the major part of my fellow-workers,
whether in my commercial or professional career. I
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men are
can understand men who, having no particular bent,
are doomed to pass their lives as clerks, with nothing
to look forward to but uninteresting work poorly paid,
finding the monotonous drudgery of an office not by
any means conducive to exertion beyond that which is
necessary to earn their pay; but I cannot understand
a man professing to be an artist being contented to
remain at the bottom of the ladder, when he knows
that, in defiance of all obstacles, he must rise if he
wishes so to do. He may not rise to the top, for all
men are not endowed with the necessary means; to
some are given five talents, to some three, and to some
only one, and from each of them only a proportionate
result is expected. But what a number of instances I
could cite where that expectation, far from being
fulfilled, has not even been approached! At the same
time, I must say I have known instances where limited
natural resources have been turned to so good an
account by hard work and perseverance, that they
have outstripped and eclipsed gifts which ought to
have carried their possessors to the top of the ladder.
Discontent with their humble means prevents some
from striving ; vanity and laziness many whose
brilliant natural endowments ought, with conscientious
work, to place them in the front rank. Man is
naturally vain and lazy, and I think a singer, to become
a real artist, has to make a harder struggle against
these natural defects than the followers of any other
art, and for this reason. The essential natural qualifi-
cation for a singer is a sonorous voice of sympathetic
quality ; the unintellectual public is satisfied with the
sound which pleases its ear, and bestows its applause
2
18
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1
irrespective of artistic merit. Vanity and laziness step
in and say, “The public is content, the money rolls in ;
why study more?' Conscience is thrust aside. How
many promising young artists have come to an un-
timely end in consequence! Yet I have known some
who, when the voice has begun to lose its charm,
roused by the voice of conscience, with determined
efforts have succeeded in making Art a more than
efficient substitute for the magic of a fresh voice.
The singer has a difficulty to contend with which
does not affect any other artist, except, in a less
degree, the actor. The singer's work is a picture
painted on air. No sooner is it depicted than it is
gone; while the poet's, painter's, sculptor's and
architect's works remain, and can be examined and
analyzed at leisure. Delicacy of treatment is the
quality which is slowest to make an impression on the
public eye or ear. The delicacy of a poem, a picture,
a statue, or an edifice, though it may not strike at a
first reading or view, will gradually impress itself on
further acquaintance. The aerial picture of the singer,
on the other hand, vanishes, and there remains nothing
more than a dim shadow, insufficient to recall any real
impression of its merit. Hence, almost unconsciously,
in order to produce an immediate impression, the
singer lays on strong, glaring colour and deep
shadows where his artistic sense would suggest more
delicate treatment.
On Christmas Day, 1848, I sang my first solo in
public at the Unitarian Chapel, Toxteth Park, where
my sister and I had been engaged some months. My
voice was steadily growing uncertain, which increased
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OF CHARLES SANTLEY
my trepidation, but I got through it without breaking
down, and felt very thankful. In a few months my
alto voice had gone completely, and was succeeded by
what one of my relations described as an “ugly noise.'
Except in the solitude of my own chamber, I did not
exercise the noise for some time. I thought (perhaps the
wish was father to the thought) my register lay in the
TT
and as soon as my voice became somewhat settled, I
adopted the tenor clef. I do not think I troubled my-
self much about the matter at that time, so anxious
was I to take part in the chorus in a performance of
'Elijah,' in which Jenny Lind was to sing, and to gain
my object I would have tried to sing any part. I was
disappointed, however ; I was shelved on account of
my youth, and so missed a rare treat and a fine
lesson.
The first result of my wakening up to the charms of
music was the development of an ardent desire to
learn the violin, not with any idea of becoming a
soloist, but simply to enable me to play in an orchestra.
As a child my sympathy was with the brass instru-
ments, especially the trumpet ; to the wood instruments
in general I had a decided antipathy. I remember
Charles Horn giving a series of entertainments--they
may have been lectures in the Lecture Hall of the
Mechanics Institution; the illustrations were per-
formed by a small band of ten or twelve instruments,
assisted by the piano. Among them there was a
piccolo, who, to judge by the vigour he displayed,
earned his money by the sweat of his brow'; the
shrill noise he produced acted so acutely on my nerves,
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that I felt perfectly terrified, and entreated to be taken
home.
I begged to be allowed to learn the violin, but my
father, thinking it was only a whim, insisted on my
turning my attention to the piano or organ, the instru-
ments to which he himself was attached, though I had
no love for either. The organ I disliked, probably on
account of the many weary hours I had passed blowing
the bellows whilst my father practised. I tried to
learn the piano, but failed to make anything of it. A
friend of ours, an amateur of music, and also of
cabinet. making, had constructed a violin of a novel
shape; he induced my father to allow him to lend it to
me, and gave me some preparatory lessons in order
to test whether I was in earnest. My progress was
sufficiently satisfactory, and in a short time I possessed
a violin of my own, and had some lessons from a pro-
fessor. I never was a violinist, but in about eighteen
months I was able to join the Società Armonica,' an
amateur orchestral society, as a second violin, with
which I was quite content.
In a biographical sketch which appeared shortly
after I came to London, it was stated that, besides
being a vocalist of merit, I was an accomplished
violinist, which kindly-intentioned announcement placed
me on one occasion in a ludicrous dilemma. I was
invited to assist at a musical soirée at Ernst Pauer's
one evening. The first item in the programme was a
string quartette in which Joachim was to play first
violin, and as the gentleman who had promised to play
second had not arrived some time after the time fixed
for commencing, to my dismay I was asked to take
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21
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_
his place, being an accomplished violinist.' I respect-
fully declined, and felt very much ashamed of having
sailed under false colours, although I had nothing
to do with the statement, whose author I do not
know, nor do I know whence he received his infor-
mation.
My school-days were drawing to a close. At mid-
summer, 1849, I was to make my entry into the com-
mercial world, or as soon after as I could procure a
situation. I did not look forward with unalloyed
pleasure to office-work, but as I saw it was my inevit-
able fate, I resigned myself with as good a grace as I
could. On my fifteenth birthday I passed my ex-
amination, and was elected a performing member of
the Philharmonic Society. The new hall was to be
opened in the following August, and I must confess I
sincerely hoped my fate would not dispose of me
before that time, and so prevent my taking part in the
inaugural performances. My father and sister were
also elected members, but without any trial, as their
capacity was already known. Soon after my election
I sang in the chorus in the performance of the
' Creation 'I have noticed at the end of the previous
chapter, and in the summer I was one of a picked
chorus who sang in the Messiah' at the Eisteddfod
held in Rhuddlan Castle. Misses Lucombe (after-
wards Mrs. Sims Reeves), Camilla Chipp, and
Charlotte Dolby, and Messrs. Sims Reeves and
Machin were the soloists. The orchestra was not large,
but fortunately very choice, or the worthy man who
tried to conduct would have led us all to destruction.
It is unwise in a man who has not had the chance
22
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serv
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V
of gaining experience to undertake to conduct an
orchestra on an important occasion. The attractions
of the 'stick, however, seem to be irresistible. I
have suffered from it to no small extent during my
career.
As soon as the crush-room of the new hall could be
made ready, and sufficient of an organ erected to
accompany, we proceeded to rehearse the music to be
performed at the festival—at first once, later on twice
and three times a week. As the rehearsals became
frequent I found singing in too high a register strained
my voice, and occasionally when I could escape ob-
servation I took a rest—much against my will, as I
was very earnest in the work. To force myself to
keep silence I distracted my attention, noting what
was going on about me, for which my elevated posi-
tion—near the back row of the orchestra-furnished
me with ample opportunity. Of those in my immediate
vicinity, I could not avoid remarking some to whom
even a simple psalm-tune without accompaniment must
have been a hard nut to crack. Down below, in front
of me, the conductor (the treasurer and sub-conductor
of the society) proved an attractive distraction; had
his ability been proportionate to his gymnastic vigour
we might have mastered all our work for the festival
in a third of the time we spent over it. He must
have cost the society a small fortune in sticks : the
pieces flew about at times like a shower of hail. But
the most amusing distraction of all I found in watching
some half-dozen amateur violinists, performing mem-
bers, who volunteered their services to assist at the .
rehearsals. In the fortes it seemed as though no
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7
TIT
cords manufactured from silkworms' or even cats' intes-
tines could resist the terrific sweep of their bows; but
in the pianos, where Best (our organist) left them free
scope to shine out, I noticed—the result probably of
the vigorous bowing aforesaid—strings required mend-
ing or bows had to be cleared of loose hairs. The
flies and other noxious insects sent to torment the
wicked Israelites apparently renounced all idea of a
concerted plan of attack and flew about wildly in all
directions; the fire caused the hail to evaporate before
it could reach the ground, and Elijah's prayers were
responded to by the feeble dribblings of a leaky
watering-pot.
Occasionally a bandmaster named Gribbin attended
these rehearsals to lead the amateurs to the attack.
He was a rough, energetic fiddler, and a practical
joker ; when opportunity offered he would make a
feint of attacking vigorously, inducing his unwary
followers to rush on to their destruction, and exposing
them to the ire of the conductor and the derisive
cheers of the choristers.
Fortune favoured me: I was free to assist at the
festival, and I looked forward with unbounded delight
to the great musical feast I was about to enjoy. The
chorus, numbering about three hundred, was in a
highly efficient state ; by dint of going over the same
ground so often even the most obtuse had succeeded
in absorbing their music ; the sub-conductor abdicated,
and the amateur fiddlers were relegated to the audi-
torium. The full rehearsals commenced with the
Elijah. I was so excited I had the utmost difficulty
in keeping my attention fixed on my own work; do
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what I would, I could not avoid listening to the
orchestra, which, except a few of the strings, consisted
of the leading members of the London orchestras, then
in their prime-Sainton, Blagrove, Hill, Lucas, Piatti,
Howell, Bottesini, Barrett, Nicholson, Lazarus, May-
cock, Baumann, Platt, Harper, Cioffi, Prospere, and
Chipp.
1
The ‘Elijah,' being comparatively a new work, was
rehearsed in its entirety, so I had an opportunity of
hearing the solo parts as well as the choruses, with the
orchestral accompaniment. I was too young and
inexperienced to grasp all its beauties (after all these
years I find new fones each time I take part in it), but
what I did seize sufficed to impress me with the reality
of the genius of its immortal composer. As the fine
dramatic scenes succeeded each other my excitement
increased, until the rush of the deluge of tropical rain
utterly overwhelmed me. I dropped into my seat
powerless; it seemed as though the heavens had
opened in reality and poured down their waters in a
cataract on my devoted head. The whole week was
one of intense excitement; I ate, drank, and dreamed
music. At the rehearsal of Rossini's 'Stabat Mater,'
in my eagerness, I did not notice the bar's rest before
the 'Amen,' and performed a solo, which called forth
some witty remark from Benedict about the future
career of the singer who made the 'domino,' and some
merriment at my expense from the orchestra.
For the sake of uniformity the committee requested
the gentlemen of the chorus to appear at the morning
performances in black frock-coats and dark waistcoats
and trousers, at the evening concerts in black dress-
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REMINISCENCES 25
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OF CHARLES SANTLEY
coats and trousers and white waistcoats. I still wore
an Eton jacket, so had no difficulty about the coat;
but I did not possess a white waistcoat, nor had I
money to invest in one. I accepted the loan of one,
several sizes too large, from an uncle, which had to be
pinned up to fit my then slender frame. I was per-
fectly satisfied, but I must have cut a comical figure,
as I was made the object of an extensive display of
wit, against which my courage was not proof, so after
the first evening I wore my Sunday vesť of blue
cashmere.
I have no notes or programmes of the performances ;
I cannot therefore give any detailed account of them.
Of the singers the one who impressed me most was
Madame Viardot Garcia, signally in the scene of
Queen Jezebel in the 'Elijah'; the song, 'If guiltless
blood,' from 'Susannah'; and the great air, ‘Leise,
leise, Fromme weise,' from 'Der Freischütz. No
woman in my day has ever approached Madame
Viardot as a dramatic singer; she was perfect, as far as
it is possible to attain perfection, both as singer and
actress. The only man who was worthy to rank with
her was Giorgio Ronconi ; he was not engaged at the
festival, but I cannot help introducing his name here
whilst speaking of Madame Viardot. I had the good
fortune to hear them together as Papageno and Papa-
gena, in the Magic Flute,' at Covent Garden, in
1851 ; the duet in the last act was a fine piece of low
comedy. Ronconi was a perfect imp at playing tricks,
but he never played the fool, however farcical the
scene in which he was engaged. Many frequenters of
the Royal Italian Opera must still remember his won-
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1
derful by-play whilst Adelina Patti was singing · Batti,
batti' and `Vedrai carino' in Don Giovanni'; how
he added to the effect of her singing without distract-
ing the attention of the audience from herself. I have
seen Madame Viardot play Donna Anna in ‘Don
Giovanni,' Desdemona in Rossini's 'Otello,' and Fides
in 'Il Profeta,' three fine specimens of tragedy ;
Rosina in the ' Barbiere di Siviglia,' a sparkling piece
of comedy united to superb singing ; and Amina in
* La Sonnambula,' a poetic creation only equalled by
Madame Carvalho's Marguerite in 'Faust.'
I have often heard actors remark, · He is not a bad
actor for a singer! What condescension! The
dramatic genius and versatility of these two great
artists I have never seen excelled, and seldom equalled,
by any actor in my day. I once, only once, had the
happiness of taking part in an opera with Ronconi, in
Don Giovanni,' at the New York Academy in 1872,
when I played Don Giovanni and he Leporello. His
acting in the last scene, when the statue appears, was
of itself sufficient to justify all I have said of his
genius. With Madame Viardot I never had a chance
of appearing on the stage—I was but a crude beginner
when she was retiring. Another great artist, great
both in bulk and genius, I heard, and I always regret
for the only time, at the festival – Luigi Lablache. I
have heard many since try to sing Rossini's “Taran-
tella,' but his wonderful execution of it remains undis-
turbed in my memory. Mario, then at his zenith, sang
splendidly ; in after years we became intimate friends,
and many a good lesson I have had from him.
I had only one fault to find with the festival—with
T
as
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enamou
nce
1
all the rehearsals and performances, it was too short.
How the experience of a few years alters one's ideas !
My first important journey was to London, in 1851,
to see the great Exhibition. I enjoyed myself very
much, except for the Exhibition itself, which I found
an intolerable bore. My great feasts were at the
Opera, where I saw 'Il Profeta' and “Il Flauto
Magico,' and at Exeter Hall, where I heard the 'Crea-
tion. After these my great delight consisted in
wandering and staring about the streets. I became
enamoured of London, and, probably influenced by the
history of Richard Whittington, conceived a great
desire to become a citizen. My desire has since been
fulfilled. A few years ago I was elected a member of
the Musicians' Company.
In 1851 I was in the second year of my apprentice-
ship to a firm in the American provision trade, at the
termination of which I was engaged as book-keeper in
a branch of the most extensive leather and hide factors'
in the world. All my spare time I devoted to music.
I was a member of the Philharmonic Society, where I
continued to sing tenor in the chorus until I felt
convinced I was injuring my voice. I played the
violin for some time at the Festival Choral Society,
and was a member of a Glee Union conducted by
Joseph Lidel, an accomplished violoncellist, who took a
great fancy to me; it was chiefly through his friendly
disinterested interference that it was ultimately deter-
mined I should make music my profession. I also
became a member of the Società Armonica, of which
I have before spoken, conducted by Charles Baader
Hermann. Although I was not a great executant, I
28
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
.
.
was a good reader, and was elected to the post of
principal second violin in preference to some of my
more skilful colleagues. I never enjoyed myself,
engaged in music, so much as I did at our practices. I
was terribly in earnest,' and on one occasion fell a
victim to my zeal. We were trying Beethoven's
Symphony in B flat, always my favourite. At the end
of the first movement I became so excited in my work
that I added an extra bar to the score—my second
'domino'—and was rewarded by a burst of friendly
ironical cheers, which for a few moments considerably
damped my ardour.
My friend Charles Hermann took great interest in
me, and, fearing my voice, which promised well (I was
only sixteen), might suffer if I continued singing, recom-
mended me to change from the chorus to the orchestra
of the Philharmonic Society. I applied for permission
to the secretary, from whom I received a very un-
gracious rebuff. As I could not keep aloof from any
music in which I had the opportunity of taking part,
after two months' cessation I returned to the chorus.
I then determined on conversion, and, with the sanction
of the committee, took my place among the basses.
My first essay as a soloist was at St. Anne's Catholic
Church, Edgehill, where for some time I had accom-
panied my sister, who was the leading soprano, and
assisted in the chorus among the tenors. They had no
professional bass singer, and, as I learned they were
looking out for one, I applied to the conductor for the
post. He smiled dubiously, but allowed me to make a
trial. I sang the short solo, ' Et incarnatus est,' in
Haydn's Second Mass, reading off the same copy with
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y
Julius* Stockhausen, who, with his friend E. Silas,
was at that time residing in Liverpool. I obtained the
situation, and soon afterwards made my appearance in
public at a concert given by the Glee Union before
mentioned. I sang · Rage! thou angry storm,' from
Benedict's opera, 'The Gipsy's Warning,' which I had
shortly before heard Staudigl sing. Of course, I tried
my best to imitate him, and I dare say I succeeded-
very imperfectly! No doubt, there was an unmistak-
able trace of his influence, and Lidel ever after called
me young Staudigl. Costa, the first time I sang for
him, remarked a great similarity in the tone of my
voice to that of Staudigl. I only heard him about
three times, and those towards the end of his career.
No singer has ever had such a peculiar effect on me,
apart from his singing. Each time he stepped on to
the platform I felt a thrill run through my whole body,
as though he possessed some magnetic influence over
me.
* He was called Jules then, as he had just come from Paris, where he
learned singing
(D
CHAPTER III.
Carl Formes' Influence upon me-My Ignorance of Registers—The
Mistakes of Singing Masters : Jean de Reszke, Mario, and Sims
Reeves -- A Plague of Doctors — Officious Friends predict my
approaching Decease--The Monotony of Business-A Momentous
Decision-My Farewell Concert-Sims Reeves' Encouragement-
Start for Italy, October, 1855—The Tyranny of Fashion—The Art of
Smoking-Mario's Fondness for Tobacco.
1
I CANNOT now call to mind all the occasions on which
I appeared in public. I believe the second was at a
concert of the Società Armonica, when I fiddled
through the first part, and sang ‘Haste nor lose the
fav'ring hour,' from 'Der Freischütz,' in the second.
Fiddling is not good preparation for singing ; but I
did my best, whatever that may have been, and
evidently satisfied my public, as they made me repeat
the song.
Owing to a misunderstanding between our choir-
master and the head priest of St. Anne's, the whole
choir migrated to the Jesuit church of St. Francis
Xavier, where I often had an opportunity of singing
a solo in the evening before Benediction. As soon as
I adopted the bass clef, I let my hair grow long, in
imitation of Carl Formes, and tried to grunt below the
lines of the bass stave; but my mane never attained
the luxuriance of my model's, and my voice was like a
penny whistle in comparison to his. I was so struck
REMINISCENCES TATT
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by Formes' singing of 'In diesen heilgen Hallen,'
from · Die Zauberflöte,' that, finding an arrangement of
the air to Latin words, I was ambitious enough to
try it one evening in church. I got on very fairly until
I arrived at the final cadence, in which I intended to
descend to the lower E. Unluckily, I forgot the organ
was half a note below the usual pitch, and, being
nervous to boot, failed, to my utter confusion, to pro-
duce a sound, and retired to my place cheered by the
sniggering of my fellow basses.
1, like most people in England at that time, had not
recognised the difference between baritone and bass-
baritone was only considered a light bass ! I had no
one to guide me, and sang indiscriminately one or the
other; my ambition, as soon as I forsook the tenor
clef, being to arrive at the cellar region. Often have I
heard the remark, 'You don't call that a bass! Why,
he's only a baritone! In Italy I found the only was
applied to basses, and that baritones were held in
much greater esteem, inasmuch as every bass who
could ascend by any means to the high F called him-
self baritone. In England women are sopranos or
contraltos, men tenors or basses ; the intermediate
mezzo-soprano in women and baritone in men, and the
different qualities of soprano and tenor hold no position
of their own. Still, mezzo-soprano is as distinct from
soprano and contralto, and baritone from tenor or bass,
as soprano and contralto, tenor and bass are from each
other. Beyond this, there is in Italy a distinction
between light and dramatic soprano and light and
robust tenor, which in England does not seem to be
understood. In England a soprano, whatever style of
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
voice she may possess, is expected to sing anything
written for a soprano voice; it may be Amina one day
and the soprano music in the 'Elijah' another. A
tenor, either light or robust, must be prepared to sing
the music of Elvino or the tenor music in the Mes-
siah,' most of which lies much below the register of a
light tenor, as the “Sonnanbula' music is above the
register of a robust tenor. In both cases the voice
must be forced, and forcing a voice either up or down,
beyond deteriorating the quality, may destroy it alto-
gether. This is noticeable mostly in contraltos. As a
rule, they force their voices to produce big (ugly) low
notes, and by so doing relax the vocal cords to such
an extent that they lose their power to produce a full,
steady sound in the medium or natural register, the
result being a hole in the voice (which no exercise can
bridge over) and false intonation. Fine high or low
notes produce a very good effect if used with discretion ;
but if abused to the detriment of the rest of the voice
they are better left alone, for good singing does not
depend on extraordinary notes, but on the proper use
of the ordinary ones.
The quality of the voice alone distinguishes the
register—with a young uncultivated voice it is often
difficult to decide ; and I have known instances where
the ablest and most experienced professors have made
mistakes.
A notable example of this is Jean de Reszke, who
some years ago was a baritone at the Italian Opera,
and is now the leading tenor. Mario told me that his
first essay before an audience was in the bass part of
the trio from William Tell’; and it is well known (I
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REMINISCENCES 33
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OF CHARLES SANTLEY
believe he relates it in his Reminiscences) that Sims
Reeves sang baritone for some time, his favourite
songs being ‘The Wolf' and 'The White Squall.'
It is also difficult to judge of the power of a voice;
in my opinion it is a mistake to attempt to do so in a
small or empty room. I have heard voices which in
the green-room were overpowering, and on the stage,
with anything like a full accompaniment, were almost
inaudible. I have also heard voices which in a small
room displayed but moderate power, that in a theatre
or concert-room expanded to a fulness and resonance
hardly credible.
In Italy the voice of a singer is said to be an index
to his character. Baritone being the natural voice of
man, and low bass and tenor being caprices of nature,
they argue that baritones are steady characters, whilst
low basses and tenors are whimsical and capricious.
Out of courtesy, I presume, there is no law laid down
for the fair sex.
About the period at which I commenced this chapter
I was occasionally subject to an inconvenience, which
in after years gave me much trouble and anxiety,
caused by a superabundance of saliva, which I was
perpetually trying to swallow. The muscles of the
throat seemed to relax in consequence of the incessant
action, and the voice, instead of issuing with freedom
and vigour, appeared to recede, producing a choking
sensation, very unfavourable to the delivery of a
sustained phrase. For some years after my return
from America in 1872 the inconvenience increased to
such an extent that at one time I thought I should
have to retire from the public exercise of my profession.
34
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
Il
I consulted several medical men, who subjected me to
a variety of treatments; one starved me, another
stuffed me, and a third dosed me with quinine, strych-
nine, and iron until I almost lost the sense of taste,
and the sight of food nauseated me. This last de-
clared my nervous system was all upset, and, as
nothing seemed to set it right, advised me a sea-
journey ; accordingly, I crossed to America and back,
but without any beneficial result. As a supplementary
worry some kind friend suggested I might be suffering
from a dangerous internal disorder, and some kinder
friend spread the report that I was actually a victim to
the disease, and that I had only three months to live
(I do not know from what date).
I received certainly not less than once a fortnight
anonymous letters or pamphlets treating of the cure
of the disorder in question, and occasionally old
acquaintances stopped me in the street to condole
with me on my approaching decease, and mourn
over the loss it would entail on the musical world!
Highly Aattering, but extremely annoying. At the
same time I knew from experiment that I not only
was not afflicted with the fatal disease, but that
there was not the slightest trace of it in my body. I
suddenly grew much thinner, losing about two stone
in three months. I then consulted my friend, Dr.
Owen Rees, who found that my trouble was the result
of inactivity of my liver, and, with simple means, in a
few months he restored me to health better than I had
ever enjoyed. It is curious that, possessed of a strong
constitution, and having done more, and more varied
work than any singer (except Sims Reeves) before the
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
1
YIT
LI
public, I should always have been singled out as a
subject for a premature end."
· A short time before I started for Italy in 1855, I met
a fellow chorister of the Philharmonic Society, who
hailed me with : 'So I hear you are off to Italy. “I
am,' I replied: “And what are you going to do?
Study singing! Why, man, you'll leave your bones
there!' I replied, 'Such is not my intention. Why
do you think so ?' Why, man, you're in a galloping
consumption !
I grew weary of the monotonous routine of keeping a
set of ledgers. There was plenty of work to do in
them, but work which a schoolboy of ordinary aptitude
for figures might learn to do in a week. I felt no
interest in it, nor could I see any prospect of altering
my position for the better in the commercial world.
I had no capital to invest in a business, and I am sure
I was not possessed by the spirit of commerce ; but I
did my duty faithfully, and had the satisfaction of know-
ing that my punctuality and zeal were fully recognised
by my principal. On one occasion when I asked for a
few days' leave of absence to go to the country he told
me I was at liberty to go at any time, provided my
books were made up, without waiting to ask his per-
mission. And when I told him I was about to leave
his employ to go to study in Italy, he said. If I double
your salary from to-day, will you stay?' I replied,
No, sir! “Then,' said he, “I see you have really
made up your mind, and although I very much regret
losing you, I think you are acting wisely; here there
is nothing for you to look forward to, whilst in the
musical profession you have the world before you.'
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. One day towards the close of May, 1855, as my
father and I were returning to business after dinner,
I remarked that I did not see any prospect of advance-
ment beyond a 'modest position at a moderate salary
IC
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not try Italy? Save what money you' can; go and
study in Milan for a time. With your voice and
knowledge of music you can surely do something ! I
was so dumfoundered at this sudden opening of a
path out of the thicket of despair that I could not
speak; but I acted promptly, and set to work that day
to find an Italian master. A little before the next
quarter-day, June 30, I gave notice of my resolution to
my employer, with the result already recorded. Early
in October I gave a grand farewell concert at the
Lord Nelson Street Rooms, assisted by my elder
sister, Mr. W. Ryalls, a very popular tenor, Mr. T.
Armstrong, the principal bass singer in Liverpool,
and Mr. John Radcliffe, the celebrated flautist, then
Master Radcliffe, aged thirteen-my father presiding
at the piano as conductor.
I do not remember the exact receipts, but the net
proceeds amounted to about £18.
S
Som
some valuable information respecting masters in Milan
from Sims Reeves, to whom I was afterwards intro-
duced, during the interval, at one of the concerts of the
Philharmonic Society, when he spoke very kindly and
encouragingly to me. . Some friends in Chester pro-
cured me a letter of introduction to a gentleman in
Milan, which I was not at all anxious to accept, as
I felt shy about presenting it, but which turned out
<
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
37
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2.
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TA
<
to be of the utmost importance, as I will explain
further on.
Besides the few pounds I made by my concert I had
saved some £ 30 out of my year's salary. I had some
purchases to make of underclothing, a portmanteau,
etc., which reduced my capital to about £40, with
which sum I started for Milan on Saturday, October
27, 1855. A friend had jotted down divers available
routes, of which I chose the one I conceived would be
the shortest and cheapest-viâ Paris, Basle, Lucerne,
St. Gothard, and Camerlata. I stopped in London
over the Sunday, which I spent chiefly in strolling
about the West End, and enjoyed it very much,
especially Hyde Park, to my great relief divested of
that unsightly Exhibition building which had been my
antipathy in 1851.
In my business days a man who had the courage to
walk abroad in a turn-down collar or with an unshaven
face was set down as a blackleg or a foreigner. By
the street boys he was invariably held up to scorn as a
Frenchman, and assailed with the opprobrious epithet
of Mounseer' or · Frog. A clerk with a moustache
would not have been tolerated; with a turn-down
collar he would have been looked upon with suspicion,
as a probable frequenter of the music-hall or billiard-
saloon, neither of which, at that time, were the resorts
of respectable youths; and it was not the custom for
young men to smoke cigars and pipes on their way to
business—the exceptions to the rule were considered
eccentric, if nothing worse.
I was doomed to wear on my neck an instrument of
torture, which I conceived must be an invention of the
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
1111
enemy, it was so hideous and inconvenient. But as
soon as I found myself in London, released from the
fetters of commerce, I turned down my collar and
breathed freely. Nature saved me the trouble of
shaving by retarding the growth of my facial hirsute
appendage, and I could not smoke; nor did I acquire
the habit until I was twenty-eight years of age.
I am often asked if I consider smoking bad for a
singer. Scientifically I cannot offer an opinion, practi-
cally I think I can. Smoking is an art; it may be
made useful or otherwise, according as it is exercised.
By some it is called a filthy habit. I cannot understand
why. Tobacco is as clean a plant as tea or coffee ;
even its substitute, said to be used occasionally in the
manufacture of cigars—the domestic cabbage—is not
filthy. An inartistic smoker, like any other inartistic
individual, may 'make a mess '; a person who paints
may daub his attire and person with the pigments he
ought to lay on his canvas, but I should not call him a
‘painter. So a person who smokes may expectorate
into the grate or about the room, or scatter ashes in
places not intended for their reception, but I would not
call that person a 'smoker.'
Being an art, it requires study and attention to make
it useful, yet how few people who smoke study their
art and can claim to be called 'smokers. It is just
the same with riding. Of hundreds who mount and
remain fairly seated on a horse, however vicious he
may be, few become riders.' Of thousands who cover
canvas and paper with colours, and produce pleasant
and even striking results, it is not easy to find one
' painter.' Out of myriads who use their voices in
m
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
TAT
39
rin
VV
various ways according to the strength of their lungs
and the formation of their throats, it is difficult to find
one 'singer.'
A ‘smoker' ought to be able to distinguish between
a German cigar, dear at seven pounds a thousand, and
a Havana worth eight guineas a hundred, whereas
many persons who smoke cannot. He ought to smoke
without expectorating. He ought not to chew the end
of his cigar or the mouthpiece of his pipe. He ought
never to allow a drop of tobacco-juice to pass beyond
his lips. He ought neither to puff his tobacco for the
mere sake of enveloping himself in a cloud of smoke,
nor have to make repeated visits to the match-box.
And above all, he ought not to go about the whole
day long with a pipe or cigar in his mouth, but confine
himself to a moderate use of them. I do not arrogate
to myself the right to dictate laws; I simply recom-
mend these observations to the consideration of those
who smoke, as I believe that, with attention to them,
any healthy human being may smoke with impunity,
and in a good cigar or pipe of good tobacco find a
source of enjoyment, consolation, and benefit.
I took to smoking as a preventive of indigestion,
and found it a palliative, if not a remedy, and more
agreeable than ordinary medicine. As a rule, I do not
smoke during the working season until the evening,
after dinner, but if I have to sing in a matinée I
smoke a cigar after lunch. I find it soothes the nerves
and clears away cobwebs.
. I have never known a great singer who did not
smoke. Mario, for instance, smoked a great deal, and
apparently it did him 110 harm. He smoked from
17
40
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
twenty-five to thirty ordinary-sized cigars a day, and
in Italy, where real Havana cigars are rarely obtain-
able, he used to smoke a hundred Cavours a day.
The first time he accompanied the Mapleson Italian
Opera tour, our luggage was sent on to Dublin by the
North Wall boat, which arrived the day after we
arrived by the mail. I was wandering about in search
of my portmanteau in the morning, when I saw
Saw
Yn
LI
so I stepped into his room and sat down on the bed to
have a chat. He took a cigar out of his case, which
he always kept close at hand, and offered me one. At
first I declined, as I was not accustomed to tobacco at
such an early hour as eight a.m., and before breakfast.
However, he pressed me, and I thought I might as
well keep him company, so we both lighted up. We
grew interested in our conversation, one cigar suc-
ceeded another, and by nine o'clock, when his man
announced my portmanteau had been taken to my
room, he had disposed of five, and I of three.
I do not advocate smoking, nor do I deem it neces-
sary to smoke to become an artist ; my remark, that I
have never known a great singer who did not smoke,
I put forward merely as a curious coincidence. Those
who feel at all incommoded or unpleasantly affected by
smoking had much better leave it alone.
But, indeed, is not every occupation of our lives, be
· it for amusement, instruction, or gain, an art ? Even
supplying the inner man with food and drink is an art,
which, if properly studied, and exercised with judg-
ment, would go far to abolish gluttony and indigestion,
and anger, hatred, and malice would diminish, to the
VA
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
41
great advantage of the world in general. I do not
care how low in the scale the occupation may be, or
the person employed in it—a scullery-maid scouring
pots and pans, or a groom sweeping out the refuse
1
requisition, as attentive observation will verify. I
have more to say on the subject of eating and drinking,
but it is too early in the day, and there is still a great
deal of work to be done before we may sit down and
feast, so I will defer further dissertation thereon to a
later chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
Farewell to Liverpool-Lack of Appreciation in my Native Town-
Experiences on my Journey—A Breakfast at Havre-I witness a
Performance at the Paris Opéra Comique-Cruvelli at the Italian
Opera-Journey to Basle-Passage of the St. Gothard-Arrival at
Milan-Scene at the Railway-station-The Milanese Dialect-An
Attack of Home-sickness-Travellers, Old and New Style.
N1
T
I LEFT home without regret, except that of parting
with my parents, sisters and brother, with the expecta-
tion of not seeing them again for a long time. I had
never before passed more than four weeks away from
my father's roof. Leaving Liverpool did not cost me
a pang. I had never had a great affection for my
native town, nor for many of the people belonging to
it, and the climate did not suit me. I had experienced
no favour from a quarter where I think I was justified
in looking for some. I was a performing member of
the Philharmonic Society from F
the beginning of 1855. Although during the last
three years of that period I had met with a consider-
able amount of appreciation as a public singer, and
opportunities frequently occurred when the society
might have availed itself of my gratuitous services, and
done something to forward my interests, I never was
invited to take a solo part in any performance. Beside
the subscription concerts, for which artists from
IT
REMINISCENCES 7
43
OF CHARLES SANTLEY
LS
OU
London were engaged, there were minor performances
of oratorio with local soloists accompanied on the
organ. On one occasion Horsley's David'—which
was first brought out by the society—was given : the
principal bass part was allotted to Mr. Armstrong, and
the other less important bass part, which I hoped
might be offered to me, was entrusted to Mr. Scaris-
brick, a mediocre singer, one of the choir of Chester
Cathedral. Mr. Armstrong was prevented from ful-
filling his engagement, owing to the death of his
father; I then thought, surely I must have a chance!
But no : rather than favour me, Mr. Scarisbrick was
requested to sing both parts. At the last rehearsal,
however, when we arrived at the double quartette, there
arose a difficulty. The conductor exclaimed: What
are we to do now? We have no first bass !' Miss
Stott, our leading soprano, who had always displayed
a friendly interest in me, spoke out : 'Surely, Mr.
Conductor, there can be no difficulty ; Mr. Santley is
standing there! The conductor turned round and
said: 'If Mr. Santley thinks he can sing the part, I
shall be glad if he will oblige us by trying. I sang
it, and that was the only occasion, except when I made
the false start in the Amen of Rossini's 'Stabat Mater,'
already recorded, on which my voice was heard in the
Philharmonic Hall, until I returned from Italy. I was
never again asked to undertake the smallest solo part.
I felt hurt, and seceded from the society at the com-
mencement of the season 1854-55. When I gave my
farewell concert, I purposely chose a Monday evening,
being the rehearsal night of the Philharmonic, that
they might understand I did not intend to beg any
44
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
II
PS
favour of them. Very foolish, and probably worse, no
doubt, but I was piqued at the treatment I had re-
.ceived, and was too young to exercise patience and
judgment
On Monday, October 29, 1855, I started for Paris,
viâ Southampton and Havre. It was not until we
were clear of Southampton that I felt myself free from
a recall home, and I learned some years after that my
father had so many misgivings about my undertaking
that several times he was on the point of following me
to London to beg of me not to pursue my journey.
Once out of England, I knew I was safe—at any rate,
as far as Milan ; but after my arrival there, I did not
know what might happen. Forty pounds was a small
sum with which to start on a course of study in a land
of whose customs I knew nothing, and of whose
language I knew little more. I hoped in a few months
to be in a position to obtain some small engagement.
My views were not ambitious — anything for a
beginning, by which I might supplement my capital,
so as to keep body and soul together, gain experience,
and pursue my studies at the same time. My father
promised to assist me as far as he could, but I had no
desire to encroach on his slender means, and I had
sufficient pride to wish to keep myself, without being a
burthen to anyone. I can conscientiously say that I
never had money-making for an object; my aim and
ambition have always been to make the best use of the
talents God entrusted to me. I dismissed all thought
of future provision : I trusted in God for help, and I
did not trust in vain!
On board the packet I scraped acquaintance with a
T
Y
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
45
young Frenchman, a teacher at an English school,
going to spend a holiday in his native place. He
accosted me in French, but soon found that I had not
sufficient knowledge of the language to take part even
in an ordinary conversation ; he then took pity on me
and conversed in English. I owe him a great debt of
gratitude for his ready assistance in passing my
baggage through the Custom House, and myself
through the formalities incidental to the examination
and countersigning of my passport—both much more
troublesome then than at the present day.
Immediately after our arrival at Havre we were
visited by an official, who seemed to be a cross between
a beadle and a policeman. He wore a cocked hat, and
carried a tall stick, and looked so severe that I trembled,
lest, finding any discrepancy between my features and
their description in my passport, he might order me to
prison or back to my native land. My amiable com-
panion and I went on shore and repaired to a café on
the quay, where we had coffee and hot milk, such as I
had never before tasted, a fine crusty loaf, and abun-
dance of fresh butter, served in the open air by a
jolly-looking old woman in a snow-white Normandy
cap. She was such a dear-looking old soul, and was so
attentive to us, I would willingly have had a little con-
versation with her, but, for obvious reasons, had to
remain dumb. What I failed to express in language I
made up for in smiles and attention to the good things
with which she supplied us. We then repaired to be
examined at the passport-office and claim our passports,
which occupied a considerable amount of time ; we
saw our baggage registered and properly bestowed, and
Y
V
46
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
then my companion suggested it was time for break-
fast. I thought we had breakfasted, but I learned that
a cup of coffee with bread-and-butter does not
constitute a breakfast. We, therefore, betook ourselves
to another café, of a better class, in the town, where
we ordered so sumptuous a repast that I began to fear
I should have to dispose of the whole of the money I
had reserved for my journey almost before I was well
on my way. We had oysters ! cutlets with vegetables!
salad! cheese and dessert! a bottle of wine each, and a
cup of black coffee !a Lucullian feast to me, who had
never been accustomed to anything more than an
occasional egg as an addition to my coffee and bread-
and-butter; and, if I remember rightly, the meal cost
two and a half francs each, including the waiter's tip.
The journey through Normandy is very pretty, and
I enjoyed it much. Rouen passed, I grew drowsy
after the night-travelling, to which I was not accus-
tomed. At the railway-station in Paris I took leave of
my good-natured acquaintance, and crossed the street
to the small hotel to which I had been recommended ;
it was chiefly occupied by English mechanics and
warehousemen in charge of machinery and goods on
view at the Exhibition. I was shown to a small room
without a carpet, and a miserable little den it appeared
to me. A small bed, with the smallest allowance of
bed-clothes possible, a stand, on which were a cream-
jug full of water placed in a large saucer, one little
towel about the size of a decent pocket-handkerchief,
no soap, a looking-glass that made my face appear
longer than even the review of my dormitory, and a
chair, were all it contained. I felt that life was begin-
CUS-
WT
TOIII
L
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
47
ning in earnest, and at a very rough end ; but a little
thought on what might be before me dispelled the
gloom I felt gathering round my spirits, and I
descended to the dining-room. After a good plain
dinner and a glass (not a bottle this time !) of wine,
determined not to waste time, I started off, intending
to go to the Italian Opera, but I missed my way, and,
as I found it difficult to ask it of the passers-by, and
impossible to understand the directions they who con-
VV
11
was
SO
abandoned the idea. I turned a corner to retrace my
steps to my lodging, and found myself in front of a
large establishment brilliantly lighted, which I knew
must be a theatre. I was in hopes it was the one I
sought, but it turned out to be the Opéra Comique. I
had never heard of the opera announced for that
evening's performance; however, I entered the vestibule,
paid for a place, and, after ascending three fights of
stairs, was shown into a seat at the back of a little
stuffy box. The atmosphere was overpoweringly hot,
and the theatre was very bad for sound. The voices
of the singers were often inaudible where I was
perched ; there was a great deal of dialogue, of which
I could not make out a single word, so, having nothing
to arouse my interest, I fell asleep, and only woke as
the curtain was descending. I hurried out into the
fresh air. I had lost all idea of my latitude and longi-
tude ; I tried first one street and then another. I made
inquiries which no doubt were difficult to understand ;
received replies which I did not understand at all, but
only made confusion worse confounded. I had just
made up my mind to pass the night with the stars for
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
my coverlet, when I found, to my inexpressible
delight, I was at the foot of the Rue d'Amsterdam
where my hotel was situated. The landlord had kindly
waited up for me, and, of course, enjoyed the relation
of my evening's adventures much more than I had the
reality. I went off to bed, packed my overcoat and
all my available clothing on the bed to make up for the
want of blankets, popped in under them, and was in
the arms of Morpheus in the twinkling of an eye.
The next day I sallied forth to call at the English
Embassy, to have my passport viséd. I asked for the
Ambassador--I believe, Lord Lyons—and was ushered
into his presence. He received me very affably,
probably taking me for somebody connected with the
Exhibition ; but when he learned my business, dis-
missed me promptly, although very politely. I was
referred to a clerk, who told me that all that was
necessary had been added to my passport; but I had
such a dread of being made prisoner on my journey,
that I insisted on something further being done. He
smiled, told me to leave my passport and call in a
couple of days for it, and he would see that it was all
in order. I called, and received it with the stamp of
the Embassy added, for which I paid three francs. I
filled up my time with a visit to the Exhibition, which
had the same depressing effect upon me as that of 1851
and all others I have visited since. I noticed Verdi's
opera, the Vêpres Siciliennes,' was announced for
Wednesday, with Sophie Cruvelli in the cast, and I
could not resist the temptation of staying one day more
in order to have another opportunity of hearing the
goddess who had enchanted me a couple of years
was
INO
REMINISCENCES ny
V
49
2
OF CHARLES SANTLEY
before. I knew nothing about the distribution of
places, took what was offered me in exchange for my
money, and in consequence found myself with the crown
of my head almost touching the ceiling, planted behind
a row of people who, with that French politeness of
which I have often heard, but seldom experienced, *
would insist upon standing, and entirely obstructing
any view of the stage. Spite of the discomfort, I
enjoyed the performance. Obin, the bass, especially
pleased me; I was somewhat disenchanted by my god-
dess; the tenor I did not like ; and the baritone, Bon-
nehée, I liked very much, only, as he did not go down
to F, or anywhere near it, I did not take the interest
in him I would have done a few years later, when I
had learned to distinguish between bass and baritone.
On Thursday evening I left Paris for Basle. The
route then lay through Strasbourg, and a very tedious
journey I found it, in a slow train, seated for twenty-
two hours in a third-class carriage, with only a folded
shawl for a cushion, and with travelling companions
who had never acquired a taste for soap and water,
grimy soldiers, who made the compartment reek with
the smoke of vile tobacco ejected from filthy pipes, rest-
less children, and other minor eccentricities. At six p.m.
on Friday I reached Basle, and, after a hasty dinner,
left for Lucerne. The railway was in course of con-
struction, but was open for a very short distance ;
nearly the whole of the journey was in consequence
performed by diligence. I had taken my place at the
last moment, and found I had to ride outside. The
night was intensely cold, and when we arrived at
* I speak of Paris.
rou
-
LT
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
TY
Lucerne, between four and five in the morning, my legs
were so benumbed I could not stand for some minutes ;
my gums were swollen, and my throat ached, and I
began to fear there was a probability of my having made
my journey for nothing. However, I walked briskly
about, and in a short time found that my bottom G'
was still safe and sound, and my fears vanished.
The journey over the St. Gothard was much more
interesting in 1855 than it is now, spite of the expedi-
tion with which it is accomplished and the marvels of
engineering employed in its accomplishment. I passed
over on the 2nd November; a great deal of snow had
already fallen, and men were constantly employed clear-
ing the carriage-road beyond Andermatt. At Amsteg
the snow was fairly deep, but not sufficiently to prevent
the use of wheeled vehicles. I walked a great part of
the way from Amsteg to Andermatt, where we dined.
When I returned to take my place in the diligence I
found in its stead a number of small sledges like
children's go-carts, each capable of carrying two per-
sons face to face, drawn by one horse, with a man to
guide the machine. It began to snow afresh, and soon
grew dark. We were requested to keep the weight of
our bodies directed towards the side opposed to the
declivity, in order to avoid the possibility of an upset
into the deep snow, from which rescue would have
been difficult, if not impossible. I felt the cold pene-
trating to my bones. I was not provided with wraps ;
I had only an ordinary overcoat, and my clothes were
not of the thickest material ; but I was exhilarated
with the mountain-air and the novelty of the drive, and
took little notice of the cold until we halted at Airolo,
1
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
=
1
)
Serv
2
TTY
U
and I tried to straighten my limbs. The William Tell
who guided my sledge came to levy backsheesh (no
need to go so far as Egypt to learn what backsheesh
means), in this case well-deserved, for a more tedious
piece of work I can scarcely imagine. The horse,
harnessed to the sledge with ropes and without reins,
was left to his own devices, and the man, sitting on
the front, guided us over the slippery, uneven, frozen
snow by trailing his left foot along the ground by the
side of it. I unintentionally behaved shabbily to the
poor fellow. My companion, a French servant-man,
with true French polish, gave me a handful of small
coins in exchange for a five-franc piece, which I after-
wards discovered amounted to about two-thirds of its
value. I gave one of the pieces to the driver, who
seemed very angry ; but as I did not know what it
was worth I refused to give him more. Some time
after I learned the value of Swiss coins, and I then
found I had presented him with a piece worth five
centimes. I have often remembered my meanness
with remorse when I have been treated with contempt
by some embryo Arnold Unterwalten or Walter Fürst,
because I did not reward him with half a franc fór
merely pointing out a road.
At Bellinzona I nearly parted company with all my
worldly goods ; I made my appearance at the door of
the hotel where we stopped to change horses just in
time to prevent my portmanteau being carried to som'e
place in a direction opposed to that in which I was
journeying. It was broad daylight when we arrived
at Lugano ; a bright sunshiny morning, such as we
occasionally enjoy in May in our native island. -The
VUN
V 1
ds
ATT
lor
52
LIZI
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
n11a
IIW
discomfort of a sleepless night in a diligence was for-
gotten in a moment; I began to sniff the southern
breeze, and felt so happy I could have hugged myself
with delight. We arrived at Camerlata too late to
catch the early afternoon train, and, as we had to wait
for another until six p.m., I stepped over to the Station
Hotel, and ate my first dinner in Italy. I do not
know what it consisted of; I took whatever the waiter
seemed to think good for me. I found it excellent ;
but not having partaken of a proper meal since I left
Anderniatt, my appetite was so keen I should have
enjoyed it had it been a much more ordinary specimen
of culinary art.
At about nine p.m. on Sunday, November 4th, 1855,
on the feast of my patron saint, 'San Carlo Borromeo,'
I found myself at last within the gates of the city of
Milan.
As I was approaching the end of my journey I
could not but feel somewhat ashamed of my poor
attempt at speaking French, and determined, if pos-
sible, to prepare myself, that I might make a better
show in Italian, to which end I arranged in my mind a
series of phrases which I deemed would be necessary
and useful on the arrival of the train. What con-
fusion! Such a clatter of tongues! That of Babel
must have been a fool to it! Rival porters, struggling
for a job, literally yelled at each other ; passengers
calling down the choicest blessings or otherwise on
the heads of officious porters carrying off their bags
and wraps without orders ; and cabmen wrangling over
disputed fares. I was almost stunned, and the first
question propounded to me finished me off. “Cos'el
III1
Tv
1
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
.
53
voeur lu ?' What language on earth could that be?
For a few moments I fancied I had got in the wrong
train and been transported to the wrong country. I
II
71
U
addressed me. Supposing, probably, I had not heard
the question, he repeated it with additions and varia-
tions. All my beautifully arranged phrases had evapo-
rated. I threw up the sponge and gave myself up
captive, trusting to his tender mercy. He guessed I
was a foreigner, I presume, and, as he found speech
useless, availed himself of pantomime. .
The confusion abated as the crowd dispersed, and I
managed to gather my wits and make him understand
I wanted my portmanteau and a cab to convey me and
it to my hotel. The former was easily found, and
instead of a cab he hired a boy with a barrow to
convey my portmanteau, whilst I walked. The railway-
station lies outside the gates of the city ; on attempting
to pass through an official ordered my baggage to be
dismounted, and as he could not make me understand
in words what he desired, made signs for me to open
it, which I was proceeding to do, when the boy offered
some explanation, which the official replied to with a
shrug of the shoulders and a sign for us to clear out,
which we did, and I could not help wondering if it
would be as difficult to get out of Milan as it was to
get in.
It was dark, and as almost all the streets were
lighted by oil-lamps I could not satisfy my curiosity
respecting the appearance of the city. We passed by
the cathedral, so close that its great size was not
apparent, and being in doubt, after a few moments'
54
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
1
hesitation, I asked my guide, ' E questa la catedrale ?'
He looked at me as though he thought he had a
lunatic in charge, and, with a contemptuous grin,
replied, 'Ques' chi lè el domm! I caught the sound
of the words, but I did not comprehend the poetic
beauty of his reply until I had made some advance in
the acquisition of the Milanese dialect.
At the Gran Bretagna, where I put up (and an
exceedingly good hotel it was), to my great joy I
was able to let my tongue loose, after being tied up
for a whole week. I found a commissionaire who
spoke English, not very fluently, but sufficiently well
to satisfy my cravings. I made arrangements with
him to conduct me to the police office, to claim my
passport, which was retained at the frontier, where I
had been examined carefully, and made declaration
of my profession, object of visiting Milan, etc. ; then
to pay a visit to one of the masters recommended to
me by Sims Reeves, and arrange about my lessons,
for I was anxious to be at work without loss of time.
After I had partaken of some slight refreshment, I
retired for the night. I opened my portmanteau to
make sure all my possessions were safe, and found
on the top of my linen a Prayer-book which my mother
had placed there after packing my clothes, together
with her portrait. I felt so lonely ; I sat down on
my bedside and indulged in a good cry, after which
I felt more hopeful! I was not sorry to divest myself
of my garments, which I had worn since Thursday
morning, and enjoy the luxury of a bed, after three
nights spent on the road. Nothing very arduous;
but, remember, I had not travelled much, and never
1
T
Some
n on
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
55
LU
C1
Ya
1
by night, and I had been cared for in my home by the
most careful of mothers.
I never indulge in a grumble about the discomforts
and annoyances of travelling without reflecting upon
what they must have been in those times when mail-
clad knights with their followers travelled from the
West of Europe to the Holy Land, on horseback or
afoot, through unexplored regions, uncleared forests
dy deserts, among hostile people, and deprived
of most of the necessaries which make life bearable,
and almost, if not entirely, of its luxuries. Or, again,
when Columbus started with his company in open
vessels of small tonnage, and in such bad repair that
the water trickled through the open seams between
the planks ; horses dividing the limited space with
men ; exposed to drenching rain, freezing cold and
fiery heat ; driven beyond the power of guidance by
raging storm, or immovable in a sea of glass under a
burning sun, without a breath of air to stir the canvas.
When I do this I cannot help contrasting the earnest-
ness of those men, who underwent dangers and
privations for the glory of God and the good of their
fellow-men, with our impatience in these times, when,
provided with luxurious coaches, furnished with
lavatories and dining-rooms, where we can partake
of an excellent dinner, and retire afterwards to the
smoking-saloon and dispose our minds for contempla-
tion with a cigar or pipe and cup of coffee, we arrive
at our destination washed, combed, and all in trim
order a few minutes later than the advertised time for
the arrival of the train, and all because we have
missed a bargain ; or with the bobbery we raise and
2
HTT
PST
56
IY
REMINISCENCES TNT
OF CHARLES SANTLEY
-
-
--
-
the letters we write to the Times if we are called up
in the middle of the night for half an hour to
undergo a custom-house examination on an excursion
of pleasure.
I know women, and some men, whom a journey of
four hours by coach or rail overwhelms with fatigue
and exhaustion, although provided with sustenance in
the shape of cold chicken and sandwiches, and a pocket-
flask of strong waters; whilst their ancestors, male
and female, thought nothing of a ride on horseback
from London to Edinburgh, or vice versa, except to
make their wills before starting in case they were
murdered by highwaymen on the road.
How the world progresses! Towards what? Not
earnestness, certainly !
VIV
11
CHAPTER V.
My Lodgings—Milan under Austrian Rule : Vexatious Restrictions-A
Humorous Episode: Pollini, Capponi and Galli—A Trying Interview
with the Police-A Lucky Letter—My Interview with Lamperti-
Introduction to Nava-Nava's Antecedents-His Wide Culture and
Kindly Nature, and Honest Advice--Singing v. Gabbling-Duets
with Ronconi and Belletti-Nava's Views on Progress-His Kindly
Interference--Halcyon Days—My Lessons with Naya : Conversation
as well as Singing-His Family—The Dialects of Lombardy-
Locomotion as an Aid to Study-My Daily Walk-Milanese Soldiery
- Performances at the Cannobiana–Giuglini as a Singer and Actor
-Marini and Delle Sedie-The Scala Orchestra-Ristori.
T1
My first object was to hire a modest apartment. The
proprietor of the hotel offered to let me a room at a
very moderate rent, which I would have accepted; but
I wished to make my little capital last as long as
possible, and I feared it would not bear the expense
of hotel living. The commissionaire then informed
me that his wife's sister, a widow, wished to let her
rooms. I went to inspect them, found them satis-
factory, and the rent being low—twenty zwanzigers
a month, a zwanziger being worth about eightpence
farthing- I took them, and had my baggage removed,
and installed myself the same day. I then paid a
visit to Ulrich and Brot, bankers, on whom I had a
draft for £35, which they kindly allowed me to leave
in their hands and draw out in such sums as I might
require.
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N
REMINISCENCES My guide then conducted me to the police office
to have my name and address registered, and receive
a paper called a carta di sicurezza in exchange for
my passport, which they retained until I should be
leaving the city.
In 1855 Milan, under Austrian rule, was subject to
surveillance so strict that the haunts, business, etc., of
every inhabitant and visitor were known to the police.
A foreign officer, during his stay in the city, was
accompanied wherever he went by a private soldier,
who also mounted guard at the door of his hotel or
lodging, or of any house at which he might be paying
a visit ; spies obtruded themselves on the frequenters
of the cafés, and joined in their conversation ; and I
was solemnly cautioned against discussing politics,
wherever or with whomsoever I might be in company.
I little needed such a warning, as I never took sufficient
interest in politics to care or be able to take part in
their discussion. The city was full of military, with
whom very few of the Milanese would mix, and those
few were invariably treated with the cold shoulder by
their fellow-citizens. There was a café at the corner
of a block of buildings, demolished some years ago to
enlarge the Piazza del Duomo, to which the Austrian
officers resorted, which no Milanese would enter.
À propos of police interference a ludicrous incident
occurred one night at the Albergo del Pozzo, where
some students from the Conservatoire were supping
and making merry. As the wine warmed their blood
the merriment became somewhat boisterous. The
sergeant of the patrol, hearing the noise, stepped in
and requested to be shown into the room from whence
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the sounds of revelry proceeded, where he demanded
the names of those present one by one: 'Your
name?' “Pollini' (in Milan they call a turkey pollino).
* Yours?' 'Capponi' (capons). Here the sergeant
began to look black. And yours, sir?' 'Galli’
(roosters). Here he could contain himself no longer.
'Come!' said he, 'the police are not to be trifled with ;
you will accompany me to the police office. The
landlord was then called, and gave testimony to the
fact of the names being correct; the sergeant bade
them continue their revels in a lower key, and departed
with a surly grunt. I knew all three. Pollini became
a Maestro concertatore' at the Scala ; Capponi
frequenters of the Italian opera will remember as a
very good bass for some years ; Galli I lost sight of,
and do not know where he went to roost.
On giving my name, an official produced my pass-
port and proceeded to question me through my inter-
preter. First of all he asked me where I was going to
sing? At the frontier I had stated I was by profession
a singer. I replied I did not know ; I had made no
engagement, as I intended to study first. He then
informed me I had not described myself properly ; I
was a student, not a singer, and could not therefore
remain in Milan, and must take my departure within
twenty-four hours, unless I could find a citizen of
standing who could certify I was a student. Well,' I
thought, ‘now for certain it is all over with me,' and was
much annoyed to think that all my arrangements were
* to be upset by such a ridiculous quibble. I did not
know a single soul in Milan; how was I to procure a
certificate? The commissionaire asked me if I had
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not brought any letters of introduction. I told him I
had one, but knew nothing of the person to whom it
was addressed. I had left it in my bag at home,
whither we bent our steps immediately—my guide very
hopeful, and I very crestfallen. I took out the letter,
and was so enraged I literally chucked it at him. He
opened it, and exclaimed, “The very thing! This is
a letter to Eugenio Cavallini, the conductor at the
Scala, from his brother Pompeo,' then a bandmaster at
Plymouth. I forgot all about the police, and saw
myself on the instant figuring in some important part
on the stage of the august temple of Apollo. I need
scarcely add that Austria, through the police official,
took me to her bosom and accepted me as a dependent
pro tem. on the spot.
The next thing my guide insisted upon was that I
should pay a visit to the tomb of San Carlo Borromeo,
as, during the fourteen days succeeding his feast-day
it is shown gratis, whilst during the remainder of the
year a fee of three or five francs is expected.
The day following I had an appointment with
Lamperti, Catherine Hayes' master, and one of those
recommended to me by Sims Reeves. As he could
not speak English, and very little French, the com-
missionaire again accompanied me to act as interpreter.
We were shown into a room where the professor was
giving a lesson to a somewhat vulgar-looking woman,
who emitted the most agonizing shrieks, I thought. I
also thought if that were Mr. Lamperti's method of
teaching, I would not trouble him for his instruction.
However, I bethought myself of Kate's delicate sing-
ing, and I concluded the pupil has as much to do with
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ell
the result of teaching as the master. I was spared the
trouble of deciding, for after hearing me, and turning
up his nose a trifle—so I imagined—he informed me
that his time was fully occupied just then ; but if I
could call again in a fortnight, he probably would be
able to spare me an hour. I did not return, and have
always been glad I did not; he was an excellent
master, but not one to suit my temperament.
My guide then confided to me he had a nephew
who was an excellent singing master-he always had a
relative ready. I engaged him, but after a few experi-
ences found he knew nothing about singing, so I paid
and dismissed him. He was perfectly contented, and
invited me to dine with him and his wife, and the com-
missionaire and his wife, when he treated me to a
sumptuous repast—at my own expense. I had en-
gaged an Italian master, who, when I told him I con-
sidered Mr. Rosa (the soi-disant singing-master) was a
humbug, informed me he was well-acquainted with the :
gentleman ; that he was a very mediocre fiddler, and
never had tried to teach singing before. I mentioned
to him that I had determined upon the master I pre-
ferred, and at my request he made an appointment
with and introduced me to Gaetano Nava.
I do not intend to insert a biography of my master,
I will merely relate what I personally know of him,
and what he told me about himself.
His grandfather was a celebrated professor of and
brilliant performer on the guitar ; his father was also
an accomplished guitarist. He himself, although not
a heaven-born genius, was possessed of refined taste
and feeling and love of music, to which from childhood
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he devoted himself. His leaning was towards the
vocal branch, but as he was not gifted with a voice, he
did not become a practical singer. He had the
advantage which the youth of France and Germany,
ini common with that of his native country, enjoyed, of
hearing the best music of the time executed by the
best singers and players, at a trifling cost. While still
under twenty years of age, he was engaged at the
Scala and other theatres as “Maestro concertatore'
(the professor who superintends the pianoforte re-
hearsals), and learned how such singers as Pasta,
Malibran, Grisi, Pesaroni, Rubini, Donzelli, Filippo
Galli, Tamburini, Luigi Lablache, and other brilliant
artists, although stars of inferior magnitude, by dint of
study imbued themselves with the spirit of the music
they had to interpret, and whose beauties they had to
develop.
How he profited by this experience can be seen
on perusing the numerous studies, solfeggi, etc., he
wrote for every voice.
He was a diligent student of the history and theory
of music, as may be gathered from his numerous anno-
tations to many works upon these subjects, which,
together with masses and other compositions in MS.,
were bequeathed to me, and are still in my possession.
Moreover, he was well versed in Italian literature,
which cannot be said of many of his fellow professors.
I loved him as a master for the pains he took, and
the knowledge he displayed in my instruction, and I
loved him still more as a man ; he was a kind father to
me whilst I was under his care, and a true friend to
me as long as he lived. My sincere admiration of his
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abilities and love for himself do not cause me to think
it impossible that there have been and are other
masters quite as competent as he; but that I had the
good fortune to enjoy his friendship and profit by his
tuition is one of the many boons for which I thank
God. We were united in sympathy, and hence he
found no difficulty in imparting, nor I in comprehend-
ing, his instructions.
I hope to let fall hints occasionally, from which
young people may derive advantage. I have, how-
ever, no intention of obtruding 'a method of singing'
on those who may deem it worth their while to read
these memoirs ; at the same time, a few of my master's
remarks made during “breathing time' may not be out
of place.
At the Conservatoire, where, during the time I was
his pupil, he was master of the girls' singing class, he
was obliged to teach all those who were accepted as
pupils by the directors; privately, he would not accept
as a pupil, on any terms, a youth of either sex with
whose musical disposition he was not thoroughly
satisfied. Often he dismissed girls with advice to turn
their attention to knitting stockings or other domestic
works, and so become useful members of society,
instead of wasting their time in the study of an art for
which they had neither taste nor aptitude, and of which
the small smattering they might acquire, instead of
amusing, would only distress themselves and their
friends.
He insisted that the object of music was to give
greater expression and emphasis to the words, and for
this reason never allowed a syllable to be neglected.
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* I must hear what you are singing about,' he would
say, 'or I cannot tell how you are singing, and, conse-
quently, cannot help you! When I had mastered
Italian sufficiently, he made me learn the buffo parts in
Rossini's comic operas, ' La Cenerentola,'' L'Italiana in
Algeri,' Il Turco in Italia,' etc., and also in Merca-
dante's operas and those of other composers whose
names I cannot now call to mind. He made me sing
them, not gabble them, as I have heard many Italian
buffos do ; he said, 'Luigi Lablache and Luigi Galli
(brother of Filippo, for whom many celebrated buffo
parts were written) never gabbled; they sang, and they
were grand artists, who ought to be taken as models by
all students who are striving after perfection. To this
study I owe the clear pronunciation which I believe is
one of my good qualities. During the first years
after my return to England I used often to sing buffo
duets with Giorgio Ronconi and Belletti, and many an
unexpressed challenge I have accepted and deadly
combat fought in the arena of words. At one of
Chorley's parties Belletti and I sang the duet · Che
l'antipatica vostra figura,' from Ricci's opera, La
Chiara di Rosemberg' (on the same subject as Balfe's
Siege of Rochelle ') after some long instrumental
pieces, of which, spite of their classical propensities,
English fashionable audiences do grow weary some-
times. Virginia Gabriel accompanied. In the last
movement Belletti, thinking it about time to rouse the
slumbering enthusiasts from their lethargy, started off
at a headlong pace. I girded up my loins and followed
him, and we bore Miss Gabriel along between us at
such a rate she could scarcely see the notes. Fortu-
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nately, she was an excellent reader, and well-versed in
Italian music, and we landed at the end all safe and
sound, when, amidst the deafening applause and hearty
congratulations of the now wide-awake classicals, we
congratulated each other on having come in with un-
broken necks.
Incidentally, I may remark that women, who are
generally supposed to be faster talkers than men,
seldom acquire the facility of men in uttering word
and note'; at least, such has been my personal ex-
perience.
One of the best lessons Nava ever gave me was on
progress. I had received (about July, 1856, I think) a
very serious letter from my father in reply to an appli-
cation for assistance, in which he said that, after my
remarks upon the singers I had heard at the Scala, he
had hoped that by that time I would have made my
appearance there ; that he clearly saw we had made a
mistake, and I had better return home. He would
send me money for that purpose, but not to enable me
to remain ; as regarded what he had already lent me,
no doubt I could soon obtain a situation, and refund it.
I felt much cast down ; I had worked hard, and was
making progress rapidly, both in singing and the
language. I went to my lesson ; Nava saw I was
out of spirits, and asked me the cause. I told him
what my father had written, whereupon he said, “Your
father is in too great a hurry! Progress is not made
at the rapid rate he evidently expects; it must be made
step by step to make it secure; you cannot judge of
progress from day to day, or from month to month ;
work steadily, and at the end of six months compare
as
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what you can do then with what you could do at the
beginning, then you can estimate the advancement you
have made. There must be time to receive instruction,
and time to digest the instruction received. We see
young people after a few weeks' exercise of the voice
set to cram a few parts in operas), and in a few
months from their leaving some other occupation,
thrust upon the stage. The consequence is, that the
strain on the imperfectly - trained voice impairs its
quality and strength in a short time beyond the power
of any master to remedy. I am perfectly satisfied
with the progress you have made, and am also perfectly
satisfied that, the necessary time being allowed you to
make sure of every step you take, your father, too,
will be fully satisfied with the result.'
It is a lesson which may be equally well applied to
I
colour, grouping ; the surgeon's anatomy; the sailor's
ropes and sails ; the soldier's gun, sword, and bayonet
exercises, and so on throughout the range of human
occupation, are no other than scales and solfeggi in
another form—the foundation, which must be formed
of solid materials firmly and carefully welded if the
student's ambition is to become a 'tower of strength,'
capable of defying the storms of jealous rivalry which
are sure to assail him, and a place of refuge for those
who require protection and help.
Nava wrote a kind and sensible letter, placing his
views before my father, with the result that, fortunately
for me, the necessary funds to prosecute my studies
were forthcoming.
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fortune in a short time to win that of his family ; so
much were they attached to me, that all events which
occurred subsequently were dated from the day I paid
my first visit to their house.
Now began the happiest phase of my existence; it
was of few months' duration, but it was a happy time
while it lasted. I lived in a world of which I had
dreamed, without any hope of my dream being realized ;
now, the study which had been my solace in the few
hours' respite from toilsome, because unpalatable,
work, had become the pleasurable occupation of my
life. I was under the care of one who was at once my
teacher and friend, and I looked forward with hope to
win an honourable place in the arena I had chosen.
An occasional moment's reflection on my slender means,
and the probable necessity of having to apply to my
father for assistance, was the only bar to my complete
happiness.
I had a lesson every alternate day, and they were
red-letter days! Nava took great pains about my
speaking, as well as about my singing, and, unless he
had urgent business to call him away, used to keep me
long after the stipulated singing hour conversing. He
did not know a word of English, so I was not shy, and
blundered on as best I could, he correcting my mistakes.
I also became acquainted with his family, especially
with two of his sons, the younger a student of law,
and an exceedingly good scholar; the elder a professor
of the pianoforte, a clever youth, but idle and negligent
with his pupils.
Lombardy, like all the other Italian provinces, has its
dialect, which undergoes variations of form in each
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town of the province. In Milan there are, or were,
three forms—that of Porta Ticinese (the low part of
the city), where they spoke the dialect which Porta, a
very humorous Milanese poet, has made famous ; that
of the middle-class, tradesmen and shopkeepers ; and
that of the gentry and aristocracy. In one form or
another all the inhabitants converse in dialect ; many
know Italian well ; few, however, can hold a conversa-
tion in it, in consequence of which I had few oppor-
tunities of exercising my ear, until I became intimate
and had frequent conversations with my master and his
family, and made slow progress in conversation. In
music or language I never could pick up anything from
mere sound; I must distinguish in my mind's-eye the
note or the word, or the sound leaves no impression.
I was always a slow worker, slow at taking instruc-
tion, and slow at digesting it. I never could work
well shut up in a room-I must be moving. I have
done a great deal of work travelling by rail, but I
prefer walking, and in the open air. In a few minutes'
strolling about Hampstead Heath I can work out an
idea over which I have pondered for hours in my own
study without success! Mechanical work, such as
scales, solfeggi, or transcribing, I can do at home,
though I have wakened the echoes many a half-hour
on the hills about the Italian lakes and in the pine-
woods of the Black Forest, exercising my voice. I
was always fond of walking ; perhaps I might have
preferred riding, had I possessed sufficient means to
purchase and keep a horse. For the first few months
of my residence in Milan, to avoid the nuisance of the
octroi inspection, my daily walk was round the bastions,
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about seven miles. During the day they were little
frequented by pedestrians, so I could take my exercise
and study in peace. I might have learned military
drill, both cavalry and infantry, as all the available
space on the bastions and Piazza d'Armi was in con-
stant requisition for drilling troops, had my taste leaned
that way. The Hungarian hussars alone attracted my
attention, they looked so picturesque in their hand-
some uniform and mounted on their fiery little black
steeds. The little military ardour I possessed would
soon have been quenched by the bullying of the
Austrian officers, at times very rough.
The Scala was open only during the Carnival and
Lent, from the 26th of December until Easter-Eve.
Under the same management, the autumn season, during
the months of October and November, was held at the
Cannobiana, a much less spacious theatre, and not by
any means so good for sound. The operas in course
of representation when I arrived were 'Gli Ugonotti,'
* La Favorita,' and 'I Puritani,' and a few nights
towards the close of the season were devoted to selec-
tions from these and other operas not included in the
répertoire. Of the singers, the only soprano I
remember was Madame Angles Fortuni, whom I only
heard in a scene from one of Donizetti's or Bellini's
operas. I liked her, and she was evidently a great
favourite with the public, as she was much applauded,
both on her appearance on the stage (an unusu
in those days) and at the termination of her scene.
The principal tenor was Antonio Giuglini, this being
his first season in Milan, I believe. He had created a
perfect furore. Wherever music happened to be the
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subject of conversation, Giuglini was the hero, a
curious fact, considering that powerful lungs are sup-
posed to carry the day. Giuglini was a proof that
physical force does not always win ; his voice was not
powerful, but it was of sympathetic quality, although
slightly throaty, and his phrasing was perfect ; any
ornament he introduced he invariably executed with
precision and elegance. He was not a clumsy man,
but as an actor he was ungraceful, and lacked intelli-
gence. In the part of Raoul, the part in which I first
saw him, he sang charmingly, but manly bearing and
fire were entirely wanting, with the result that his per-
formance was dull and insipid. In I Puritani' he was
quite at home; his rendering of Arturo's music, than
which more delicious love-strains have never been
written, rivetted the attention so completely, that the
actor was lost sight of. On one of the selection-even-
ings, he, with a very good buffo, Scheggi, and Marini,
a world-renowned bass, sang the splendid trio 'Pappa-
taci,' from L'Italiana in Algeri.' It was a perfect
treat, and was vociferously redemanded (encores were
not then in vogue in Italy), and, by general desire, re-
peated on subsequent nights. Enrico Delle Sedie,
who sang in London some years ago, was the principal
baritone, and deservedly a great favourite. The
basses were a Spaniard, named Pedro Nolasco Llorens,
who possessed a sonorous voice, with a rough,
energetic style of using it, and Marini, who, except
Formes, was the best Marcel I ever saw. He had at
that time, after a long and arduous career, a fine
trumpet-toned voice of greater compass than Lablache's,
but of similar timbre, and was an excellent actor.
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The chorus was good ; the orchestra, that of the Scala,
with a slightly-reduced number of strings, under the
direction of my friend Eugenio Cavallini, was very good.
Two qualities it displayed which struck me forcibly
--the superior way in which the stringed instruments
'sang' their music to what I had been accustomed,
and the superiority of the double-basses in refinement,
execution, and solidity ; they were never heard except
when playing alone, but the fine effect they produced
was invariably felt.
I saw Ristori in ‘Maria Stuarda. I recognised in
her a noble actress, but my enjoyment of her per-
formance was greatly marred through my imperfect
acquaintance with Italian-I had not been a month in
Italy.
71
SY
CHAPTER VI.
ist pupils : Luf Concerted 's Italian
Vocalizzi and Solfeggia Italian Vowel Sounds- Is Italian easy to sing ?
--My First Piece-The Value of Concerted Vocal Music—'Donna
Pacifica '--My Fellow-pupils : Luigia Perelli and Luigia Pessina-My
Friends the Maranis—“Il Signor Inglese -The Scala Programme,
1855-56-I become a Subscriber to the Pit-Subsidies and Govern-
ment Supervision - Gardoni's Experiences - A Short Way with
Nervous Baritones—The Vagaries of the Censorship— Libertà' and .
'Lealtà - Ronconi's Humour-Description of the Scala in 1855–
Recollections of the Season—Italian Audiences : their Decided Way
of expressing an Opinion A Ludicrous Performance of 'Marino
Faliero.
At my first interview with Nava, to give him a notion
of my capabilities, I sang one of his own vocalizzi
at sight. He was greatly pleased and astonished, not
only that I could read it off, but also execute the
passages with facility-thanks to the early training I
went through with my father. For the information of
those who are not versed in musical phraseology, a
vocalizzo is 'a song without words,' vocalized to the
vowel a, the exercise of which enables the student to
unite the various combinations of notes he has learned
in his preliminary studies, previous to the final study
of interpreting language through the medium of
music. The solfeggio differs from the vocalizzo
as each note is sung, its name is pronounced ; this
serves to facilitate the acquirement of reading music-
as there can be no guess-work—and of a clear pro-
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nunciation, more especially of the pure sound of the
Italian vowels, a most difficult task for an English-
speaking student, as anyone who considers the careless
manner in which we treat vowels will readily under-
stand.
Only one vowel in Italian possesses two sounds : 0,
pronounced sometimes as oa in moan, e.g., amore, and
at others as o in got, e.g., rosa. The e and i at the end
of a syllable require great attention ; English singers
invariably, unless carefully corrected, add an i after the
e or i already belonging to the syllable, and thus be-ne
becomes be-i-ne, Di-o becomes Di-io, etc., a barbarous
defect to an Italian or Italianized ear. The Italian u,
equivalent to our oo, is frequently pronounced like u in
'curious' by our singers.
I have often heard English vocalists say they pre-
ferred singing in Italian, because it is so much easier
than singing in English. It may be pleasanter to
them, and seem easier, but to those of their audience
whose ears are accustomed to the beauty and delicacy
of the Italian language, the gibberish they utter
entirely mars any effect they might make with their
vocalization ; much better would it be if they converted
their songs into vocalizzi. Like many other things,
singing in Italian is easy to get through, but it is
difficult to do properly. It is only a question of
intelligence and application ; 'what man has done, man
may do'-if he has but the will. The words! the words!!
the words!!! Without the words there is no accent ;
without the accent there is no singing. I once heard
a man say (he was an English professor of music who
did not understand a word of Italian) that he preferred
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REMINISCENCES Italian to English opera. I suggested, “What about
the words ?' Oh,' said he, “I would rather not hear
the words.' It is not for such as he I write my words.
I would impress on students the necessity for refine-
ment, delicacy, and finish in the execution of all detail,
whether of music or language ; attention to these dis-
tinguishes the artist from the artizan.
I commenced my lesson always with preliminary
vocal exercises, taken in progressive order as I mastered
them ; the whole course, from the simplest combina-
tion of notes to the study of the shake, with which I
concluded, occupying twelve months. I then sang
one or two solfeggi, which, after a few weeks, as I was
already a good reader, were replaced by vocalizzi,
though I still worked at solfeggi for the exercise of
pronunciation at home; and I finished with the study
of detached pieces from operas, in which the facility
of vocalization I had acquired was most available.
Semiramide' was my master's predilection, an opera
full to overflowing of excellent study for a vocalist, but
to my mind tiresome, now that singers, for what reason
I am not prepared to say, are rarely to be found who
possess the facility and precision of execution necessary
to enable them to take part in such a work.
The first piece I was entrusted with was the great
duet from .Semiramide 'for the Queen and Assur, com-
mencing with the fine introductory recitative, in order
that I might sing it with one of Nava's pupils at the. Con-
servatorio. It was a favourite practice of his to bring
his pupils together in the study of concerted musica
study the value of which, I think, cannot be too highly
estimated. It moderates the exaggerated zeal of one,
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY 75
eve
and rouses the apathetic indifference of another ; it
leads two or more people to blend a multiplicity of
sentiments and characteristics, so as to produce a
result apparently conceived by one mind. What is
more miserable than to hear a duet where the singers
are at variance in accent, in expression, in all that
makes the absurdity of two people saying the same
thing, at the same time, to or at each other, tolerable ?
The study of subservience in concerted music is of
infinite value to the true artist; he must stoop with the
weak and mount with the strong. He can compare
his own powers with those of other artists, greater,
equal, or inferior to himself, and he cannot fail to pick
up occasionally important ideas which never struck
him before, and which he can and will use to his
advantage, or, by observing them in others, discover
defects in his own performances which he will study to
avoid.
The pupil with whom I sang the 'Semiramide'
duet, Amalia Peroni, possessed a soprano voice of very
good quality, flexible, and sufficiently powerful ; she
lacked animation, however, and her companions called
her Donna Pacifica. Nava gave her the duet to
induce her to rouse herself to some enthusiasm, but
except on one or two occasions her performance was
purely mechanical-technically perfect, but colourless
in expression. Her features were beautiful, but her
face, like her singing, was without animation. I
believe her apathy was due rather to
strength than of feeling, for she died of consumption
shortly after making her first appearance on the stage.
During the term of my studies I sang with others of
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my master's pupils, only two of whom I met with
afterwards. Luigia Perelli, also a soprano, had a quite
opposite character to her class-mate. She possessed
charm both of feature and voice, and was full of anima-
tion and sentiment. We sang together a duet from
Mercadante's · Zaira,' but only a few times as a study,
as she never liked it, preferring the somewhat ex-
aggerated pathos of Verdi to the dry sentiment of
Mercadante. She made her first appearance in public
at the Cannobiana during the autumn season of 1856
as Adalgisa in 'Norma,' very successfully, and after
appearing at some of the principal theatres in Italy,
she was engaged for several seasons at St. Petersburg.
In 1872 I met her again at Nava's house, grown into
a plump, handsome matron, when we sang, accom-
panied by our master, and to his great delight, one of
the duets from “Rigoletto. The other was Luigia
Pessina, a handsome brunette, with a magnificent
mezzo-soprano voice, which she used well. We
studied and sang together on divers occasions a fine
duet from Rossini's “Maometto Secondo,' better
known as “The Siege of Corinth. When I was sing-
ing at the Scala during the Carnival 1865-66, she was
playing Adalgisa in ‘Norma '; since then I have lost
sight of her.
On the evening of the 27th of December a concert
by Nava's pupils and his son David, the pianist, was
given in the house of Signor Giovanni Marani, whose
eldest daughter was under Nava's tuition, to celebrate
his saint's day. In Italy, as in all Catholic countries,
they keep up the saint's day, not the birthday, as we
do. A rehearsal was held the day before at Signor
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Marani's house, when at his request and that of his
wife I was presented to the family. I was too shy to
attempt much in the way of conversation, so retired
into a corner, where, undisturbed, I could enjoy the
music and observe the audience. I could not help
contrasting the lively way in which they amused them-
selves with the 'sad' way in which, as a rule, audi-
ences enjoy themselves at home. During my stay in
Milan I was a constant guest at the Maranis. I owe
them a debt of gratitude for the intimate friendly inter-
course to which they admitted me, and the almost
parental interest they took in my welfare. They used
to hold a conversazione every Sunday evening dur-
ing the winter and spring months, which consisted of
conversation, interspersed with vocal and instrumental
music, concluding with an informal dance. At one of
these I sang for the first time to an Italian audience,
and was so well received by their extensive circle of
friends and relations, that for the remainder of my
stay I had to do my share of singing and dancing each
evening--a grateful task, as I had the satisfaction of
at once affording amusement to my hosts and their
company, and deriving profit myself-exercising what
I learned. I had also the advantage of joining in pro-
miscuous conversation. Generally, as the guests were
assembling, I found myself the centre of a group of
merry girls, who discovered a great fund of amuse-
ment in the grotesque mistakes of Il Signoi Inglese,
the title by which I was invariably addressed. How
odd we should think it, were we to hear a group of
English girls addressing a foreigner as 'Mr. Italian !
They had many a “roar' at my expense, in which I
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joined heartily ; for it was impossible to feel offended-
they took such pains, and were so patient in correcting
my blunders.
The announcement containing the répertoire of
operas and ballets, names of artists and instru-
mentalists, prices of subscription and admission, etc.,
for the Carnival and Lent season of 1855-56 at the
Scala appeared on the walls about the end of Novem-
ber. The works promised were : operas, ' L'Ebreo' of
Apollini, Giovanni Giscala' (I forget the composer's
name), “L'Assedio di Leida' of Petrella, and ' I Vespri
Siciliani' ("Giovanna de Guzman,' under which title it
was represented) of Verdi—all new to Milan— Il
Profeta' (Meyerbeer), ‘Rigoletto' (Verdi), · Lucrezia
Borgia' and 'Marino Faliero' (Donizetti), and three
ballets. The singers were Marianna Barbieri-Nini,
Scotta, Eliza Masson, and a contralto whose name I
do not recollect, a pupil of the Conservatoire, her first
appearance on the stage, and a very promising artist.
Lodovico Graziani (brother of the baritone), Bernardo
Massimiliani, and Carlo Liverani were the tenors;
Leone Giraldoni and Giovanni Corsi the baritones;
Eugenio Manfredi and Cesare Nanni the basses ;
Caterina Beretta was the principal dancer ; Effisio
Catte principal mime. The orchestra, under the direc-
tion of Eugenio Cavallini, numbered about ninety
performers. The season extended over about three
months, during which there were five performances
each week, except Holy Week, when two concerts-
one secular and one sacred—were given in lieu of
opera. The first concert included David's cantata, ' Il
Deserto,' overture to 'Guglielmo Tell' (Rossini), a
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concert-overture by Jacopo Foroni, and other pieces ;
the second included the 'Stabat Mater' of Rossini,
and selections from the San Paolo' of Mendelssohn,
and other works.
On the recommendation of my master, I became a
subscriber for the season, my ticket for the pit costing
me sixty-five zwanzigers (about forty-five shillings), a
reduction of fifteen zwanzigers on the full price being
accorded to musical students and officers, civil and
military. The Scala and the Cannobiana, the two
patent theatres, were held under the same lease, the
lessees receiving a subsidy from the Government of (I
think) 250,000 francs per annum, in return for which
they were bound to carry out certain stipulations, the
most important of which were as follows: To produce
a certain number of operas never before represented in
Milan during each Carnival and autumn season ; to
provide a double company, one of which must be of
singers of acknowledged celebrity (cantanti di cartello);
to retain sufficient accommodation in the stalls for the
officers quartered in and about the city ; to engage
orchestra, chorus, and corps de ballet, and supply
scenery, wardrobe, and other stage accessories and
appointments of standard excellence. The whole
business was carried out under the supervision of two
gentlemen holding a Government commission, who
were likewise responsible for the mutual fulfilment of
engagements between the management and artists and
others employed in the theatre, and the deciding of
all disputes according tº established laws and customs,
equally binding on both parties.
Gardoni told me an amusing anecdote à propos of this
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Government supervision. Having become involved
in a dispute with the management in the course of an
engagement at the Scala respecting what he deemed
an imposition on their part, he took the law into his
own hands, and, without notifying his intention,
escaped in the diligence for Paris. At the frontier he
had to descend with his fellow-passengers to have his
passport examined. He had not visited the police
office to obtain it, knowing he would have been stopped
at once, and hoping to elude the vigilance of the officer
at the frontier. He had only his 'carta di sicurezza'
to show, and was, accordingly, requested to step into
a side room, whence he had the felicity of watching
the diligence depart, and of returning to Milan, accom-
panied by a couple of gens d'armes. He was lodged
in the prison of Santa Margherita for a week, and each
evening he had to sing, being driven to the theatre and
back with a similar escort, who, besides, kept a careful
watch over him during the performance. It seems a
hard case, but similar treatment would have attended
the managers had they, on their side, committed a
breach of contract. I remember a baritone, Luigi
Valle, being engaged to play Nabucco at the Carcano,
an excellent artist, but a victim to extreme nervous-
ness. He had not even the courage to leave his house
the first night the opera was announced, excusing hirn-
self on the plea of suffering from hoarseness. An
incompetent singer was substituted, the consequence
being a row in the house; the second performance was
a repetition of the first, except that the row became a
riot; the third night the police called for the affrighted
baritone, drove him to the theatre, kept guard outside
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his room whilst he dressed, and forced him on to the
stage. The house was packed, and Valle was so
paralysed that they had to lift him off the horse
on which he made his entry. The opening notes
betrayed the anguish which oppressed him, and were
listened to in dead silence. In desperation, pulling
himself together, he delivered his first important
phrase magnificently ; it shot through the house like a
flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder such
as only excited Italians or Spaniards know how to
fire off!
The word · libertà' was expunged from the Italian
stage - vocabulary by the Austrians. In the duet
Suoni la tromba' (' I Puritani'), on one occasion,
Giorgio Ronconi gave the words 'gridando libertà'
with such vigour and emphasis that the audience were
excited to the pitch of frenzy, and a great commotion
ensued. Next morning he received a reprimand for
using the prohibited word, accompanied by a request
to use the word 'lealtà'on future occasions in its stead.
Shortly after, playing 'Il Sargente' in 'L'Elisir
d'Amore,' in deference to the request, for 'perdè la
libertà' he substituted 'perdè la lealtà,' which was
received with shrieks of laughter by the audience, to
the great discomfiture of the advocates of loyalty.'
The season commenced with · L'Ebreo.' There was
a great rush on the first night, but, having been warned,
I was at the doors an hour or more before they opened,
and so secured a seat. The theatre looked dull and
dismal ; the glimmer of light afforded by a single lamp
suspended from the top of the proscenium only served
to make darkness visible. The Scala in 1855 was.
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lighted, stage and auditorium, with oil-lamps ; the
chandelier, formed of a large cluster of them, was
lowered to the floor of the pit, lighted, and hoisted
back to its place about half an hour before the per-
formance commenced. In 1865, when I sang there, it
was lighted with gas; and in 1883, when I took a
friend to see it, the electric light was used throughout
the entire building. It is a beautifully-proportioned
theatre, its acoustic properties perfect; the stage,
already spacious, was enlarged a few years ago. The
custodian informed me they have had as many as 1,200
persons, besides horses and an elephant, on in one ballet
scene.
I do not think a detailed account of the season
would be interesting after the lapse of so many years,
so I will merely note a few of my recollections.
'I Vespri Siciliani' had a great success; with the
exception of the basso, I liked the performance quite
as well as that I witnessed in Paris. Nanni, Obin's
representative, was so bad he was replaced after three
performances by Giorgio Attry, since known at the
Royal Italian Opera ; but neither of them came within
a long distance of the original. Of 'L'Ebreo, only
one number, a romance for the tenor (Graziani) sung
behind the scenes, interested me; the rest I found
very weak in substance, though noisy in expression.
Giovanni Giscala' was a failure, and played only one
or two nights. “L'Assedio di Leida’I did not hear.
During the performance of the ballet I had an oppor-
tunity of learning how emphatically an Italian audience
can express disapprobation. The ballet was a failure ;
I did not discover why. The grouping of the 'corps
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de ballet,' the dancing of the principal executants,
everything appeared to me very good, but evidently
my taste and knowledge lacked cultivation. From
beginning to end, with very slight cessation, and that
seemingly made by mutual consent, in order to take
breath and begin again with renewed vigour, the
audience hissed, screamed, yelled, hooted, and shouted
"basta ! basta !'—in fact, they behaved like so many
demons in torment. I could not help thinking it was
Much ado about nothing,' but it must be remembered
that there were a limited number of works announced
for performance during the season, any of which,
having passed the ordeal, would be served up for an
unlimited number of nights. It might not seem
necessary to make such a hubbub; but managers are
notoriously afflicted with chronic deafness, and Italians
are vehement in demanding an adequate return for
their money. I do not blame them; on the contrary,
I think there are occasions on which their example
might be followed, both in theatre and in concert-
room, with great benefit to musical society, by my
compatriots. The opinion of the Italian public may
be just or unjust, but, undoubtedly, it is decided.
They manifest it clearly ; nor do they always wait
until the end of a number, as is the rule with us.
How often do we hear poor stuff, badly sung,
applauded vociferously on account of some high or
low note introduced at the end of a cadence? With-
out interrupting the performance, they express their
approbation with a murmur of satisfaction, or a short
sharp 'bravo,' very encouraging to the performer.
When they disapprove they show little mercy, except
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to modest young artists suffering from stage fright,
to whom they express their sympathy by an insinuating
* coraggio. Anything like conceit or arrogance they
resent; woe betide the unfortunate individuals whose
vanity or ambition overrides their discretion! “There's
rue for them'; the first slip is greeted with a salvo of
hisses, not readily forgotten, and generally topped up
with a recommendation to go home and study. Occa-
sionally Italian audiences indulge in little eccentricities;
a young handsome prima donna, whose talent is too
meagre to meet their approval, in place of applause
will receive a shower of kisses in the air) mingled
with exclamations of Bella ! Bella! After singing a
low note on one occasion I heard a voice murmur
patronizingly, 'Ohè ! Cantina !' ("Hallo! Cellar !)
Startling as at first I found their violent demon-
strations, much more annoying I found the incessant
chattering and laughing carried on during all parts
of the performance uninteresting to the general public.
The Austrian officers, who occupied the two front
rows of stalls, were the ringleaders; they talked as
loud as though they were addressing their men on
parade, accompanying their clatter with that of their
scabbards and spurs; the Italians, in emulation,
followed suit, the result being a fair representation of
Chaos. At times the voices of the singers could not
penetrate as far as the pit. The scene between
Oberthal and the two Anabaptists in “Il Profeta'
was always a piece of dumb show; not a sound,
except an occasional loud chord in the orchestra, did
I ever hear of it.
At times, whilst there was nothing going on which
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interested them, almost the entire audience left the
theatre, returning in time to hear a favourite number.
* Lucrezia Borgia' proved very attractive; during the
first and last acts the theatre was crowded; during
the second it was nearly deserted, the few who
remained indulging in audible conversation varied
with occasional sarcastic remarks upon the perform-
ance and performers. Certainly the appearance of
the three principal singers gave ample food for mirth.
They were all squat and fat; Barbieri-Nini, whose
singing of the two great airs was superb, in all else
was as unlike an ideal Lucrezia as could well be
imagined. Liverani, the Gennaro, looked like a
hogshead on castors, and bellowed like a bull. Corsi,
Alfonso, could not bellow, but played fantastic tricks
with his eyes to a ludicrous extent. The performance,
the only one, of 'Marino Faliero,' however, bore away
the palm for amusement. It was a perfect burlesque ;
the only number that escaped the gibes of the public
was Barbieri-Nini's great air, which, like those in
• Lucrezia,' she sang to perfection. In the second
scene, towards the end of an orchestral prelude, I
beheld protruding from the wings what I took for a
red banner, waving a little above the floor ; it moved
forward, followed by a pair of very fat legs, supporting
a portly paunch ; a head appeared next, and then the
entire body of Signor Carlo Liverani stood revealed ;
very uncomfortable and uneasy in his mind he looked.
What I had mistaken for a banner turned out to be a
mantle, worn over one shoulder, which glided off at a
tangent from the globe of flesh it was intended to
drape. This ludicrous figure roused the spirits of the
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audience, which had been gradually flagging from the
commencement of the opera; they saw there was no
pleasure to be derived from the performance, so they
determined to get all the fun they could out of it.
Spite of their chaff, the poor tenor struggled through
an air, one of Rubini's chevaux de bataille, but no
sooner had he touched the last note than, terror lend-
ing him wings, he bounded off the stage at a hop, step,
and jump, followed by a peal of laughter which made
the house vibrate. Giraldoni was, as we say in the
north, like a 'chip in porridge’; Corsi, Faliero, under-
took a part (written for Luigi Lablache) for which he
did not possess a single qualification. It was a dis-
graceful performance, and well deserved the derision
with which it was condemned.
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CHAPTER VII.
A Cold Winter-Opera at the Carcano-The Caffè Martini, a Great
Musical Exchange--Struggles and Privations of Poor Singers—A
Generous Landlady—The Cruelty of Italian Audiences—Pacini's
‘Saffo'-Two Stentors-Dramatic Performances of the Teatro Rèm
Salvini—Goldoni's Comedies-Concerts at the Scala : Felicien
David's · Le Désert and the 'Stabat Mater’-Four Conductors-
Mendelssohn's 'St. Paul'--A Masked Ball—My Lancashire Accent
betrays me—A Dangerous Costume-English Friends-An Irish
Adventurer— The Value of Dialect—Change of Lodgings—My New
Landlady–Noisy Quarters--A Visit to the Lakes : a Cheap Holiday
-Music at the Duomo : an Aggravating Conductor-A Great
Preacher-Church Music in Italy : Strange Voluntaries.
I ATTENDED the performances regularly for a few
weeks, but the constant repetition of the same operas,
and the annoyance I underwent from the chattering
and other disturbances, damped my ardour. I looked
about for some other way of passing the long winter
evenings. The weather was bitterly cold, and as I
had no means of warming my room, it was impossible
to remain indoors reading or studying with any com-
fort. I had a small stove set up, but found the
remedy worse than the disease. Though I used little
fuel, the heat it generated affected my throat and head,
so I was forced to abandon it; and I had not yet
learned that for the price of a cup of coffee I could
enjoy the warm shelter of a caffè the whole evening.
The most convenient warming apparatus, I discovered,
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was a handful of hot roasted chestnuts carried in
each pocket of my overcoat; they imparted a genial
glow to my outer surface, and made a comfort-
able, though slightly stuffy, lining to the inner after-
wards.
There was an opera at the Carcano, a second-rate
theatre, which had seen palmy days when ‘Norma'
was first produced with Pasta, Giulia Grisi, Donzelli,
etc., and ‘I Puritani' with Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini,
and Luigi Lablache. The productions were on a scale
much inferior to the Scala, but for a time they proved an
agreeable change. The company, with two exceptions,
consisted of mediocre singers, either beginners, or of
small provincial celebrity ; some of the oracles of the
Caffè Martini, the trysting place at all hours of the day,
and a great part of the night, for musicians of every class,
and others connected with the operatic world—com-
posers, librettists, orchestral directors, singers, instru-
mentalists, chorus-masters, prompters, ballet-masters,
dancers, mimes, managers, and theatrical agents. There
could be seen-except during the Carnival, when, save
those employed at the Milan theatres, all the artists
had departed to fulfil their various engagements—the
celebrity, in solemn dignified repose, crowned with
his well-merited wreath of laurels gained in a recent
campaign ; the young impetuous débutant, fresh from
the scene of his first great triumph; the blatant,
swaggering nincompoop, boasting of victories he had
not won; and the modest, earnest youth, over-
shadowed with doubt about his success, and fears for
the future. It was at times an interesting scene to
behold, often amusing, and sometimes a very sad one,
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when the eye rested in some retired corner on a
haggard, careworn face, watching with avidity to lay
hold on a few crumbs of comfort in the encouraging
glance of agent or comrade. I have witnessed re-
unions of artists of various professions, but for con-
trast no parallel to that of the Caffè Martini. The
engagements, not only for the theatres for Italy (and
they were legion), but for all the European opera
houses and for those of America, North and South,
Havana, Africa, India, etc., were almost all made
through the Milanese agencies.
The Caffè Martini was the exchange where artists
in search of employment were wont to meet managers,
or agents commissioned to negotiate for them. With
celebrities, to whom places were always open, it was
only a question of arrangement of terms; with the
great concourse of the less famous and inexperienced,
eager to find a place somewhere, negotiations were
more protracted, and carried on with as much com-
mercial strategy as between merchant and broker.
For the Carnival, the principal season, when every
theatre in Italy was open, the strife, except for the
better places, was not so furious, demand and supply
being about equal. It was for the off-seasons, fair
times in Bologna, Bergamo, and other cities that the
fight became deadly. Some of the most noted singers
who were not engaged for the foreign theatres were at
liberty, and could afford to accept moderate terms, and
so debar those who had made headway during the
Carnival from following up their successes in desirable
spheres. Salaries were not great in those days; there
were no £ 200 per night artists. The result was that
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to live, the minor stars had to fall back on less im-
portant and less lucrative engagements ; they in turn
drove those of lower rank to take what would procure
the barest necessaries of life, and often to the confines
of starvation. This is no exaggeration. I used to
visit a fellow student, who had a monthly allowance
from home, at his modest lodging ; in the same domi-
cile lived a tenor, who afterwards arrived at a position
of eminence in Italy, and a bass, who was one of my
comrades during my first season. Both these poor
fellows were without the means of paying their
pension. Their landlady good-naturedly allowed them
to lodge on promise of future payment, but was too
poor herself to provide them with board ; so they used
to sit like two hungry wolves looking on whilst my
friend took his meals, and gladly accepted any morsel
he in pity bestowed on them. Any Christian heart
must be moved to compassion, reflecting on the depri-
vations endured by such as are brought up in poverty ;
but that pity must be surely deeper for those who,
having been brought up amidst plenty, are reduced by
untoward circumstances to the very verge of death
from starvation. Do those who pay their franc for an
evening's amusement ever reflect on the terrible wound
they are inflicting on a fellow creature, striving to
entertain them against lack of bodily strength from
want of nourishment, when they meet his efforts with
contempt and derision? It may be just. It is brutal!
Thank God, it is not our practice in England !
At the Carcano I heard Pacini's 'Saffo'—to say the
least, a somewhat dry work—with Carolina Sannazzaro,
one of the exceptions I mentioned above, a talented
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artist, with a small but sympathetic voice, who played
and sang the part of 'Saffo’exceedingly well, especi-
ally the last scene. The tenor in the same opera, as
also the Manrico in “Il Trovatore,' was a corpulent
gentleman, with a well - developed nasal organ of
roseate hue ; and a podgy baritone (I noticed that the
tenors and baritones had a decided inclination to
obesity), whom the English students nicknamed
"Punch,' from an unmistakable likeness he bore to that
famous personage, played the Conte di Luna in “Il
Trovatore,' and Ezio in Verdi's ‘Attila. They were
two Stentors ; they literally hurled the notes at the
ears of the audience, who clearly showed that they did
not appreciate such wanton waste of energy. I felt
sorry their efforts were thrown away, yet it was a con-
solation to me to find that mere volume of sound did
not suffice to captivate the sympathy of the public;
my pipe of itself would have stood little chance against
such clarions as theirs. The other exception was
Giovanni Battista Antonucci, a very good bass, who
succeeded in gaining a high position in Italy; he was
a member of Mapleson's company the last year I
belonged to it, when he played Beltramo, Marcello,
Sarastro, etc., with great success.
I considered it my duty to hear as much music as
possible, but so much of the same class became
monotonous. I always had more affection for the
dramatic than the lyric stage, and it occurred to me
that, by paying a little attention to the drama, I might
combine instruction with amusement as well there as
at the opera. A dramatic company, under the direc-
tion of Gasparo Pieri, occupied the Teatro Rè.
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Among its members it numbered several good actors
and actresses, notably Pieri himself, one of the best
eccentric comedians I have seen ; Giuseppina Casali,
the leading lady, afterwards Pieri's wife ; Carlo
Romagnuoli, a good juvenile tragedian ; and the now
world-renowned tragic luminary, Tommaso Salvini,
who only appeared for a few nights. I saw him in a
melodrama entitled 'I due Sargenti,' and I shall ever
regret I missed seeing him in his grand impersonation
of Saulle,' in Alfieri's tragedy. He could not have
been more than twenty-five, but with his noble voice
and commanding presence, united to rare histrionic
genius, cultivated under Modena, the Italian Edmund
Kean, he had already become one of the greatest
tragedians the world has produced. The company,
always good, were especially so in the representation
of some of Goldoni's comedies. As the hero in “Il
Bugiardo,' and Paon Togn in · Le Baruffe Chiozzotte,'
Pieri was inimitable ; as also in ‘Box and Cox,' which
farce I saw then for the only time in my life. One of
the dramas, which I enjoyed very much, was founded
on an episode in the life of Goldoni, who is the
principal character in the piece, entitled 'Goldoni e le
sue sedici commedie.' The first scene takes place in
Goldoni's study, the second in a caffè, the third on the
stage of a theatre during the rehearsal of one of his
comedies, and the last in the green-room, whilst the
first performance is going on. It is full of the flavour
of Venice, minus that of her canals. My ardent desire
to see it acted on its ‘native heath' was fulfilled a few
years ago. I arrived in Venice one evening with some
friends ; whilst enjoying a fragrant weed at a caffè I
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mentioned my desire. The next morning, the first
thing which attracted my attention as I started out of
the hotel was an announcement that “Goldoni e le sue
sedici commedie' would be played that evening by
Bellotti-Bon's company. We booked places, went,
saw, and enjoyed it thoroughly, and oh, what a crowd
of recollections it conjured up!
I took a stall at the Teatro Rè for the half season,
about six weeks, where I could enjoy myself at my
ease every night in the week, including Sunday, at a
cost of about threepence per night. At first I had
some difficulty in following the play, but after a fort-
night my ear became so accustomed, I could catch
every word, and I no longer perceived I was listening
to a foreign language.
Except for the performance of 'Giovanni Giscala,'
and that of the unhappy · Faliero,' I had neglected my
operatic friends entirely. The Teatro Rè closed after
Tuesday in Holy Week, so I was free to attend the
two concerts at the Scala. The secular concert was
not remarkable in any way. I thought 'Il Deserto' a
trifle dull, but I fancy the performance cannot have
been good, as on hearing it again more recently I
found it a very interesting work. At the second con-
cert the 'Stabat Mater' was fairly well executed, in
spite of the conducting, which amused me highly.
The chorus was conveniently arranged on the stage,
divided by a gangway through which the principal
artists passed in and out ; the orchestra occupied its
usual place, Cavallini at his post at the back of the
orchestra, not close to the stage, as with us; while in
front of the stage sat the 'maestro concertatore' at the
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piano, and in front of each wing of the chorus stood a
sub-conductor.
Cavallini and the maestro at the piano beat time
throughout, and all four in the choral parts—and not
always together. The result I leave to the imagina-
tion of those who know something about choral per-
formances. The selection from Mendelssohn's 'St.
Paul' was a decided “frost'; nobody concerned in the
execution seemed to have the slightest idea of move-
ment or expression ; the chorus “How happy and
blest are they 'was dragged so fearfully that the theme
was entirely lost ; and the air O God, have mercy'
was simply murdered.
I put in an appearance at one of the masked balls,
which are given towards the end of the Carnival, dressed
as a 'débardeur,' at least, so the tailor said from whom
I hired the costume for five zwanzigers. I wore a
mask, and thus could observe without being observed,
and hear without being accused of eavesdropping; and
I observed and heard several curious things. The
merriment was at times boisterous, but it was at all
times good-humoured. There was no horse-play and
no drunkenness. A great part of the time I stood in
a retired nook listening to the music. Those who
have not heard a fine Austrian band play dance music
have no idea what charm dance music can effect. I
was spell-bound, and forgot all about dancers, masks,
everything, until my attention was aroused by the sweet
sounds of my native idiom. They proceeded from a
masker dressed in what I took to be a quartermaster's
uniform ; for a mask he wore a huge pasteboard nose,
which covered a great part of his face ; his hat-band
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bore the name of H.M.S. Lion. He was amusing
himself talking English to some ladies in a box, who
evidently did not understand a word he said.
I followed him until he joined some companions,
then accosted him (they were all English), and was
introduced to the group with 'I say, boys, here's a
compatriot with a devil of an accent'—the Lancashire
lad would peep out. I did not know them, nor did
they know me, so we agreed to meet at the Caffè dell'
Europa the following Sunday, and scrape acquaint-
ance. The day after the ball my nautical friend
received notice to quit Milan within twenty-four hours.
When he called at the police office to learn the reason
why, they told him that foreign officers were not
allowed to remain in Milan without depositing certain
necessary documents and receiving a 'permit'in
exchange. In vain he endeavoured to convince the
officials that he was a student, and the dress he
wore, except the hat, was the uniform then adopted
by the students of the Royal Academy, Hanover
Square. Like me, he had to produce a satisfactory
certificate to that effect, when he was sent off with
a recommendation to discard the suspicious costume
and avoid playing pranks for the future.
I kept my appointment the following Sunday, and
made myself known to the party I met at the Scala ;
two of them I still number among my intimates.
Until then I had only met one Englishman since my
arrival in Milan, and, to make a bull, he was an Irish-
man and an adventurer; he forced himself on me at
a caffè, where I was in the habit of breakfasting. I
should not have been inclined to entertain his acquaint-
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ance, but for the opportunity it afforded me of letting
my tongue loose after a couple of months of compara-
tive silence. We arranged to meet next day, to take
a walk together, when he promised to point out to me
some of the places and objects of interest; we had a
long stroll, and parted near his domicile. The same
afternoon I received a note from him, begging the
favour of a loan, and enclosing me a ring, a valuable
heirloom, which I was to retain as security. It was a
well-worn specimen of real ‘Brummagem. I sent
him a five-franc piece and returned the heirloom in
a note, in which I explained concisely my objection to
a continuance of his acquaintance. I saw no more
of him.
Although I was at all times on friendly terms with
the English students resident in Milan-never more
than eight or ten at that time, now a regiment of
goodness knows how many hundreds— I kept aloof
from their society, as I was bent on learning to speak
and think in Italian. It is not difficult for those whose
taste lies in that direction, and who are possessed of
a good memory, to acquire the grammar and words
of a foreign language from books; but to acquire the
accent and idiom, conversation and the power of imita-
tion are absolutely necessary. Naturally, for reasons
I have already given, the acquisition of a pure Italian
accent is scarcely possible in Milan, but a short resi-
dence in Tuscany or Rome will suffice to correct any
provincialisms. For the rest, I have found my
acquaintance with the Lombard dialects, the result of
hearing them so much, and reading Porta's and other
works, very useful in my wanderings about the lakes.
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I can understand and make myself understood where
a native of Rome or Florence could neither do one
nor the other. Yet I confess I love to hear the pure
language. Tuscan I prefer, though I know I am in
the minority ; the language of a Tuscan peasant is a
combination of poetry and music. .
I had to change my lodgings. I learned from
friends that the neighbourhood I resided in was
infested with shady characters ; in fact, I often
noticed unmistakable specimens of the brigand species
prowling about the courtyard (there was no porter's
lodge), especially at night. I dined at a little eating-
house close by, in the kitchen, an honour conceded to
frequenters, a salon being set apart for casual guests.
One evening, as I was taking my place, after giving
my instructions to the cook, the landlord asked me
if I had lost anything, pointing to my side pockets.
I felt them, and replied in the negative. “Because,'
said he, 'there was a gentleman trying them just now,
and, as I did not wish to make a disturbance, I collared
him and put him out quickly into the street !' After
that I deemed it quite time to clear out. Through
the instrumentality of my Italian master, I found a
comfortable apartment, consisting of two rooms on
the fourth floor of a house close to the Biblioteca
Ambrosiana, exactly over the rooms occupied by
Verdi when he wrote · Nabucco,' for which I paid
thirty zwanzigers a month. My landlady was a stout
little Jewess, who perpetually talked about her
triumphs in various theatres ; she had a daughter, a
singer ; her mother acted as cook, and, like Sairey
Gamp, dropped more snuff into the victuals than was
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actually necessary for seasoning purposes. This I
learned from future experience, as I did not board in
the house until a year later. All my fellow-lodgers
were theatrical artists of one class or another; amongst
the number, the knight of the ‘red banner' in Marino
Faliero. When I afterwards became a boarder, we
had at one time a male dancer, a nice-looking young
fellow who could bound I don't know how high in the
air, but totally ignorant of everything beyond his
steps ; he was accompanied by his mother, who took
as much care of him as though he had been the
Koh-i-noor. At times the atmosphere of the mansion
was charged with music; I remember one morning
(I do not know how I could possibly forget it) there
was a rehearsal of “Il Trovatore’ in the landlady's
private apartment; two other singers and I were
practising scales, etc., in our several rooms; while an
organ on wheels and two smaller ones were stationed
immediately under the windows, all working away
full blast simultaneously. It was rather like Bedlam,
but nobody seemed to mind the confusion of sweet
sounds ; and, after all, it was not worse than a Royal
Academy or Conservatorio.
Early in January I made acquaintance with the Lake
of Como. It was hardly the season for a visit to
the lakes, but I took the opportunity offered by my
Italian master to accompany him to Rovenna, a village
situated about half-way up Monte Bisbino, where he
had a small property, consisting of a comfortable
dwelling-house and a few acres of land, covered chiefly
with chestnut-trees. It was arranged that we each
paid our share of the expenses, and it turned out the
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most inexpensive holiday I ever took. As we had to
start early in the morning, and to make sure of being
in readiness, I took a room at an inn near my host's
house. Between anxiety about being up in time and
the noise of some bacchanalians playing at · Mora’ in
an adjoining room, I scarcely got a wink of sleep, and
felt very loath to turn out at six, on a bitterly cold
morning, with a north wind sharp enough to shave me,
to walk to the railway-station, acting as my own
porter. At the station another companion joined us.
Three hours' journey in a third-class carriage in the
cold and darkness was not a pleasant prospect, but I
improved the time by finishing my night's rest, and
only awoke on our arrival at Camerlata, where the sun
was shining bright and warm, and I soon forgot my
woes in the delightful balmy atmosphere. My host
laid in a supply of comestibles on the way to Como,
where we took a small boat, and crossed the lake ; an
hour's climb landed us at our destination. A sister
and niece of the professor made us welcome, and I
soon found myself perfectly at home. We remained
four or five days—the two other men busy marking
trees to be cut down for timber, and I rambling about
the hills, than which, for me, there is no greater enjoy-
ment. The weather continued very fine, during the
day, from ten until four, like fine spring weather in
England ; indeed, when the sun was high it was more
like summer. I regretted very much I could not
prolong my holiday ; but I found comfort in the reflec-
tion that I had not to return to an office stool. The
brief change did me good, and I went to work again
with renewed vigour. My share of the expenses,
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including railway and boat fares, amounted to eleven
and a half zwanzigers, or eight shillings!
I seldom allowed a day to pass during the whole
of my stay in Milan without paying a visit to the
cathedral. Frequently I attended High Mass on Sun-
day. As I had been accustomed to sing in the Catholic
church at home, I went to hear the music, but I re-
mained to hear the sermon. The music was shocking,
both composition and execution; how it could be
tolerated in such a temple I could not conceive. The
conductor was a great nuisance. For bâton he used a
piece of music twice doubled and folded flat, with
which he beat the first two beats of every bar on the
book in front of him. In a quick three-four movement
the constant flip-flap engrossed the attention ; but
perhaps that was providential : the wretched singing
might have done worse! The sermon I always
enjoyed. On several occasions I heard a Capuchin
monk, a handsome man, with expressive mouth and
eyes full of the fire of enthusiasm. He had a rich,
sonorous, and well-modulated voice; he was a master
of elocution, and his enunciation was so distinct that,
even in that vast area, I never missed a word of his
sermon. At times he would make a sweep from one
end to the other of the pulpit, which half encircles one
of the great columns supporting the dome, so as to
command the attention of the whole of his auditors.
He made free use of gesture, which was always noble
and elegant, without the slightest touch of theatrical
display. He was one of the few preachers who have
left a lasting impression on me. I hope I profited by
his discourse ; I know I did by his oratory.
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San Carlo and Sant'Ambrogio, as far as I can
recollect, were the only churches at which full choral
Mass was performed regularly every Sunday ; in the
others, except on the feast-day of the saint to whom
the church was dedicated, there was seldom any
musical performance worthy of attention. Generally,
the organist played at intervals music supposed to be
appropriate to the different parts of the ceremony ;
anything more inappropriate than what I have often
heard it would be difficult to imagine. Passing the
Carmelites one day, I heard the sound of the organ,
and entered. About twenty-five girls were receiving
confirmation ; the organist enlivened the proceedings
with selections from ‘La Traviata. In the country
places all attempt at propriety was discarded; the
organist simply played whatever he could get through,
sacred or profane. I have heard the favourite galop
from the last new ballet and the last movement of the
overture to · William Tell' played as voluntaries. At
Baveno a few years ago, on the occasion of a wedding,
Mass being performed, at the Elevation (the most
solemn moment) we were regaled with “Largo al
factotum,' from · Il Barbiere di Siviglia’! The music
in our Catholic churches at home would bear reforma-
tion, the execution generally leaving a great deal to be
desired; however, we try to find compositions appro-
priate to the solemnity of the Holy Sacrifice.
7
CHAPTER VIII.
Church Festivals and their Curious Customs-Plum-pudding at Barcelona
. –The Feasts of San Giorgio, Sant Angelo, and Corpus Christi--An
Impressive Spectacle—My Delight in Open-air Recreation-Milan :
Palatial and Plebeian-The Best View of the Duomo--Sad Accident
to my 'Darlin' Pair o' Bags '- Gluttony and its Miseries—Advice to
Singers about Food and Drink-Trips to Monza--Anecdote of some
English Excursionists- Performances at the Conservatorio, Pollini's
Opera-My Friend Rivetta-Our Excursion to Lecco-Comfortable
Quarters at the Croce di Malta-Demoralizing Effect of English and
American Travellers on Foreign Hotels-I turn Barber-Davide
Nava and the Mountains_Visit to the Maranis.
APART from the religious observance of Church
festivals, there are others, sometimes very curious ones,
whose connection with the subject of the festival
would, it appears to me, be difficult to trace. What
has plum-pudding to do with Christmas Day? The
inventor of it must have been copper-lined, or have
had wicked designs upon his fellow-creatures. It is a
stodgy complement to a solid dinner of roast beef and
goose, or turkey with plenty of stuffing, sausages, etc.
I have seen a clerical gentleman dispose of about a
couple of pounds at half-past one lunch, and, after
a walk of five miles, dine at five. He exists still, a
living wonder! One of the best plum-puddings I
ever partook of was at the Fonda de las Cuatro
Naciones at Barcelona. It was made by an Italian
cook, who had evidently modified the recipe given
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him by an English traveller ; it did not require a
' patent digester' to convert it into wholesome food
(chyle). At Easter, in my youthful days, before
digestive pills formed a part of my domestic economy'
(perhaps one of the reasons for requiring them), we
were regaled with 'bun-loaf,' a baked edition of plum-
pudding, and about as digestible
The feast of San Giorgio in Milan was kept on
bread-and-milk, an improvement, as far as digestion
and nourishment are concerned, on the cloying Christ-
mas pudding. The feast was celebrated in the different
osterias outside the city, and I was conducted to one
enclosed in an extensive garden. On entering we
were presented with a bowl and spoon each for our
use whilst we remained. We wandered about armed,
until one attendant filled our bowls with milk, and
another handed us a hunk of bread, whereupon we
joined in the revels. The grounds were crowded,
everybody laughing and chatting with everybody else,
no introduction necessary, all the time plying their
spoons as if preparing for a famine. I could not help
wondering what my parents would have said, could
they have beheld their infant distending himself with
bread-and-milk (to which they knew he was not
partial), instead of consuming the evening candle over
his studies. There were only a few, otherwise indis-
posable, children; there must have been some
hundreds of adults assembled in that place alone.
The lay observance of the feast of Sant'Angelo
struck me as being still more curious. From dawn
until after midnight every available nook and corner,
every piazza, intra- and extra-mural, was covered with
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booths and stalls piled up with whistles of every
description. I could not have believed it possible to
produce so many at one time. Nobody dreamt of
being satisfied with a single instrument of torture ;
they bought sufficient to cram their pockets, besides as
many as they could hold in their hands and between
their jaws. The boys seemed to vie with each other
in stretching their mouths so as to hold and perform
on the greater number at once. In the quarter of
Sant' Angelo the traffic was incredible and the noise
excruciating. The 'nonconformists' were all provided
with cotton-wool to stop their ears ; I was advised to
do the same, but I thought it was a joke, and, neglect-
ing the precaution, had to adopt the more inconvenient
and ineffectual plan of jostling my way through the
crowd with my thumbs stuffed in my ears. It was
worse than passing through an avenue of trees infested
with cicalas on a hot summer day. I must confess I
am not sufficient of a poet to imagine what connection
exists between whistles and Sant' Angelo.
Turning from the ridiculous to the sublime, the feast
of Corpus Christi was celebrated with great pomp.
On that day and the two following all shops were
closed and business suspended. Two or three days
previously a crowd of workmen was employed decorat-
ing the Duomo, and erecting a baldacchino from the
doors to those of Sant Ambrogio, about half a mile
long. Pontifical high mass was celebrated in the
presence of the whole clergy, secular and regular,
belonging to the diocese, and a crowd of worshippers
and spectators. The steps and a great part of the
piazza were filled with people who were not fortunate
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enough to gain admittance. Mass ended, the clergy-
men and religious orders, headed by the Archbishop
bearing the Host, the monsignori, canons, deacons, and
sub-deacons, followed by the united bands of the two
principal Austrian regiments and a vast concourse of
people, marched in solemn procession bareheaded to
Sant'Ambrogio, the clergy and people singing the
hymn 'Pange lingua,' and the bands playing alter-
nately. I saw the start, and taking a short cut,
arrived at Sant'Ambrogio in time to secure a place in
the church. The procession entered by the cloisters,
and passed slowly along the nave, and out at the
opposite end; as the band followed, they played the
march from “Il Profeta. It was the most imposing
and impressive ceremony I ever witnessed.
Picture-galleries, museums, libraries, or exhibitions
never possessed much attraction for me. I did not
visit the Ambrosian Library nor the Brera Galleries
until I returned to Milan in 1865. I delight in open-
air recreation, of which I had enjoyed very little during
my school and business days. My daily routine was
as follows : The morning I devoted to study ; about
mid-day I turned out for my 'constitutional,' whatever
the weather might be. Unless very wet, I made my
round of the bastions, and generally made a short halt
at the Piazza d'Armi to rest and feast my eyes on the
grand panorama of the mountains about the Lake of
Como, backed by the snow-clad peaks of the loftier
mountains beyond. In the foreground I had the
· Arco della pace,' which, spite of its artistic beauty,
irritated me, as it obstructed in some measure the view
of what gave me infinitely more pleasure. In the
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afternoon I had a lesson three times a week; the other
days I did some work at home, and then amused my-
self strolling about the city for a couple of hours,
avoiding the aristocratic neighbourhoods, a monotonous
series of stone walls, embellished with occasional
grated windows, all that might be interesting being
hidden from the public gaze. Many of the fine
mansions (palazzi) of the nobility possess gardens of
considerable extent, small parks in fact, hardly conceiv-
able in a city built so compactly. Through the courtesy
of a lodge-keeper, I have had my curiosity gratified
with a peep at one or two. My favourite haunts were
the plebeian quarters, where I found an infinite variety
of entertainment: the shops, the names over them, the
wares sold in them; the odd variety of articles on sale
paper and postage stamps ; the stalls of fruit, fried
fish, polenta, roasted chestnuts, ices, drinks cold or hot,
according to the season, haberdashery, ironmongery,
toys, etc. ; the bargaining between buyer and seller,
often assisted by disinterested lookers-on; the hunch-
backs and other deformities, for which, until I had
seen more of the South of Europe, I imagined Milan
held a patent; the canal boats of antediluvian con-
struction; the altercations, which I always expected to
end in murder, but which were all sound and fury,
signifying nothing.' One thing I never saw during my
two years' residence, neither a man nor a woman drunk.
During the hot weather in July and August I used
to rise early, from five to half-past, and stroll about in
the public gardens until breakfast-time; then, in the
afternoon, I took a siesta before dinner. As the days
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grew longer, I preferred passing the evening in the
fresh air rather than in the close atmosphere of a
theatre. One moonlight night I discovered, or think
I did, as I never found anyone else who had noticed it,
the most advantageous view of the cathedral I know-
from the bastions, almost in a line with the Conserva-
torio, besides which, and a few small dwelling-houses
nearer the walls, there was no building to be seen
except the Duomo, every pinnacle and ornament
clearly defined, and white as snow.
An accident happened to me one summer morning
that caused me no little grief when I reflected on my
limited banking account. At Easter I mounted a
darlin' pair o'bags,' as Mickie in the gallery of the
Theatre Royal, Dublin, remarked to the late Charles
Mathews on the stage one night : ‘Them's a darlin'
pair o' bags, Charlie. Who's your tailor?' They
were of a light colour, and designed to make havoc on
the Corso on Easter Sunday, when the female sex all
turn out in their best bibs and tuckers. A month or
two of wear had shadowed their brightness ; they
were sent to the cleaners, who returned them almost
restored to their pristine splendour, at the cost of some
three shillings. I went to breakfast the first time I
wore them again very satisfied with my 'get-up.' I
ordered a ragout, with macaroni and tomato sauce.
It looked like a juvenile golden sunset, and, oh, what a
bouquet ! sufficiently inviting to lead an anchorite
astray. Being hungry, I fell to with great vigour ;
the table was covered with a cloth, and I had not
remarked that the sides were hollowed out, and my
plate was simply balanced on the edge. I had only
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demolished half my breakfast, when I made a dive
with my fork, and overturned my plate and its contents
into my lap. I lost the tit-bits I had reserved for the
last, the golden sunlight illuminated my darlin' bags'
in a most unpleasant fashion, and I had to walk half-
way down the Corso on my way home, a subject of
merriment to an unfeeling crowd, and of commiseration
to myself.
We do not live to eat, but we must eat to live! We do
not, like other animals, instinctively choose one aliment;
and what is food for one is poison for another, so it
behoves each of us to observe what quality and quantity
of food suits us best, and adhere, as far as lies in our
power, to that régime. That this study is neglected
there is abundant proof in the innumerable pills,
powders, tablets, and mixtures used to promote and
aid digestion. How often we have to listen to the
complainings of the 'martyr to indigestion'! I have
been a so-called martyr; I can therefore speak feel-
ingly.
The following remarks I especially address to my
young brother and sister singers. How the voice is
produced or where, except that it is through the
passage of the throat, is unimportant; it is reasonable
to say that the passage must be kept clear, otherwise
the sound proceeding from it will not be clear. I have
known many instances of singers undergoing very dis-
agreeable operations on their throats for chronic
diseases of various descriptions ; now, my observation
and experience assure me that, in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred, the root of the evil is chronic inattention to
food and raiment. It is a common thing to hear a singer
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say, ' I never touch such-and-such food on the days I
sing. My dear young friend, unless you are an absolute
idiot, you would not partake of anything on the days
you sing which might disagree with you, or overtax your
digestive powers ; it is on the days you do not sing you
ought more particularly to exercise your judgment and
self-denial. I do not offer the pinched-up pilgarlic who
dines off a wizened apple and a crust of bread as a
model for imitation ; at the same time, I warn you
seriously against following the example of the gobbling
glutton who swallows every dish that tempts his palate.
I am neither philosopher nor law-giver ; I have no inten-
tion of laying down rules for your guidance. Study to
know, and adopt those aliments which your own good
sense will suggest are good for you at all times ;
protect yourselves from cold or damp, but beware of
muffling yourselves like mummies ; avoid talking and
laughing in the cold air, especially after singing, and
you will not need to trouble the doctor much.
People often ask me, do I believe in alcohol ? As it
exists, more or less, in everything I eat and drink, I
am bound to believe in it. I presume, if they would
speak plainly, they would ask do I drink wine, beer,
or spirits ? Wine and beer contain alcohol, but I
object to their being called by that name. They con-
tain, besides, many elements beneficial to the human
system, and are entitled to an important place among
foods. Beer I never liked, and very rarely take.
Spirits I care little for, but I find a little nightcap'
soothing. Wine I like very much, and took whenever
I could get it, which was seldom before I went to
Italy; since then regularly, both at lunch and dinner.
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I find it does me good; but I cannot undertake to
prescribe for others ; I leave you to learn and adopt
what your own sense will suggest is good for you.
I used occasionally to indulge in a day's relaxation
-I cannot call it holiday, for every day was to me a
holiday then—and take a run into the country, accom-
panied by one or both of the young Navas. Monza
was our favourite resort ; it is a pretty, clean town;
the cathedral is a fine church, containing some objects
of interest, among the rest the iron crown with which
Napoleon I. crowned himself. The greater part of
the day we spent in the royal park, wandering about
admiring the numerous specimens of plants and trees,
native and foreign, or lolling in their shade enjoying
a pleasant chat. About five we adjourned to an inn,
and after a good dinner returned home in the cool of ..
the evening. We used to hire a horse and trap for
the day, which cost some five shillings and the horse's
feed; one of us drove, and though we were not great
whips, we ran no risks, as the road was pretty straight
and level, and the horse required little management
beyond keeping him on his legs. It was not an extra-
vagant outing, the whole expenses amounting to ten
or eleven shillings. My English friends were in the
habit of making similar excursions, and a ludicrous
adventure happened to a party of them one night
returning from Pavia. They did not start until ten
o'clock, and, as the roads were not lighted and there
was no moon, they had to drive slowly ; suddenly
the horse went lame, and at last came to a dead
stop; one of them jumped out to see what was the
matter, and in doing so kicked something lying in
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17
III
came
n
the road, which jingled like metal ; he stooped and
picked up a horseshoe. The mystery was solved :
the horse had cast a shoe; and so they all dismounted
and led the poor beast until they came to a forge.
After half an hour's knocking and parleying (it was
then past midnight), the blacksmith came down and
prepared to repair the damage, when, to his rage and
the travellers' astonishment, he found all four shoes
intact, and the one they found big enough for a horse
twice the size of that they were driving. A stone had
got embedded in one hoof, which caused the animal's
distress. It was speedily removed, and after appeas-
ing the smith's wrath with a few zwanzigers they
started afresh, and arrived in Milan at six in the
morning.
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Conservatorio for the vacation. The examinations
occupied some days, after which there was an exhibi-
tion by the advanced students, vocal and instrumental.
Once every three years the pupils who were leaving
to commence their public career had an opportunity of
appearing in an opera. In 1856 an opera was expressly
written by Pollini (one of the party disturbed by the
police at the Pozzo, described in an early chapter),
entitled “L'Orfana Svizzera,'a melodious, unpretentious
work.
The principal parts were sustained by Isabella Alba,
soprano, L'Orfana ; Christoforo Fabbris, light tenor,
the lover ; Giuseppe Limberti, robust tenor (as there
was no baritone sufficiently advanced to take it), his
rival ; and Capponi, bass, a hermit. The chorus con-
sisted of the younger scholars, and the band of the
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instrumental students and their professors, under the
direction of Cavallini. The opera, followed by a
short concert, in which Luigia Perelli and others per-
formed, was given three times. I was present twice,
and was much pleased with the performance, which,
on the whole, was highly creditable. Isabella Alba,
a very charming singer and intelligent actress, I
thought was destined to rise to a high position, but
an affection of the throat compelled her to abandon
the stage after a short career, when she married
Angeleri, the head of the pianoforte school, and
devoted herself to teaching. The two tenors were
fair singers, but being in bad health, unfortunately,
could not do themselves justice; they both sang with
success some years after in South America. Of
Luigia Perelli and Capponi I have already spoken.
I had several acquaintances among those who took
part in the performances. My most intimate was
Luigi Rivetta, flautist and pianist, whom I constantly
met at the Maranis', where he took part in our musical
entertainments. He was one of the best-tempered
individuals I ever knew. After the excitement
attendant on the breaking-up had subsided, he and
I arranged to take a little trip; he suggested Lecco
as an inexpensive place within our means. Accordingly
we decided on passing a week there together. I was
desirous of taking a longer holiday, and as he could
not stay more than a week, I arranged with Davide
Nava to join me as my guest for a day or two, and
on our return journey spend the remainder of an addi-
tional week with the Maranis at Desio, where they
had a country residence. Strict economy being neces-
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
17
sary, we made the journey from Milan outside the
coach, a rickety machine drawn by three bony steeds ;
barring the dust and an occasional shower of stones,
with which the rude young villagers we passed on
the road saluted us, we enjoyed a very pleasant drive
for half-a-crown each. We put up at the Croce di
Malta, a good old-fashioned, rough-and-ready inn;
the bedrooms scantily furnished according to English
notions, but perfectly clean and comfortable. They
would have had us take our meals in the sala, as
honoured guests, but we preferred the lower regions,
among the familiars, where we could select our dishes
in the raw state and superintend their preparation,
and so sharpen our appetites, if need were, with the
contemplation of the delicacies we were about to
consume. We had more fun, too; we were soon on
familiar terms with the proprietor, frequenters, cook,
household, and the dog that turned the spit; the
cook was as pleased to attend to our elaborate instruc-
tions as we were with his attentions to our creature
comforts, and fed us well; the master, seeing we were
interested in and satisfied with his endeavours to
please, took interest in us, and placed us on a familiar
footing with regard to charges ; our expenses, for bed,
two substantial meals with wine, lights, and attendance,
did not exceed five zwanzigers—three shillings and six-
pence—per day.
I have done a fair amount of travelling, and had
much experience of hotel life in Europe, America and
the Australasian Colonies; but for comfort and good
living, combined with economy, I never fared so well
as in Italy. I must add, however, that latterly English
1
zwa
8
.
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and American travellers have spoiled the large hotels
in the principal cities to a great extent. Three years
ago I made a short hasty tour in the North of Italy.
At Venice, where I arrived after the table d'hôte was
over, as I wanted to dine immediately, I was served
from what remained. Ox-tail soup and roast beef and
Yorkshire pudding are very good fare in England,
but who that has ever eaten a good Italian dinner
could relish ox-tail soup and roast beef and Yorkshire
pudding in Venice? I remonstrated with the waiter,
who told me my countrymen would not touch Italian
dishes, so it was useless to provide them. However,
he made amends next day; at his instigation the cook
sent me up a dinner after his own heart—and mine!
At Bologna nobody in the hotel knew the names of
ordinary Italian dishes (the cook was not Italian), let
alone how to prepare them; and at Florence the food
was as limited in quantity as it was inferior in quality ;
the fowls seemed to have been born with half a dozen
legs apiece, and reared on pebbles.
Except one very wet day, we were out in the open
air from breakfast until dinner-time on the lake ; or
roaming about the hills, or visiting the spots made
famous by Manzoni in ‘I Promessi Sposi.' It hap-
pened to be the time of the fiera, so we were able to
while away the evening at the opera. The theatre
was very pretty, and the company very fair for a place
numbering some 4,000 inhabitants ; the admission was
only seventy-five centimes, with a small additional
fee for reserved places. I have heard and taken part
in worse performances, although with better artists, in
many of our provincial towns, more than ten times the
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11
size of Lecco. The wet day we were obliged to pass
in doors, as it rained in torrents ; we had no books or
other means of amusing ourselves ; cards I abominate,
and I never learned to play billiards. Rivetta was
a smoker, so to pass the time he proposed I should
join him in a weed; I did not like to attack a strong
Virginia, and procured a couple of choice Havanas
(Regalia de Cabagio '), which kept me employed for
some time; we had still two or three hours to get
through before dinner-time, so as my friend wanted
shaving, and could not perform the operation himself,
I proposed that I should do it for him. After some
demur he submitted; he had a nice fat face suitable
for a first attempt, but I suppose I must have been
slightly nervous, for, in finishing off the first side, I
managed to take off a slice of cheek; he would not
allow me to proceed, and as he could not appear at
dinner ‘half done,' he ran over to the barber's to have
his wound plastered and the other side shaved. I
had the taste of choice Havana in my mouth all
day, and dreamt I was making a meal of it in the
night, which put me off smoking for some years. I
have never tried to shave anyone except myself since.
At the week's end Rivetta went away and Nava joined
me. He had never been near mountains or on the
water before, and lived in the constant dread of being
crushed by the one or drowned in the other. He was
struck with astonishment at the sight of a barge with
her only sail set, making about two knots an hour, and
asked me if we had such large vessels at Liverpool.
I am afraid I was somewhat cruel to him ; he was not
shod for mountain climbing, and preferred mooning
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about in a caffè; however, I induced him to accom-
pany me part of the way up Monte Bara; he was
greatly impressed with the scenery, which he acknow-
ledged amply repaid him for the fatigue he under-
went.
According to promise, we stopped at Desio. The
Maranis had a number of mutual acquaintances staying
at their house ; there were no walkers among them,
evening we sang, danced, or played round games of
cards or dominoes ; the few days we spent there made
an agreeable finish to our little holiday.
The last time I met Rivetta, he was conducting a
very good orchestra at the Caffè Cova, in Milan.
Davide Nava died of consumption a few years after I
returned to England,
T
CHAPTER IX.
Engager escorte Traviate A Storand in Media
Cross-grainflady-1 appeareito Malatesta’s a Friend in Medic
Efforts to obtain Work-Engagement at Pavia-A Conceited Tenor and
a Cross-grained Baritone-I escort an Aged Seconda Donna-A
Skittish Landlady—I appear in the "Traviata' and ' Ernani'- My
Wardrobe-Failure of 'Lamberto Malatesta '--A Stormy First-night
and a Disastrous Sequel-The Mayor proves a Friend in Need -
Christmas Day at Pavia : a Hospitable Landlord—The Medical
Student and the Raw Veal Cutlet-Hotels, Old and New.
My holiday time had now come to an end; I had to
turn my attention seriously to business. Before the
vacation I had sung to Bonola, the principal agent, in
the hope of securing an engagement; the theatres for
which he catered, however, were beyond my capabil-
ities, consequently I had to aim lower. A lady who
was about to make her debut at Pavia the ensuing
Carnival, and with whom I had sung occasionally at a
friend's house, hinted at the possibility of my being
engaged at the same theatre. I called upon the
agent who was forming the company, and sang
Zaccaria's air from “Nabucco,' accompanied by my
master, whom I left to hear the result. I felt much
disappointed and depressed when he told me the
agent did not approve either of my voice or my singing.
I could not expect my father would supply me with
any more money, and as my funds were fast dwind-
ling away, I began to feel my position was growing
desperate. I did not know then, and I believe never
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
shall know, the tricks of the trade. After a week or
two of suspense, I had the felicity of signing my first
engagement, not a fat one, barely enough to subsist
on, but I was truly thankful for it. The terms were
three hundred zwanzigers (about ten guineas) and
half a clear benefit; the Carnival lasted seven weeks,
and I had to be at Pavia two weeks before for the re-
hearsals. Salaries were paid in quarters ; the first
on arrival, the second after the third performance, the
third on completion of half the season, and the fourth
three days before the close of the engagement. The
benefits were to be taken in rotation, beginning with
theatre at Pavia would have been handsome if taste-
fully decorated; being entirely constructed of stone,
it was difficult to sing in ; the stage was not overclean
and the dressing-rooms were like pigsties, a common
fault in almost all the theatres I have had anything to
do with. It is strange so little attention should be
bestowed on the health and comfort of those on whose
work artistic and pecuniary success both depend.
There were only three operas to be given during
the season, “La Traviata' and Ernani' (Verdi), and
a new opera written and composed expressly by two
students of the university, entitled · Lamberto Mala-
testa. The lady I mentioned was our prima donna,
and proved very successful; at the close of the season
she married a gentleman of Pavia and gave up the
profession. The last opera required two prime
donne, for which another lady was engaged ; being
somewhat passée, her efforts were not appreciated.
There was no contralto part in any of the operas.
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119
Our tenor was the most conceited donkey I ever
encountered, and I have met with some fair specimens.
Had the baritone and I changed places, it would have
been the better for both of us; but he was averse to
coming down, and I afraid of going up, so we kept to
the colours we had chosen. He could not sustain the
baritone register in Verdi's operas, though he was a
fair singer. After we had played the “Traviata’ a few
nights his voice gave way, and I was asked by the
manager to take his place, in order to avoid closing the
theatre. I had heard the music performed and
rehearsed so often that I already knew the part fairly
well ; however, I declined to sing it unless requested
by the baritone himself. I called to see him, and, after
a few unpleasant remarks, he told me I could not sing
it. I was nettled, and I determined to prove he was
wrong. I sang it the same evening, and obtained such
a success that the manager desired me to supplant
him altogether, and take the part of Carlo Quinto
in · Ernani. This I would not listen to—he was a
struggling beginner like myself; we were good friends,
and I did not feel inclined to assist in any tricks to
get rid of him. He did not attempt Carlo Quinto, so
another baritone was expressly engaged for the part ;
this was the only member of our company that ever
appeared in London, where I saw him at the end
of 1857 at St. James's Theatre, during a season
of Italian opera buffa, of which Alberto Randegger
acted as conductor. We had also a second lady, who
looked fifty, and said she was not out of her 'teens'; a
second tenor, and a second bass, who used to recount
to me in confidence his numerous triumphs in buffo
0
1
season
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parts. His appearance was anything but jovial ; indeed,
he seemed as though ‘Melancholy had marked him for
her own'! The chorus, except three ladies from Milan,
was native, and the orchestra was composed chiefly of
semi-professionals—the principal oboe was a student of
law.
TTTI
The seconda donna and I journeyed by the same
diligence. from Milan to Pavia, she an inside and I an
outside passenger. I had been introduced to her by
my landlady, whose comrade she had been in her pro-
fessional days; if her own statement of her age had
been correct, she must have been a baby in arms when
she made her debut. My landlady, with a knowing
twinkle in her eye, begged me to take care of her on
the journey, though I thought it would have been
more natural for her to take care of me, seeing she
looked old enough to be my grandmother. She was
evidently relieved from great anxiety on my account
when she found we were to be separated; I was
delighted, though I hypocritically concealed my joy.
Her appearance was, to say the least, grotesque. I
could not help fancying her hip-joints had grown out-
side the flesh; they turned out to be two flat-irons,
which, to save room in her trunk, she was in the habit
of carrying attached to the waistband of her petticoat
under her dress when travelling! On our arrival at
Pavia they were produced at the barber's, where she
lodged, amid a great deal of blushing and giggling.
I took a room in the house of a respectable lady,
another lambkin, who had seen some sixty summers.
She was a dark-complexioned, shrivelled little being,
with jet-black hair so like a horse's tail that it reminded
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LI
me of the sofa-coverings of my youth. She, too,
evidently feared the power of her attractions on me.
Her coyness highly amused me, but I seldom had the
chance of enjoying a bit of fun at her expense, as she
objected to receive me en tête-à-tête, on account of
the danger to our youthful hearts. Her name was
Luigia (I forget what). Once when I told her Luigia
was one of my most favourite names, she was so
startled she nearly tumbled into the fireplace. My room
was on the ground-floor, and seldom cheered by the
sun's rays; the weather was bitterly cold, and we had
show at times, knee-deep. I preferred passing my
evenings at home, and tried lighting a fire, to make
myself comfortable, but I had to open the door and
windows to avoid being suffocated with smoke, so after
a few nights I reluctantly availed myself of a snug
corner at the caffè.
We commenced the rehearsals of the “Traviata,' in
which I was to make my début as the Doctor, im-
mediately. They were numerous, long, and irritating
from the small amount of earnestness displayed by the
singers, excepting the prima donna. I had very
little to do, and soon grew weary of going over the
same few bars twice a day. On account of the absence
of the students during the vacation, we did not open
until the ist of January, 1857, by which time, to my
astonishment, although we must have had between
thirty and forty rehearsals, we were all ready. First
nights I have always found depressing ; unless I am
engaged in the performance I always avoid them.
On this occasion I had no fear on my own account ; I
had no responsibility, but I was very anxious about
Sa
СС
1се
C
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
VY
my nervous comrades. I had not a hair on my face,
and, when made up, looked more like a youthful page
than a staid doctor, spite of my sombre costume.
The audience, a very capricious one, expressed their
satisfaction with vigorous applause; the prima donna,
who sang and acted the part of Violetta very well, at
once established herself as a favourite, a position she
maintained and strengthened as the season advanced
the tenor ‘got through'; the baritone showed he
possessed talent, though the music was too high for
him. Whilst he was indisposed I sang the part of
Germont (father) three nights, after which the tenor
induced me to join him in sending a notice of our
success to a musical journal in Florence, his native
place, in which, for the sum of five francs, my share
of the cost of insertion, I figured as the legitimate
successor to Tamburini. In 'Ernani' I essayed the
rôle of Don Silva. The costumes were provided by
the manager, but the small articles of dress we had to
find. I laid in a stock in Milan, which consisted of
one imitation lace and one plain linen collar ; two
ballet shirts ; one black and one white ostrich feather ;
one pair black and one pair white silk, and one pair
red worsted tights ; a pair of black velvet shoes ; and
a pair of shiny leather leggings, fitting on my ordinary
walking boots to imitate high boots, all of which,
except the red tights, I pressed into the service of
Don Silva. The barber made me up very red, as he
said I must look like a fiery old gentleman. At first
I wore a moustache and imperial, held by elastics
round my ears, but they felt very insecure. I was
afraid of swallowing them every time I opened my
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123
IN
mouth wide, and I did not approve of the mark the
elastic left on my face, so I resorted to ordinary gum
(spirit gum was not known there); washing it off
scarified my lips, but, finding it safer, I suffered in
silence. I do not know what impression my singing
made on the audience—not unfavourable, I think, as
they applauded me when opportunity occurred; but I
feel sure they must have found ample food for merri-
ment in my representation of a Spanish grandee.
Dick, Tom and Harry were not photographed in those
days as they are now ; besides, I doubt whether there
was a photographer in Pavia, or I might be able
to amuse myself and friends still with my 'make up.'
The third opera, 'Lamberto Malatesta,' came to
grief. The libretto was not bad, but the music was
wretched. We had plenty of rehearsals, but the tenor
never learned the third act, and had but a hazy notion
of the first and second. The season was drawing to a
close, but the managers were bound to fulfil their
obligations to the subscribers, and the opera had to
be performed, perfect or imperfect. Being the work
of two students, nobody doubted that their school-
fellows would ensure its favourable reception ; but
students, comrades though they be, are not to be
conciliated with chaff; there must be a few grains of
wheat mingled with it. Throughout the first two
acts the rumblings of an approaching tempest grew
louder and more frequent; the curtain fell on the
second amid tumultuous expressions of disapprobation ;
at the commencement of the third I was discovered in
the centre of the stage between the rival prime donne ;
each had a short passage to sing, which was uproari-
17
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
exc1
ously applauded by her partisans and outrageously
hooted by her enemies. The storm then burst in all
its fury. For twenty minutes we stood unable to
proceed with the opera ; at length, finding there was
no possibility of restoring order, the Commissioner of
Police came round from the front and ordered the
curtain to be lowered ; he very politely expressed
deep regret that we should have been subjected to
such violent treatment, and dismissed us. The sequel
threatened to be most disastrous ; my benefit did not
come off; the subscribers would not be satisfied with
the reproduction of the · Traviata’ and · Ernani,' nor
was there time to prepare another opera ; the managers
made this an excuse for not disbursing the last quarter's
pay. What was to be done? After various sugges-
tions, the baritone and I agreed to wait on the Mayor
and plead for his intercession. We found him at
home, a very genial, kind-hearted old gentleman. He
listened patiently to our story, and requested us to
call again in the evening, by which time he would
arrange what he could do on our behalf. On our
return he informed us that there were four or five
masked balls still due to the subscribers, which would
also be a source of great profit to the managers; he
had, therefore, sent them notice that, unless all money
due to the singers and others employed in the opera
were paid, and their acknowledgment sent to him by
twelve o'clock next day, the police would not allow the
theatre to be reopened that season. The order was
complied with, we were all paid, and, after calling to
thank our friend in need, I returned to Milan.
My first Christmas Day in Italy I spent alone at
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
125
Milan.
Except the respective waiters at the café
1
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as
le
I did not speak to a human being the whole day. I
had a solitary walk in the afternoon, dined alone,
returned home, and read until bed-time. My second
I spent more socially at Pavia. The landlord of the
inn where I dined regularly invited me and any others
of the frequenters who were not otherwise engaged
to eat our Christmas dinner with him. Everybody
belonging to the household sat down to table with us,
from the landlord to the stable-boy ; the cook joined
us during the intervals when his presence in the
kitchen was not necessary, the landlord's sons and
daughters waited on us. Dish succeeded dish, until
I found my waistcoat growing uncomfortably small.
There was abundance of excellent wine of various
kinds from the vineyards on the other side of the
Ticino, to which all were free to help themselves
without restriction as to quantity ; yet not one in-
dulged in the slightest excess. The food was of first-
rate quality, well cooked ; and the 'made' dishes
cunningly prepared to tempt the most delicate appe-
tite. It was a bonny feast, given with a welcome that
would have gladdened the heart of the veriest churl ;
it was no spurt to inveigle guests. The daily table,
although less elaborate, was equally well served ;
there were always ample rations of the best kind at a
small cost. For my dinner, with a pint of good wine,
I paid, except on rare occasions, from iod. to is.
True, the tables were of plain deal, the table-cloths
71
invariably clean when we sat down to dine.
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The
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Was
ime
medical students were fond of airing their scientific
knowledge with regard to aliment. A young curly-
headed philosopher, fresh from a lecture in which the
professor had touched on the digestibility of flesh-
meat, entered one day, and, with an air of great
wisdom, ordered a veal cutlet, raw, to be served up
with oil, vinegar, and fine herbs—a cannibalistic order
which made us all stare. The cutlet came. It could
not see, or it would have pitied the poor youth making
desperate efforts to hide his nausea; but it conquered!
After bolting a few small mouthfuls he had to throw
up the sponge, and, with a pale countenance, acknow-
ledge his defeat. I need hardly say for some time he
was a butt for the shafts of his companions' playful
sarcasm.
I presume modern taste and the exigencies of
increase of traffic and speed of travelling necessitate
the change which has been made in hotels of late
years; yet I cannot but regret the gradual disappear-
ance of quiet, comfortable hostelries I used to frequent
--- most of them have either been demolished or else so
modernized as to be no longer recognisable. Hotel-
keeping is a business, and one ought not to murmur if
it is managed. strictly on business principles ; but I
miss the host's cheerful welcome and attentions, and I
do not find in modern hotels any compensation for
their loss. Nearly all our large railway stations are
fronted by hotels ; I do not find that any means
whatever are adopted, or even tried, to deaden the
noise of the rolling of trains and screeching of engine-
whistles! The traveller is still annoyed by the porter
thundering at the door of a neighbour starting by an
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
127
1
early train ; surely it would not be difficult to contrive
a plan for abolishing this nuisance! If he arrive late
at night and hungry, most probably he will have to be
content with the hacked remains of a cold joint, or a
limb of a dried-up fowl; or perhaps with nothing more
than a dry biscuit and a glass of spirits, or go to bed
fasting. If he wants a bath, he must wait while the
chambermaid or porter prepares it, and pay is. 6d. or
2s. for it. If he drinks wine, he must pay an exorbitant
price for it; and the contents of the bottles are not
always accurately described on the labels. He must
pay attendance charged in his bill, and fee the waiter
and chambermaid besides.
Advancement in extent of accommodation ought to
be accompanied by proportionate advancement in ap-
pliances for the traveller's comfort and repose, and in
the regulation of the scale of charges according to the
entertainment he receives.
CHAPTER X.
Return to Milan-A Memorable Masked Ball-A Generous Agent-
Offer of an Engagement at Padua : a Foolish Refusal — Dark Days
and Short Commons—Suicidal Thoughts—A Welcome Engagement
-A Kind-hearted Prima Donna-I throw up my Engagement-
Arrival of Supplies from Home-Offer of a Five Years' Engagement
-A Trump of a Landlady--Good-natured but Irritating Friends-
Adverse Criticisms of Nava-Declamation, True and False—Matters
reach a Crisis-No Engagements forthcoming—Visit from Henry F.
Chorley–His Appearance and Prejudices—He urges me to return to
England - His Kindness and Generosity--A Tedious Journey-Home
again.
11111
I RETURNED to my old quarters, where I arranged to
board and occupy a single room for one hundred
zwanzigers a month. I had little more than one
hundred zwanzigers in my possession, seventy-five of
which I handed to my landlady on account of my first
month's board and lodging. I called immediately
upon the friends through whose instrumentality, in-
directly, I obtained my engagement; they were going
to a masked ball at the Scala, and pressed me to
accompany them. I tried to excuse myself; I felt too
depressed with the dismal prospect before me to be
inclined to make merry, and it was hard to part with
five zwanzigers out of my limited store. However,
false shame prevented me acknowledging my position,
and I joined them. The Emperor and Empress of
Austria, accompanied by the Emperor and Empress of
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129
17
2
i
Mexico, were present. The theatre was 'illuminato a
giorno' (illuminated to day-light); and when the im-
perial party entered their box, a shower of small
parachutes of various hues, weighted with packets of
bonbons, descended from the gallery, and were
eagerly seized by the crowd below. The costumes of
the maskers were more than ordinarily striking, and
the band played exquisitely, forming altogether a
brilliant and interesting spectacle. I forgot my troubles
in the contemplation of the lively scene, though not
for long. I was tired after my journey, and distressing
thoughts would obtrude themselves, spite of the dis-
tractions around me; so I retired early.
My living was secure for three weeks, and I had
still a little money in my pocket, out of which I hired
a piano, paying a month in advance, so that I might
continue my studies. I believed I had made a step in
my career-albeit a small one-and I determined to
do my best to conquer difficulties which at that time I
feared were almost insurmountable. My voice, though
clear and sonorous, was not of sufficient volume to
satisfy agents and others to whom I looked for en-
gagements. I sometimes felt thoroughly disheartened,
and inclined to give up all thought of making a name;
yet, when I called to mind instances such as I have
cited of singers whose position was the result of
artistic execution and feeling, not power of voice, I
resolved to make them my models, and, as far as lay
in my power, follow in their footsteps. The agent
from whom I received my engagement for Pavia gave
me great encouragement. I owed him his commission
—fifteen zwanzigers. I asked for some money from
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home, which was refused. I then parted with some
of my worldly goods to my Italian uncle (and was con-
siderably done by the friend who transacted the busi-
ness), and called to pay my debt. I was very much
taken aback by the agent's kindness; he told me, if I
were in want of money, he was content to wait until
I could pay him without inconveniencing myself, and,
which gave me much greater satisfaction, that he had
seen me twice or thrice in · Ernani,' and was much
pleased with my performance. He then offered me
an engagement for a month at Padua, which, after
looking through the operas to be performed, and
finding some passages in one of them, as I thought,
too high for me, I declined. I acted very foolishly, I
admit, but I feared being over-venturesome with a
public so ready to give expression to its feelings.
The three succeeding months were a time of great
trial. I had only myself to blame, for I might have
made the money sent me go much further than I did.
I was not extravagant on my own account, but my
companions cost me more than I was justified in
spending. I continued visiting the Maranis, but I
did not let them know my position, or, I feel sure,
from the unvarying kindness with which they treated
me, they would have helped me out of my difficulties.
I confided in one person only, who had several times
offered me assistance in case I ever found myself in
need of it; I asked him to lend me a very small sum
to enable me to pay the hire of some music I wished
to study, which he made some lame excuse for refus-
ing. My board was frugal : a cup of coffee and milk
, for breakfast at nine, dinner at four-a fair repast, but
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scarcely solid enough for such a hungry stomach as
mine; occasionally I supplemented it with a roll before
turning in at night.
One Sunday, returning from the caffè where I had
called after spending the evening at the Maranis', I
met the patrol at the corner of the street where I
lived. The sergeant stopped me, and after making
sundry inquiries as to who and what I was, finally
demanded my carta di sicurezza. I had changed my
dress before starting out, and left the document at
home. I begged him to accompany me to my door,
where I would fetch it for him ; but he declined, and
I was marched off to the police office like a inalefactor
by six gens d'armes. There, after he had roused a
sleepy official, I was detained to undergo a cross-
examination which would have been entertaining had
it not been so late. The commissioner, more tender-
hearted than the sergeant, at last threw on his cloak,
and the two accompanied me to my lodgings. They
ransacked my drawers, and took away all my papers,
requesting me to call for them next morning, when
they were returned to me with a caution against re-
peating the offence. It is possible I might have saved
myself the trouble and annoyance had I tipped the
sergeant, but all I was possessed of was one five-franc
piece, which I could not make up my mind to part
IT
with.
.
S
Day after day I called on one agent or another,
until I was weary, the invariable answer to my beggar's
petition being : 'Nothing for you to-day!' I sang for
them if they expressed a wish to hear what I could do,
but my youth and voice were everywhere against me."
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At times I felt my situation so keenly that I con-
templated putting an end to my existence. An occa-
sional gleam of light in the shape of a possible small
engagement shone on me ; but some more fortunate
or more enterprising individual overshadowed me, and
made the darkness gloomier than ever. Sick at heart,
after making my rounds, I returned one day to my
lodgings; my landlady, with a beaming countenance,
rushed out as soon as she heard my step, and informed
me that Orlandi, an agent I had not called on for
some days, wished to see me immediately. I did not
wait to be told twice, and ran off in a wild state of
excitement to find out what slice of luck was in store
for me. I accepted his offer before I knew precisely
what it was an engagement for a month at a small
theatre, Santa Radegonda, terms one hundred zwan-
zigers. I then hurried to the theatre and saw the
manager, who informed me I was to sing in a new
opera, written and composed by a lady, an ex-pupil
of the Conservatorio, Carlotta Ferrari. I would have
preferred appearing in an opera already known, but
the state of my finances would not admit of any
dallying. Except that it was entitled Ugo,' and
that three very good artists took part in it, I recollect
little about the work. I was very happy during the
rehearsals, for the composer and my comrades all
treated me with the greatest kindness and considera-
tion. Achille Errani, the tenor, an excellent singer,
and a great favourite with the Milanese, took great
pains in assisting me. I afterwards renewed his
acquaintance in New York, where he had established
himself as a teacher. Each theatre kept a carriage
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at the disposal of the artists to drive them to and from
the rehearsals and performances. After one of our
rehearsals, the attendant, closing the door suddenly,
crushed one of my fingers ; I did not notice it was
bleeding, it was so benumbed, until I arrived at home
and found one side of my same ‘darling bags' (again
restored) smeared with blood, which cost me a heavy
sigh. The next time we met, I was horrified to find
that my accident had been the cause of ruining the
prima donna's gown of pale-blue silk beyond redemp-
tion. She knew I was poor, and begged me not to
be troubled in my mind, at the same time expressing
her sorrow at the pain I suffered with a hearty good
nature I can never forget. The opera was played
three nights ; it contained some effective numbers ;
one, a duet for tenor and baritone, created a sensation,
and was redemanded each night. My three com-
panions were received with great enthusiasm, and I
acquitted myself fairly well. After this I was to have
played Germont in the “Traviata. The lady who
was to play Violetta, however, entertained views which
did not coincide with those of the manager-at any
rate, he said so; a dispute arose, which through my
impatience terminated in my throwing up the engage-
ment and losing the little pay I might have claimed.
The advent of the long-desired supplies from home
relieved me from anxiety. I also received advances
from another agent who was desirous of entering into
an engagement with me for a period of five years,
to sing in any theatre in Italy with which he might
contract for the use of my services. The terms pro-
posed were one hundred zwanzigers per month for
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1
the first year, with an increase of one hundred zwan-
zigers per month each succeeding year until the termi-
nation of the engagement, out of which I had to pay.
all my expenses, travelling as well as living, and find
the minor wardrobe. Fortunately for me, the engage-
ment was never concluded.
In the midst of my distress during the three months
of 'hard times,' I was not without some consolation ;
I found friendly sympathy where I had no reason to
look for it. My landlady behaved most generously ;
she never by word or act implied she thought I was
imposing on her hospitality, though I was actually
living at her expense. She tried all she could to
persuade me to accept the engagement for Padua, and
offered to lend me the money to pay my expenses ;
and she took the trouble to visit some of the agents
with whom she was acquainted to endeavour to excite
their interest in my behalf. I sang one evening at
a concert in the crush-room of the Scala, given by a
horn-player named De Paoli; and though I had not
paid her a farthing for several weeks, she insisted on
preparing a dinner expressly for me, such as she
deemed advisable for a singer ; and when at length I
was able to clear myself of debt, she was much more
rejoiced at my relief from anxiety than at receiving
the money I owed her.
I had received my last supply, which with the most
rigid economy would not last long; the prospect of
an engagement on which I could subsist was very
remote. I could not afford to share my little with
anybody ; therefore, much against my will, I was forced
to give up intimacy with my Italian friends. I had
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me.
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kept aloof from my English ones, and I could not
expect they would entertain any regard for me. Here
again, however, I met with unlooked-for sympathy,
displayed in various friendly actions, mingled at times
with a slight degree of pity, which, spite of myself,
irritated me. They evidently looked upon me as a
weakly traveller, trusting to an obstinate guide, who
insisted on leading him by an abandoned path so steep
and rugged that, if he reached his destination, it would
only be with strength exhausted, instead of the newly-
constructed smooth highway, by which he could ac-
complish his journey without fatigue. I was pained,
though I am sure they harboured no ill-natured inten-
tions, at the slighting way in which they spoke of my
master. He was behind the time, he was too slow,
he was all very well for Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti and
the old school, where there was little scope for declama-
tion"; but for the sensational operas of Verdi and the
new declamatory school he was of no use. I would
like to know how many baritones of that or any time
were capable of declaiming (if they could sing them)
the parts of Assur ( Semiramide'), Fernando (“La
Gazza Ladra'), Maometto Secondo, Dandini (. La
Cenerentola') and · William Tell.' Do people who
talk so much about declamation know what they are
talking about? I doubt it in most cases! Declama-
tion is the art of uttering language, with just emphasis
accompanied by appropriate gesture, in order to pro-
duce dramatic effect. An isolated scene of a drama
may produce a sensational effect' if played with
extraordinary vigour, pathos, or brilliancy, but unless
that scene bears relation to those which precede and
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those which follow it, it is not a 'dramatic effect.' So
also with a poem or narration ; any isolated passage
may produce a sensational effect, but it must bear
relation to the remainder of the poem or narration,
otherwise it is not a 'dramatic effect'; the declamation
is false, or, in other words, not declamation at all. In
order to declaim, the dramatic intelligence must be
concentrated on the drama, poem or narration as a
whole, not as made up of various scenes or phrases.
In fact, declamation is the art of holding the mirror
up to Nature,' which can never be achieved by paying
attention to any particular scenes in a drama, however
sensational or startling may be the effects produced in
them. Such effects may please the general unthinking
public, and draw crowded houses, but they can never
satisfy people of artistic intelligence.
Let any member of the latter class examine the
parts I have mentioned above, and I feel sure he will
acknowledge they all demand declamatory talent of the
highest order to do them justice.
Fortunately the engagement for five years was not
concluded. I might have been starved to death before
the expiration of the first year, or had I contrived to
escape that fate, and fulfilled the contract, the wear
and tear would probably have destroyed my voice.
However, as I then felt, I would rather have faced
those risks than return to England-as I knew I
must, unless I could earn sufficient to support myself.
I left no stone unturned ; I persecuted the agents,
until they must have been as sick of my importunities
as I was of importuning. I thought of turning my
fiddling to account; but there were already plenty of
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ave
violinists, willing to accept two or three zwanzigers a
night without finding employment, to whom I could
not hold a candle. I could not afford to attend
theatres, so occupied myself indoors studying singing
and thorough-bass, and out of doors studying Nature
and my fellow-creatures.
At last the time arrived when it was evident I must
decide on the course I intended to pursue ; all hope
of an engagement for the autumn season had vanished
long before—the theatres were already open or about
to open. I would have struggled on through three
months preceding the Carnival with the smallest cer-
tainty in view, but I had not received even the offer
of an engagement; I would have accepted small parts
—any parts within my means—by which I could have
earned my daily bread, so unwilling was I to leave
Italy. With all my troubles, the two years I spent
there formed the happiest period of my life. I have
no desire to make much of my troubles- thousands of
people have had to endure far more than ever it was
my lot to suffer ; but they were great troubles to me,
inasmuch as they kept ever present in my mind the
dread of not being able to pay my way. My ambition
was to sing in opera; I had studied for it, and I
desired to remain in Italy, where there were numerous
small theatres in which I could have gained stage
experience before attempting those of greater im-
portance in fact, I wished to return to my native
land with something of a reputation to back my pre-
tensions to favour.
Early in October, Henry F. Chorley, who was
making a tour of recreation, called on me. I had
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OF CHARLES heard a great deal about him, but had never seen
him. I expected to find a dark, stern man, with a
tendency to domineer; I was surprised, therefore, to
meet a delicate-looking being, with light, sandy hair,
a thin, rather squeaky, voice, and a hesitating, shy
manner, which I soon discovered was only manner.
There was no lack of decision in the expression of his
opinions ; he entertained the strongest prejudices of
anyone I ever knew, but he was one of the best
friends I ever had. As I was not at home when he
called, he left a message, in accordance with which I
joined him at breakfast next morning, Sunday. It
poured with rain, which gave him the opportunity for
airing one of his pet prejudices—that the climate and
weather in England were as fine as those of any other
country in the world. We walked to and fro inside
the cathedral for about a couple of hours, discussing
my plans and my probable chances of success if I
returned to England; also the state of music in Italy.
He did not like the idea of my remaining ; but there
was nothing peremptory in the way he urged the
advisability of my return to England. I passed the
whole of that day with him, and, by appointment, we
called together on my master the day following, when
I sang several pieces for him—to his satisfaction, I
believe, as he then advised me to return with great
earnestness; however, he recommended me to weigh
the matter well before deciding. Knowing the position
he held in the musical world, I had great faith in his
opinion, and made up my mind on the spot. He gave
me a letter of introduction to John Hullah, told me
he would let me know as soon as he returned to
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London, and offered me the use of his purse, which I
with heartfelt thanks for his courtesy and thoughtful-
ness declined. We then parted, he to pursue his
journey southward, I to prepare for my journey north-
ward.
I had very few friends to take leave of, the Maranis
having gone to the lakes. The day before I left, I
met an English student, a baritone, supposed to be
the “coming man’; he was quite irate when I told
him I was about starting for home, just as I had
placed my foot on the ladder of fame. What could I
expect in England ? If I could take a part in a glee,
I might procure a few engagements, and earn a five-
pound note now and then at City dinners, or I might
give lessons; but to make a name and position with
my meagre talents was out of the question. I think
we differed on the subject, but I did not tell him so.
When he found I was obstinate or foolish, or both, he
poured a flood of pity over my deluded soul, and gave
me his parting blessing.
The journey was very tedious ; the line by Culoz
liad only just been opened, of which I did not know,
so I took the old route, by rail and diligence alter-
nately, to Lyons. Owing to floods, a bridge had been
carried away between Novara and Turin, which caused
me a delay of twenty-four hours in the latter city, and
the expense of food and lodging, which I could ill-
afford. A rascally waiter at the hotel where I put up
robbed me of five francs, which he declared he had
paid for the French visé to my passport. When I
arrived at Lyons late in the evening, I had scarcely
enough money left to pay for a bed ; a friendly fellow-
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traveller, however, shared a room with me, and offered
to pay my part if I could not. I was relieved from
the necessity of borrowing; for when I applied at the
office of the Messageries Imperiales, instead of a
second - class ticket to Paris, they handed me the
amount of the fare. I paid my bill, made a substantial
breakfast, and travelled third-class. Just as the train
was about to start, a labouring man with his wife and
seven children entered the compartment I had made
up my mind I was going to have all to myself. The
day I passed in tolerable comfort; but between having
no pillow myself, acting as one to at least two of the
youngsters, and an occasional squabble, I passed a
very uncomfortable night. I had not sufficient money
left to pay my journey from Paris to London, and
threw myself on the mercy of the agents for the route
viâ Dieppe and Newhaven, who courteously advanced
me the ticket on my leaving my portmanteau in pledge
with them. The cab-fare from London Bridge to my
destination drained my purse. I was back in my
native land without a penny to bless myself with, my
portmanteau in pawn, tired and hungry-for, with the
exception of four meals, I had subsisted on a Milanese
sausage and dry bread since I left Novara, five days
en route; yet I had only one regret—that I had been
obliged to leave Italy.
T
Wa
exe
esa
CHAPTER XI.
Visit to Hullah : his Criticism–J. L. Hatton's Offer-My Début in the
Creation'-Manuel Garcia's Assistance-Appearances at the Crystal
Palace-Molique's Pedantry--Slow Progress-Anecdotes of Chorley
- Introduced to Costa by Chorley-A Favourable Verdict-Costa's
Character-An Epoch-making Party at Chorley'sAdelaide and
Gertrude Kemble-Appearance in the 'Messiah'-'The Trumpet
shall sound'ninus the Trumpet-Operatic Aspirations—'St. Paul'at
Manchester-'Elijah'at Exeter Hall—The Royal Society of Musicians'
Dinner-Sight-reading, its Advantages and Drawbacks-Festival at
Leeds in 1858-Abortive Negotiations with Operatic Managers-
Rejected by the Birmingham Festival Committee--I attend the
Festival as Chorley's Guest-Viardot Garcia and Sims Reeves-
Private Concerts—Kindly Encouragement from Reeves, Clara Novello,
Mario, and Grisi—J. G. Patey–His Taste in Dress-A Visit to the
Standard Theatre-An Unexpected Lobster.
I WAS so anxious to be at work that I deferred paying
a visit to Liverpool to see my relations and friends
until I had taken some steps towards making an
appearance in public. My father came up to meet me,
and we called together upon John Hullah to present
the letter of introduction Chorley had given me. He
received us very courteously, and made an appoint-
ment to hear me sing. At the time indicated we went
to St. Martin's Hall, and were ushered into the large
concert-room, where a class was struggling with a
solfeggio. The novelty and innocence of the proceed-
ing amused me; I observed that a large number of
those present did not open their mouths, and those
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who did did not produce many musical effects. The
class dismissed, I went on the platform to stand my
trial. I was introduced to Mrs. Hullah, who accom-
panied me exceedingly well ; she was a very talented
woman in her profession and most amiable in private
life. I sang the same piece by Rossini I had sung for
Chorley in Milan. At the end of it Hullah remarked
that, sung by Tamburini, no doubt it would be very
interesting ; evidently, from his manner of saying it,
he found it uninteresting sung by me. He requested
me to sing something from an oratorio, suggesting the
recitative and aria from the 'Messiah,' For behold
darkness,' etc., with which I complied. He then said
I was better prepared than anyone coming from Italy
he had heard for some years, but added the original
remark, You have still a great deal to learn. It is
now thirty-four years since the observation was made,
and I find I have still a great deal to learn, so I am
convinced Hullah was right.
When taking leave he told me he would give me a
chance of a public hearing as soon as an opportunity
occurred, but at present, etc., etc.--the old, old story,
as usual, I thought, and did not feel at all elated.
My father was much annoyed at what he considered
the cavalier, off-hand way in which I had been criti-
cised and dismissed, but he had never had any
experience of managers. I sang for J. L. Hatton in
the green-room of the Princess's Theatre one morning
before rehearsal ; I felt much more angry at his offer
to put me in the programme at a City dinner than I
was at being told I had a great deal to learn.
Chorley returned to London shortly after I came back
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from a visit to Liverpool. I frequently dined alone with
him, and afterwards accompanied him to the theatre or
a concert. One morning I received a message to go
round to his house immediately, as he had something
of importance to communicate. It was to the effect
that Hullah was going to perform the Creation,' and
was desirous of having different singers for the parts
of Adam and Eve from those who represented the
angels in the first two parts of the oratorio ; he could
not offer me any terms, but if I was satisfied with this
opportunity of making an appearance in public he
would be pleased to accept my services to sing the
part of Adam. Although Chorley begged me to take
a few days to consider the offer, I decided at once; I
knew the part well, the music suited me, and I cared
nothing about its comparatively minor importance. I
went to try over the duet with the lady who was to
represent my malheureuse cotelette ; I found a lady
seated in the drawing-room, who made me a distant
though graceful bow on my entrance. After a few
moments' hesitation I ventured to remark, · Miss —
I presume.' 'No,' she replied, 'I am not Miss ;
I am Miss Messent, and I understand I am to have
the pleasure of singing the duets in the last part of the
“Creation" with you; Miss — was to have sung
them, but for some unexplained reason she has given
up the engagement. The reason, which I only learned
some years after, was that Miss - had made a small
reputation already, which she declined jeopardizing by
singing duets with a young man fresh from Italy. I
dined with Chorley on the evening of the concert, and
met Manuel Garcia, who accompanied us to St. Martin's
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REMINISCENCES Hall. I succeeded better than I had dared to hope.
I walked home with Chorley and Garcia after the per-
formance; the latter expressed himself pleased, and
pointed out certain defects to be overcome, at the
same time offering to render me any assistance in his
power, an offer of which I promptly availed myself,
and with great profit. One consequence of my success
was an engagement for three concerts at the Crystal
Palace, for which I received ten guineas. The last
took place on Christmas Day, 1857 ; Molique played
two solos, and furnished me with an amusing example
of pedantry. The orchestra played the overture to
Molique when it was about to begin, so I begged him
to excuse me leaving him abruptly, as I wished to hear
it; it was such beautiful music. “It is very effective;'
said he, “but it is not music.' 'How do you mean it
is not music? I always thought it was very fine!
'No, no; listen, and you shall hear it is not music!
I listened, and enjoyed it very much. When I re-
turned to the artists' room, Molique looked at me with
a knowing twinkle in his eye, and said, 'Well, you
have heard ?' 'Yes,' said I, “and I was delighted.'
Ah, but that is not music,' he repeated ; did you not
hear?' humming the violin passage in the stretto.
'Yes,' I said, 'what about it?' “It is wrong; the
WIT
that would ruin the passage.' That may be, but I
cannot allow it; it is not music.'
At the first concert of the three I was very much
disappointed with myself. I sang the Count's air from
* Le Nozze di Figaro,' 'Vedro mentr'io sospiro,'
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which did not rouse the audience to any enthusiasm,
and, by Chorley's desire, the old English song,
· When forced from dear Hebe to go'-a dull song,
quite out of place in a Crystal Palace Saturday pro-
gramme. It had been scored, too, by somebody who
had much better have left it alone. The small applause
which followed my 'rendition was bestowed out of
compassion, I believe.
Isang at several concerts in London and the
suburbs during the winter, but was obliged to admit
that I did not make much impression on my audiences.
I should have liked to introduce songs I had sung
before I went to Italy, or something suited to popular
taste, which need not be of inferior quality ; but my
friend and monitor, whose kindness and generosity
bound me to study his wishes, insisted upon my
selections being submitted to him for approval. One
song in particular, which I was anxious to sing at the
Surrey Gardens, he rejected with indignation, and told
me if ever I sang it he would cut my acquaintance.
I may as well introduce here two short anecdotes
of Chorley, which may prove interesting, and certainly
serve as a warning to those of my readers who are
apt to be rash in stating their convictions. On the
first occasion, when I paid him a visit on his return
from Italy, among other incidents, he told me that
at Naples he had seen an opera by Donizetti an-
nounced for performance, of which he never before
heard ; but he did not attend the performance, as he
was sick of Donizetti, and he presumed the opera
would be full of his usual maudlin sentiment. I was
curious, and asked the name of the work. He replied :
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'Elisa Fusco. But,' said I, you must have heard
it often.' 'No, never!' Why,' I said, 'do you not
know that is “ Lucrezia Borgia,” the title being
changed by order of the Government for political
reasons, as “William Tell” is rechristened “William
Wallace,” and “The Sicilian Vespers” “Giovanna de
Guzman ” ?
During the Pyne and Harrison management at
Covent Garden, Longfellow's poem “Hiawatha,' with
music by Robert Stæpel, was represented in pantomime
by the Payne family, the poem being read by Miss
Matilda Heron. Chorley was so pleased with the
music that he determined to submit a libretto of his
own to Mr. Stæpel, in the hope that he might be
induced to set it to music. He invited Stæpel to
dine with him to discuss the matter. In the course
of conversation, Chorley told me, after extolling the
musical merits of his work, he asked Stæpel what
on earth could have induced him to jeopardize his
success by allowing such an incompetent person as
Miss Heron to attempt to read the poem. I stopped
him abruptly, and asked if he knew who Miss Heron
was ?' 'No,' said he. Well,' I said, she is Mr.
Stopel's wife. Good God!' he exclaimed; what
have I done ?' and after a few moments' uneasy
reflection he added : 'I don't care ; people have no
right to sail under false colours !
Soon after my appearance at St. Martin's Hall
Costa returned to town, and, to my great joy, Chorley
informed me he had consented to hear me sing. At
the same time I felt great diffidence, for I could not
help meditating on the contrast between the great
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singers he had been accustomed to hear and accompany
and a beginner like myself; however, I determined
to do my best. Chorley accompanied me to his house,
and presented me. I sang the cavatina · All'invito
generoso' from ‘Maometto Secondo,' and at Chorley's
suggestion the air “If Thou should'st mark iniquities'
from 'Eli.' Costa expressed himself pleased, and
kindly directed my attention to some points capable
of improvement. Thirty years of intimate professional
acquaintanceship did not change the impression then
made on me by the great conductor. Somewhat cold
and distant in manner-an attitude he always main-
tained in business—he was quick even to curtness in
his remarks and directions, by which he acquired the
unmerited name of tyrant’; he had an impassive
countenance, in which it was impossible to read his
thoughts; the only visible sign of approbation or the
contrary which he ever vouchsafed was a peculiar
twist of the back of his neck. Clear - headed,
systematic, and punctual, he never wasted a moment
of time at rehearsals ; the work once arranged was
carried on by clockwork. Out of business he was
affable, or merry, according to the society in which
he found himself. He liked a good dinner and good
wine, and knew how to enjoy them; and in a quiet
tête-à-tête, of which I have had many with him, he
delighted in a bit of gossip or mild scandal. He made
me no promises, but told me he was sure I should
make a good career, and if at any time it was in his
power to do me a service, he would do all he could
for me. This he carried out; I found him always a
staunch friend, adviser, and monitor.
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He had two hobbies—watches and horses. Of the
latter I do not think he was rich enough to own many,
but of the former he possessed several, some of them
valuable as curiosities. He also possessed a chrono-
meter, a very appropriate and necessary article for
one who prided himself on his punctuality. I believe
only one instance is recorded of his retarding the
commencement of a performance, and that was in
consequence of the delay of a train. On one occasion,
when I sang the 'Elijah' at Exeter Hall, I was
delayed some time in the cab-rank before I arrived
at the entrance, and I could not get out of my vehicle
to walk up, as the rain was pouring in torrents. I
arrived at the foot of the staircase as the clock struck
half-past seven. I rushed up, and was in the orchestra
at two minutes after the half hour, but the second bass
was already singing the opening recitative. I expected
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and told me to keep calm and think of my work only.
He had a method of reading a score for the first
time in the orchestra, which, as far as my observation
goes, was peculiar to himself. It is the usual practice
to read a bar or more ahead of, but he read a bar or
more behind, the orchestra. I remarked it at a
rehearsal for Birmingham festival sone years after
the period on which I am now engaged. I had to
sing a hymn by Rossini never performed before, and
as I had not been provided with a copy, I was reading
from the full score from which Costa was conducting.
I, of course, had to read a bar ahead, and as he did
not turn over in time, and I could not very well guess
what was coming, I was forced to leave out a bar or
was 0 Com
On
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two each time we arrived at the bottom of a page. I
then noticed it was a systematic plan, which I think
is well worth the consideration of young conductors.
It is much easier to correct mistakes after hearing
them than before.
In the evening, after my first appearance at the
Crystal Palace, I had an invitation to a party at
Chorley's to meet Miss Gertrude Kemble, who was
about to make her debut at St. Martin's Hall in the
Christmas performance of the Messiah. I would
have much preferred staying at home with a book ; I
felt depressed with the poor impression I had made
in the afternoon, and tired after a long day in that
dreary place ; but duty called, and at ten o'clock I
made my way to 13, Eaton Place, West. The party,
which had been arranged to give Miss Kemble an
opportunity of singing before a small assembly before
confronting the larger audience at St. Martin's Hall,
included Mrs. Sartoris (Adelaide Kemble), Virginia
Gabriel, John Hullah, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Leslie,
Miss Kemble, myself, and a few others. I felt great
sympathy for the poor trembling girl who was about
to undergo an ordeal for which she was not physically
prepared. I learned afterwards her voice had been
much strained by an incompetent professor during
her long residence in Hanover. Manuel Garcia had
done wonders with it since her return to England,
but she had still great difficulty in controlling the
upper register, which naturally added considerably to
her nervousness. Nevertheless, she sang 'Rejoice
greatly,' and 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,'
exceedingly well, and with great intelligence.
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I did not feel very happy myself at the idea of
singing before the great Adelaide Kemble, whose
manner when I was presented to her did not inspire
me with much confidence. I sang a song by Angelo
Mariani, the conductor of the opera at the Carlo
Felice, Genoa (and at Bologna during the season of
the fiera), called ' Il Contrabbandiere,' and fortunately
had the advantage of Miss Gabriel's assistance at the
piano. I flattered myself I had acquitted myself
honourably; everybody complimented me, but some
time afterwards I heard that Mrs. Sartoris criticised my
performance very severely, and prophesied I should
never be a shining light. This party, which I would
willingly have shirked, proved a very important event
for me-in less than eighteen months Miss Kemble
became my wife.
For the performance of the Messiah,' Hullah had
already engaged the solo singers, but being desirous
of including my name in the programme, he asked me
if I would care to sing 'The trumpet shall sound,' as
it was the only song he could ask Thomas to give up.
I said certainly, I was quite satisfied to help in any
way I could. I was too interested in the young prima
donna to pay much attention to the other solo singers.
Although she suffered considerably from 'stage fright,'
she sang with true artistic feeling and perception ; all
the roulades were clearly and firmly executed, and her
voice was bright and in tune throughout. Her recep-
tion was most enthusiastic. As I was about to go on
the orchestra, Hullah informed me that the trumpeter
had been called away suddenly, and asked me whether
I would prefer omitting the song, or singing it with
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the trumpet part played on the organ. I chose the
latter, and sang it so much to the satisfaction of the
audience that they wished me to repeat it; however,
I thought once without the trumpet was sufficient, and
I simply bowed my acknowledgments. Miss Kemble
afterwards informed me that an old and intimate friend
of her family, who came to town expressly to be
present on the occasion of her first appearance, said
that I reminded him forcibly, both as regards voice
and singing, of Bartleman, the predecessor of Henry
Phillips.
I had a desire to continue my theatrical career ; the
Italian opera was the object of my ambition, but I was
sufficiently modest to comprehend that with such
artists as formed the staff there, there was no chance
for me. When I first returned from Italy, I saw an
announcement of an operatic tour with a number of
eminent artists, Sims Reeves being one of them, under
the management of Willert Beale. I had not the
pleasure of his acquaintance, nor did I know anyone
who could have introduced me to him, so I wrote him
a polite note, asking him whether he could find a place
in his company for me, to which I received no reply.
I do not blame him, for I know what it is to be
deluged with similar applications. The Pyne and
Harrison Company had already begun its career at
the Lyceum, so for that season I could not hope for
an engagement. In January, 1858, there were three
state performances at Her Majesty's Theatre during
the week in which the Princess Royal was married.
One of the evenings was devoted to "Macbeth.'
Benedict had the direction of the music, and engaged
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me to play Hecate, but when the dates were arranged,
the performance of Macbeth' was fixed for a night
on which I had promised to sing for Hullah, so with
no small feeling of disappointment I gave up Hecate.
Early in the year I sang in 'St. Paul' at the Gentle-
men's Concerts in Manchester. I was engaged to
sing in Haydn's Seasons,' at which I worked hard,
as I had never either heard or read the oratorio. A
week before the performance, Hallé wrote to me
saying they had found it necessary to change the
work; would I sing in 'St. Paul' instead? I was
only too pleased, as I had once sung the part at a
private performance in Liverpool before I went to
Italy, and it suited me much better than the part in
the 'Seasons. After this I made my first appearance
in my native town at the Philharmonic Hall
I essayed the part of · Elijah,' the first time, for the
Sacred Harmonic Society at Exeter Hall early in
March. I had only twice heard the oratorio, and I
had not contemplated the difficulties of the part.
Musically, I had little to fear, but as I proceeded
with the study of it, its histrionic exigencies (if that
expression may be allowed in speaking of a drama
represented without action) overwhelmed me. The
three episodes in the first part—the resuscitation of
the widow's dead son, the confounding of the priests
of Baal, and the calling down of the rain which ends
the part-demand the greatest possible amount of
force, not physical so much as mental, by far the most
trying. The mind must be absorbed in the scenes
represented, or the performance, however good as a
vocal display, cannot be a portrayal of the character of
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Elijah ; consequently, to those who are able to discri-
minate, it will be totally uninteresting. I grant there
are but few who care to discriminate, or are capable of
doing so, but it is to those few a true artist will
address himself. The second part contains an episode
no less exacting than the three already quoted, and
of a totally different nature, in the picture of Elijah's
despair of fulfilling his mission, his declaration of his
unworthiness, and his longing to die. Here the
vocalist is prone to forget the intense dramatic
interest in the execution of one of the finest examples
of vocal writing. And it must never be forgotten that
the recitative which opens the oratorio, like the first
line Hamlet speaks, ' A little more than kin, and less
than' kind,' is the keystone to the whole character.
My first essay was a failure, but the performance was
repeated a week after, when I recovered my lost
laurels. As I came off the platform, Charles Lucas*
patted me on the back, and said, 'You were Elijah
to-night, my boy; last week you were nothing like
him.'
I was invited to the annual dinner of the Royal
Society of Musicians, and to take part in the musical
proceedings. I chose Hullah's song, "I arise from
dreams of thee,' which Cusins kindly accompanied for
me. When dinner was concluded, I noticed a com-
motion amongst the professional gentlemen seated in
my vicinity. There was evidently a hitch somewhere,
so I asked my neighbour what was the matter. Winn,
* Charles Lucas was a first-rate musician and violoncellist. He suc-
ceeded Lindley as principal violoncello at the Italian Opera, Covent
Garden, the Sacred Harmonic, and all the principal festivals, and was for
some years principal of the Royal Academy of Music.
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who was to have taken the first bass part in the glees,
· The tiger couches’ and Queen of the Valley,' was
unavoidably absent. I volunteered my services in his
stead, which seemed to surprise the other singers, as
they only knew I was a young singer fresh from Italy,
by no means a sufficient passport to their confidence.
However, under the circumstances, they agreed I
might try, and we began with «The tiger couches,'
as the least exigent of the two. I looked it through,
and took my place, and evidently satisfied my com-
rades. I afterwards sang in Queen of the Valley,'
and received high eulogiums for what I did not deem
a great exhibition of prowess.
Sight-reading is a mechanical process, which, though
not absolutely necessary, ought to be cultivated by all
singers, if for no other reason than to save time and
trouble to themselves and those with whom they are
studying. A singer who reads at sight can form a
good estimate of what he can do with a song or work
by glancing over it without the aid of an instrument;
whilst the non-reader must either pick out the notes
on the piano, or procure a capable person to play the
song or work over until he becomes imbued with the
spirit of the music he wishes to become acquainted
with. I say it is not absolutely necessary-I speak of
solo-singers ; it does not matter whether the artist read
his music at sight or take months to study it if the
result be a finished performance. Though incontest-
ably reading at sight has its advantages, it has at least
one disadvantage ; it offers an inducement to study
hastily. I know, at the beginning of my career, I
depended too much on my capability of reading, and
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my performances were often crude ; whereas had I
been obliged to spend more time in mastering the
music, I should certainly have presented a better
digested, and hence more refined and artistic, execu-
tion. Berlioz, in his letters, finds fault with Staudig!
for trusting almost entirely to his ‘sight-reading ';
and, speaking of his performance of Mephisto in the
' Damnation de Faust,' says that he consequently gave
no colour to the part.
For all that, singers, bearing in mind that singing is
their principal study, ought to study, as far as their
leisure and facilities will allow them, all branches of
music, and learn an instrument, giving preference to a
stringed instrument. It exercises the ear, and does
not require the physical exertion the pianoforte exacts,
which is sure to fatigue the voice.
In the autumn of 1858, the New Town Hall at
Leeds was opened by her Majesty the Queen, and the
ceremony was followed by a musical festival, for which
I was engaged. The only important music I had was
the bass in Rossini's 'Stabat Mater. I sang the
duet, The Lord is a man of war,' from Israel in
Egypt,' with Weiss; and I also sang the quartets in
Elijah,' and one or two pieces in the miscellaneous
concerts. My hopes revived of gaining a footing on
the stage, but for a time were again frustrated. I
received a note from Harrison asking if I would
entertain an engagement for the English Opera for the
season 1858-59, and on what terms. I replied stating
my willingness, and demanding what I considered
moderate terms; his ideas, however, were so much
below mine that I closed negotiations. I also received
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a request from Douglas, the manager of the Standard
Theatre, to let him know what terms I would require
to play Count Arnheim for a week with Sims Reeves.
I again asked what I thought a modest sum, and again
opinions differed; the sum he offered, ten pounds,
after paying for hire of dress and other expenses,
would have left me little remuneration for the trouble
of learning the part, rehearsals, and six performances.
There was some intention of engaging me for the
Birmingham Festival ; unfortunately, the chairman and
one of the members of the orchestral committee came
to London to judge for themselves whether they could
engage me. The performance they attended was one
of Leslie's 'Immanuel. I was not in good form, and
sang very tamely ; so they decided to forego the
honour of introducing me to Birmingham. One of
the choral societies of that town wished to avail itself
of my services in a performance of the Creation' in
the early part of the year, holding out as an induce-
ment, instead of terms, a chance of making a favour-
able impression on the Festival committee with a
view to an engagement, an offer which I respectfully
declined.
I attended the Festival, although not engaged, as
Chorley's guest. Sims Reeves was in grand form,
and sang splendidly; and Madame Viardot Garcia
made a great impression on me by her singing of
* Oh, thou that tellest' in the Messiah,' an air too
often treated with indifference, and in the morning and
evening prayers in ‘Eli.'
In private concerts during the season, I had the
honour of singing with many of the greatest singers
.
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as
la
of the day, both belonging to the Italian Opera and
my own compatriots. I felt very like a minnow among
a shoal of whales, but was not inclined to be cast
down. Their example inspired me with earnestness
and perseverance; they could not all have been great
when they began—why should not I rise, too? Sims
Reeves and Clara Novello had taken me by the hand
from the beginning; so had Costa. Mario and Grisi,
with whom I had sung several times, gave me great
encouragement.
As I was returning one day in the early part of the
year from a rehearsal at St. Martin's Hall, I met J. G.
Patey, just returned from Turin, where he had been
singing at the Teatro Rossini,' Madame Lancia being
one of the company. We had been chums for some
time in Milan, and I was very glad to meet him and
renew our intimacy. He hailed me with “Hullo !
have you gone into the Church ?' I was attired in a
highly respectable black suit and tall hat, and probably
presented somewhat of a clerical appearance—maybe
the result of my connection with St. Martin's and
Exeter Halls. He certainly had nothing of the clerical
about him; he looked rather like a cross between a
modern Fra Diavolo and a pigeon fancier, dressed in
a velveteen jacket of eccentric cut, and trousers of a
flashy hue. He could not find lodgings at a moderate
price to suit his taste, so I suggested he might find
such in the house where I lodged. He accompanied
me home to make inquiries and an inspection, which
ended in his taking up his residence in Stafford Place
with me. We lived together for about twelve months,
almost inseparable companions. We frequently went
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to the theatre and opera in the evening, or, in the
summer, for a stroll in the country. During the week
Sims Reeves was playing at the Standard (mentioned
in the previous chapter), being curious to know what
an East-end performance was like, we paid them a
visit, arriving about the middle of the first act. We
could not find seats in what were denominated the
stalls,' and ensconced ourselves in a passage which
ran round the pit, where, by standing up, we could
just obtain a glimpse of the stage. At the conclusion
of the act, we sought a more convenient spot; but
the theatre being crammed füll, we were obliged to
make the best of the places we had. There was only
one other occupant of the passage, and he seemed to
be enjoying a nap leaning on the balustrade. Behind,
we discovered a doorway, approached by a step from
the floor. Patey mounted the step so as to have a
better view of the stage, when he suddenly called out
to me, “There's something here under my feet !
• Take care!' said I. 'Oh, it's quite hard,' he replied ;
'see what it is! I groped about in the dark, and
found the object. “It's a lobster! I informed him.
No sooner had I mentioned the fact than our slumber-
ing friend woke up, and, in a voice indicative of abuse
of stimulants, exclaimed, “Yes, sir ; that's my lobster.'
I remarked it was unsafe to leave anything good to
eat where it might easily be trodden on and spoiled.
He made no further reply, but now bestowed his
attention on the opera. He asked several questions
about the singers on the stage. At last, when Reeves
was singing the duet with Miss Ternan (Arline), he
asked, What is that gentleman's name?' I said,
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• Mr. Sims Reeves.' 'Mr. What, sir ?' said he. “Mr.
Reeves,' I said, a little louder. 'I am very glad to
hear it, sir,' said he, looking greatly relieved in his
mind. “I took him for Mr. Galier' (so he pronounced
Mr. Galer's name], 'and I am very glad it isn't ; for I
thought if it was Mr. Galier, he'd fallen off consider-
ably since last I heard him.'
1
IIIlI.
CHAPTER XII.
A Formidable Fellow-lodger-Engaged to Miss Kemble-Henry Greville's
Musical Parties-A Compliment from Mario-Visit to the Pateys in
Devonshire-Breakfast at a Private Lunatic Asylum-My Second
Season-Married to Miss Gertrude Kemble, April 9, 1859—Benefit
Concerts-Engaged at English Opera – Meyerbeer's Approval —
Bradford Festival - Preparations for 'Dinorah'-Diffidence and
Despondency--Candid Criticisms-—' Il Trovatore, “The Rose of
Castile'—' Lurline'-Rhubarb or Coral ?-A'Huguenot Rush'--The
Queen attends 'Dinorah'—Concert at Windsor Castle—Wallace's
'Bellringer?–Winter Season of English Opera at Her Majesty's,
1860-61, under Hallé-Stage-management Extraordinary-An Un-
welcome Dog-E. T. Smith's Great Combination—'Elijah' at the
Birmingham Festival -- Costa and the Critics — English Opera at
Covent Garden, 1861-62-Howard Glover's ‘Ruy Blas '-A Dangerous
Dagger— Robin Hood' and 'The Puritan's Daughter'-Tiresome
Repetitioris-Benedict's ‘ Lily of Killarney'_'Billy' West's Timely
Lesson.
11
Soon after Christmas, 1857, my landlady came to my
room one morning with a very grave face, and in-
formed me she had a subject of great importance
about which she wished to consult me. I had paid
my rent regularly, and was a little curious to learn
what other subject could be of much importance to
her. I requested her to let me know in what I could
be of service to her, on which she informed me that
her Majesty's piper wished to take a room in her
house, and before letting it, she would like to know
whether a bagpiper would be an agreeable fellow-
lodger. I confess my affection for the pipes did not
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extend to a performance on them in a small house in
a room immediately over my head, yet I did not wish
to be in the way of my landlady securing a good
tenant. I suggested that if she had no fear of his
blowing the roof off, and he would arrange to get
through his practising whilst I was out, I had no
objection to her accepting him. That she had already
arranged, so we were forthwith honoured with a royal
piper's company. I did not suffer any inconvenience
from his pipes ; he practised for an hour or two
generally whilst I was out in the evening, but I
suffered from a dreadful fright he caused me the last
night he resided under the same roof. It was the
night of the ball at Buckingham Palace after the
Princess Royal's wedding. The noise of the carriages
kept me awake for a long time when I went to bed,
but at last I dropped off to sleep. I was awakened
suddenly by a horrible row going on on the staircase
leading up to my bedroom. I heard somebody,
evidently very drunk, shouting : 'Let me at him ;
I'll soon pull him out!' interlarding his threats with
certain epithets which I do not think were of High-
land origin. Then I distinguished the mild voice of
my landlady beseeching the drunken scamp to have
some consideration for her other lodger. More
epithets ensued, and a tussle in which MacSnifter, or
whatever his name was, rolled down a few stairs.
After a great deal of coaxing and pushing, he was
at last landed at the door of his bedroom, into which
he fell head-foremost, and as I heard no more of him
I concluded he slept off the effects of his potations in
his kilt on the floor. He was very penitent next
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morning ; he insisted he had only drunk one glass
of whisky—it must have been a mighty big one—but
my landlady was inexorable, and insisted upon his
vacating instanter !
I was engaged to Miss Kemble in the summer of
1858, and in consequence became a frequent guest
at her aunt's house, where I made the acquaintance
of Henry Greville, in whom I found a warm admirer
and staunch friend. He gave very select musical
parties in which I was always invited to take part,
having the good fortune to be associated with Mario,
Grisi, Gardoni, Ciabatta, Schira, Pinsuti, etc., with
whom I was soon on terms of intimacy and accepted
as their comrade and friend. H.R.H. the late
Duchess of Cambridge was always present, attended
by one or both of her daughters. The guests included
the highest in culture, rank and wealth ; the pro-
gramme was of moderate dimensions, and the little
reunion of intimates in the supper-room, after the bulk
of the guests had departed, was delightful. On one
occasion I arrived very early, Mrs. Sartoris arriving
soon after, while there were still very few people in
the room. I was to sing a duet with her, and we
were having a little conversation on the subject, when
suddenly she exclaimed : 'Good God! Santley, what
shall I do?' 'What's the matter?' I said. “My
petticoat's coming down,' was her response. Well,'
I said, 'I don't see how I can help you! “I do,' she
said ; 'stand before me and spread out your coat-tails
as wide as you can! I obeyed, pretending to be
absorbed in the study of the duet, which was lying on
the piano. In a few moments she whispered : • It's
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all right, but what on earth am I to do with it?' I
looked at the bundle and saw it was impossible to
pocket it ; at that moment Leighton made his appear-
ance, carrying his hat in his hand. 'Just in time to
save me!' exclaimed Mrs. Sartoris. 'Here, Fay,
put that in your hat and keep it till we get away !'
• What is it?' My petticoat ! Oh!
One evening I sang the romance 'O Lisbona,' from
Don Sebastiano ; the Duchess of Cambridge was so
pleased, she asked me to repeat it, which I did at the
end of the programme. Grisi turned to Mario and
remarked : 'What a splendid voice, eh, Mario ?' He
replied quickly : 'Say rather he has made good use
of the voice given him, and sings well. I felt very
proud of and greatly encouraged by praise from the
two most prominent singers of the day.
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Patey to Plympton, Devonshire, on a visit to his
father. We passed the time very pleasantly, walking
and fishing (I do not think I caught a single fish)
during the day, and generally spending the evening
at a pleasant party at one neighbour's house or
another. The last day of our visit we went to break-
fast at the house of a doctor, a particular friend of
Mr. Patey, and an eminent physician. We were
ushered on our arrival into the drawing-room, where,
to my surprise, I found a large number of guests
assembled. At breakfast I was placed alongside of
a stout middle-aged gentleman, who occupied himself,
during the repast, in carving a huge round of beef,
with a knife half a yard long. I conversed with him
about the beauty of the country, the fine walks, etc.;
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he and everybody present seemed to be exceedingly.
cheerful and chatty, and the doctor, our host, very
attentive and hospitable. On our road home, I re-
marked upon the number of guests invited to meet
us. “Oh! said Patey junior, they are chiefly his
patients. I remarked it was rather strange to ask all
his patients. “But they live there,' said he. “How
extraordinary ! I replied. 'Not at all,' said Patey ;
'don't you know where you have been breakfasting?'
* At your friend's house. “Why,' said he, that is a
private lunatic asylum ! •And my neighbour who
carved the beef?' 'One of the patients.' I ruminated.
As I could not come to terms with the managers of
the English Opera, I had again to turn all my atten-
tion to concert and oratorio singing. My second
season was somewhat of a repetition of my first, with
an increase of public favour, as my name became
better known, and a consequent and considerable in-
crease in my work.
On the 9th April I was married to Gertrude
Kemble-on expectations---for all I possessed was
£10, and I had still the greater part of my debt to my
father to pay off. I fortunately had a large number of
engagements, public and private. I also sang in a
great many benefit concerts gratis, which I now consider
a great mistake. To help an unfortunate deserving
comrade, or assist in the cause of charity, is the duty
of everybody; but gratuitously to assist adventurers
for their own benefit, or ostensibly for that of a
charitable institution, is not the duty of anybody.
London during the season was infested by a band of
mirauders from foreign climes, who came down like
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wolves on the fold,' ready to give their services
(Save the mark !) in any house where they might
gain an introduction—not a difficult matter—the in-
sinuating and not easily abashed stranger finding
favour and patronage where a native would never
obtain recognition. They gave lessons—at least, they
called them so—and ended by giving a concert, gene-
rally in the drawing-room of some rich patron, when
all those in whose parties they had assisted gratuitously
were bound to take tickets; thus they netted a more
or less considerable profit, afterwards returning to their
‘lares et penates,' very often to descant upon the gulli-
bility and lack of taste of the barbarous Briton. There
were, of course, some foreign artists whose visits to
London during the season were always welcome, who
exercised their talents in a legitimate way, and who,
unless on terms of sufficient intimacy to expect it, or
in a position to offer adequate services in return, would
not stoop to make importunate demands on their
fellow-artists. Why should artists be called upon to
give their services for the benefit of charitable institu-
tions ? Those who purchase tickets for such enter-
tainments receive ample return in amusement for the
amount expended ; that is not charity, and the pro-
moters do little more, if anything, than enlist the
sympathies of those who provide the entertainment.
In some cases the promoter is a neglected genius,
who, seeking a field wherein to display his talents,
importunes every artist of position with whom he may
have a bowing acquaintance, to assist him in the cause
of charity, that he may reap the benefit derived from
cheap (for him) and wide-spread advertisement. In
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both cases the charity is entirely on the part of the
artists who sing or perform ; this surely is not just.
I do not share the opinion of many that a foreigner
has no right to come to England to take the 'bread
and butter' out of the mouth of the native. I do not
believe any foreign artist ever deprived me of an
ounce of food. An artist has no nationality ; he is the
property of the world, and has a perfect right to
exercise his profession in any country where he finds
a public desirous of hearing or seeing him. It is not
of such I have spoken above; it is of the impertinent
interloper, who, unable to make a position in his own
country, with audacious pertinacity throws dust in the
eyes of the foolish but benevolent would-be patron of
art in England.
Negotiations were pending for my appearance at the
English Opera during the season of 1859-60, to open
with Meyerbeer's 'Dinorah, translated by H. F.
Chorley. I learned afterwards there were some doubts
about entrusting the part of Hoel to me, which were
dispelled on my singing for Meyerbeer at a party at
Lady Molesworth's house. He expressed himself
perfectly satisfied, and a desire that I would under-
take the part, with the result that my engagement was
arranged.
The last Bradford Festival was held in August. I
was engaged as second to Belletti ; my work was
light. I sang in the quartets in St. Paul,' a portion
of the bass music in “Judas Maccabæus' and “The
Messiah,' and in some concerted music in the evening
programmes. The most remarkable feature in the
Festival was the devotion of the White Roses' to
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the 'ould gal,' as Mrs. Sunderland* was familiarly
styled.
After a short holiday in the North of France, I
returned to London full of my new venture. I was
not over-sanguine about my success, yet hoped all
would go well, and that the great desire I had of
gaining a footing on the operatic stage might be
realized. I had seen “Dinorah' at the Italian Opera,
and was charmed with the music. I became still more
enthusiastic about it when I came to study my part;
but I also grew more diffident about my powers as I
discovered the histrionic difficulties it presented. I
received the first act and a call for rehearsal for the
next day simultaneously; I spent the whole of the
intervening time studying hard, and was able to go
through my part almost perfectly by heart. In the
two following days I did the same with the concerted
music of the second and third acts, and by the end of
the week had no longer need of the score. The
dialogue cost me infinitely more labour; I had not
much difficulty in learning the words, but between
hearing the sound of my speaking voice in the large
theatre and attending to the stage-manager's directions,
I grew so confused that I almost despaired of being
able to deliver them. With patience and perseverance
I accomplished it at last, and went through the opera
the first night without a slip. Histrionically I know
my performance was feeble, though I hardly merited
* Mrs. Sunderland was a native of Yorkshire ; she possessed a pure,
brilliant soprano voice, and sang well, although her style lacked polish.
She was a great favourite all over the north of England, but, for some
cause I cannot explain, did not find a place amongst the singers in the
capital.
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the sweeping condemnation of a celebrated critic, who
announced that · Mr. Santley sang his music well, but
has neither stage face, stage walk, nor stage anything,
and never can become an actor.' My father came to
London to be present at my first appearance unknown
to me. He came to my dressing-room at the con-
clusion of the second performance. His remarks were
few, but telling—'You need not have made such a
guy of yourself' (it was not my doing, but the barber's
who made me up); subsequently adding, 'Well, lad,
you are not an Edmund Kean yet' (not even a Charles
ditto, I thought to myself).
After I had been playing the part every night for a
week---We had not arrived at the halcyon times when
two artists play the same part on alternate nights—I
received a visit from an intimate musical acquaintance-
one of those kind friends who insist upon giving a
candid opinion, 'the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth,' according to their lights—who
came to condole with me on the unfortunate mistake
I had made in quitting the concert-room. He also
was of opinion that I could never make an actor. I
ventured to suggest he might be mistaken ; it was
rather early to judge, and I told him I did not expect
to become an actor without experience. He then
asked how long I intended to give myself to gain the
necessary experience. I said that if in ten years I
could feel myself at home on the stage I should be
well satisfied. Only three years later, or little more,
the same gentleman acknowledged he had been
mistaken. It certainly was not intended I should be
spoiled by flattery. I am quite aware, as I have said,
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that my performance was tame, but it was the tameness
of diffidence about my execution of what I had con-
ceived, not lack of spirit or energy. I had a long
and difficult part to sing, had had slight experience
on the stage, and the major portion of the opera 'I
had to play with a man who, though not an accom-
plished, was an experienced actor, and was wont at
times to take advantage of the inexperience of a
comrade. But I think excuses are unnecessary. A
man cannot become an actor any more than he can
become a barrister or a preacher without much
experience, however gifted he may be. I have heard
of born actors, but I never saw one; I have seen
some who were born to be actors, and fulfilled their
destiny by unceasing toil and perseverance; and I
have seen others born with great natural gifts who
ought to have become actors, but lacking earnestness
and industry, have never risen above mediocrity.
After thirty nights of ‘Dinorah,' by way of rest I
sang in the English version of “Il Trovatore,' 'The
Rose of Castille,' 'Satanella, etc. At Christmas we
brought out a small opera by Alfred Mellon, entitled
· Victorine. During the run of this work Hallé
produced Gluck's “Iphigénie en Tauride,' English
version by Chorley, at his concerts in Manchester, with
Catherine Hayes, Sims Reeves, myself, and Winn.
I was able to accept the engagement, as during the
pantomime season I was only engaged four nights a
week at Covent Garden. To close the season
Wallace's · Lurline' was produced, which proved a
great success, both artistically and financially. One
morning, whilst we were rehearsing it, I found the
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the Rhine. Noticing what appeared to me to be a
quantity of magnified sticks of red rhubarb hanging
about, I asked Fitzball, the author of the libretto,
who was standing by, if they were really intended to
represent that wholesome plant. He replied they.
were to represent coral ! But,' said I, do they find
coral in the Rhine-red coral ?' 'Of course dot,' he
replied (he had an infirmity of the nasal organ); 'that
is all robadce; I ab very robadtic. I was brought
up a huddred biles frob the haudts of bad, that is
why I ab so robadtic.' We had as usual, a stage-
manager, who did not deem it necessary to study the
drama and prepare the situations. At one of the last
rehearsals we all got into a muddle in the finale of the
second act; nobody seemed to know what to do, so
thrilling effect on the audience. Suddenly Harrison
was seized with an inspiration. “Stop! Stop! he
cried out. Stirling! · Yes, sir! Cannot we have
a Huguenot rush here ?'Certainly, sir, the very
thing I was thinking of myself!' 'Now then, all of
you, be ready,' and at a given signal we all rushed
down to the footlights as though we had been going
to annihilate Mellon and the whole of the orchestra.
It brought the house down every night we played
the opera. I nearly came to a premature end in this
scene. I had to catch Lurline, Miss Pyne, in my
arms as she swooned on the departure of her lover ;
she stopped short of the usual spot one evening, and
I did not notice it until I received a gentle hint on
my crown from the roller of the curtain. Fortunately
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my head was bent down, and did not receive the full
force of the blow; everybody screamed and thought
I was killed. I saw all the constellations in the
firmament, so it appeared to me. I was stunned, but
in a few moments I recovered myself and finished
my part. Her Majesty the Queen expressed a wish
to witness one of the performances, and requested to
be furnished with a list of the operas we were playing.
She chose “Dinorah,' for which I had a new dress
and a more respectable make-up. I was gratified to
learn that her Majesty and H.R.H. the Prince Consort
both approved of my performance. I was engaged,
in consequence, I presume, for the next royal concert
which took place at Windsor Castle, when Haydn's
setting of the seven last words of our Saviour was
performed. After the close of the season, Louisa
Pyne, Harrison, and I sang at Augustus Harris
senior's benefit at the Princess's. Wallace accompanied.
He had spoken to me more than once about taking
up his song · The Bellringer,' so, deeming this a
fitting opportunity to try it, I asked him to send me a
copy, which I received on the morning of the benefit.
I did not feel very confident about doing it justice
with so little study, but it turned out to be my first
great concert success.
For the winter of 1860-61 I was engaged at Her
Majesty's Theatre to sing with Madame Lemmens-
Sherrington and Sims Reeves; Mlle. Parepa, Swift,
George Honey, and J. G. Patey were also of the com-
pany, and Charles Hallé was conductor. We pro-
duced Macfarren's ' Robin Hood' to open the season,
and Wallace's "Amber Witch' to close it. In the
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interim, whilst the pantomime was running, we brought
out ‘La Reine Topaze,' and also played “The
Bohemian Girl,' "The Trovatore,' and 'Fra Diavolo.'
'Robin Hood,' with Sims Reeves, who returned to
the stage after some years' absence, was a success;
the 'Amber Witch,' although it contained some fine
music, was not. I sang in it at Drury Lane for some
three or four weeks after the season at Her Majesty's
Theatre had closed, to almost empty benches. “Queen
Topaz' might have proved a fair success if some care
had been taken in its production. Swift, who played
the hero, never knew his part, neither music nor
dialogue. There was no attempt at stage-manage-
ment; we all wandered on and off and about the stage
as we pleased. The effect produced was very curious
-neither players nor audience seemed to have the
remotest notion what it was all about. The stage-
management throughout that season was the most
perfect--of its kind—I ever knew. At one perform-
ance of ‘Fra Diavolo' matters were so well arranged
that principals, chorus, supers, etc., were all left out-
side the curtain at the end of the first act. At one of
the rehearsals of the Amber Witch' the stage-
manager showed off to peculiar advantage. In the
last act, the so-called witch, finding herself menaced
by a number of peasants who believe her really to be
a sorceress, to rid herself of the annoyance, conceives
the idea of acting on their superstitious fears, and sings
or recites a Latin prayer; this they take for a spell,
and hurry away, leaving her in peace. Mr. Stage-
manager, hearing the prayer, called out, "Don't you
hear, she's praying? down on your knees!' I hap-
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pened to know the situation from Chorley, the author
of the libretto, and took upon myself to point out the
mistake. The stage-manager merely remarked, 'How
the devil should I know anything about it? I have
never read the book! Here, you chorus, it's a spell
to frighten you, so as soon as you hear the first words
clear off as fast as you can !
One evening we were playing 'The Bohemian Girl,'
with Parepa, Parkinson, etc., to a meagre house.
Everything was very dull, and the audience was very
apathetic. At the beginning of the last act Parepa
and I were singing the duet; she had just concluded
her opening phrase, and I was preparing to upbraid her,
when a dog which belonged to the repétiteur, and ac-
companied him always to rehearsal, trotted on to the
stage, and squatted on his haunches in front of me,
staring me in the face. The enthusiasm of the audi-
ence was roused immediately. I felt horribly indig-
nant, and tried to drive the beast away with my foot;
my kicks he treated with silent contempt. There he
remained until I concluded my cadence, when he rose
up, wagged his tail, and walked quietly into the
wings.
For the summer season of 1861 E. T. Smith, the
then lessee of Her Majesty's Theatre, had engaged a
company such as had never been heard of. Grisi had
retired from Covent Garden, and was bound not to
sing again in London ; Mario had signed a contract
with Gye, so the two were ergaged by Smith to sing
in an opera at the Crystal Palace. The host of talent
included Adelina Patti, who was to make her first
appearance in England. I was to make my first
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appearance on the Italian stage, and, amongst other
operas, was announced to sing in Verdi's 'Macbeth'
with Grisi. I was greatly troubled when I read this,
and remonstrated with Brizzi, * who had much to do
with the arrangement of the programme, on the folly
of my undertaking to play such a part as · Macbeth.'
My fears were soon dispelled, for Smith came to grief,
and the monster programme ended in smoke.
Mapleson then took the Lyceum, for which he had
secured a good card in the ‘Ballo in maschera,' new
for England. He asked me to transfer my engage-
ment with Smith to him, and make my début in Italian
opera in the part of Renato ; but I was not satisfied
that I had had sufficient experience to do it justice, so
I declined. I had read that Delle Sedie, whom I had
heard in Milan in 1855, was in Paris ; I recommended
him to Mapleson. Whether in consequence of my
recommendation or not, I do not know, he was en-
gaged, and made a great success. He was afterwards
engaged at Covent Garden, where he sang several
seasons, and became a great favourite.
This year I made my first appearance at Birming-
ham Festival, Belletti being principal bass. He de-
clined to sing in Elijah,' so it fell to my lot. I had
studied the part a great deal since I first sang it in
London, and I thought I had made a considerable im-
provement, both in my conception and execution of it.
Costa expressed his satisfaction to me at the conclu-
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* Brizzi had been a tenor singer of some repute. At the time I knew
him, he had almost retired from public singing and gave lessons. He
was on terms of intimacy with most of the celebrated Italian artists, and
in consequence was of great service to Smith in his negotiations with
them.
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sion of the oratorio. The following morning I found
a newspaper lying by my plate on the breakfast-table.
I incautiously opened it and read, in a notice of the
performance, ‘From the opening bars of the first reci-
tative we knew Mr. Santley in “ Elijah ” was a mis-
take ; to do justice to the part requires a bass, and
Mr. Santley is a mere baritone. Mr. Santley en-
deavoured to make up for lack of voice with energetic
declamation, but it was of no use,' etc. I had read
very little in the way of criticism on my performances
before, and I then made a resolution, which with rare
exceptions I have adhered to, to avoid reading any in
future. There evidently was some discussion about
my performance. Costa told me he had had an alter-
cation with a gentleman at dinner, who contended that,
because I was only a baritone, I could not sing the
part of 'Elijah. Costa was not a talkative man on
such subjects, but he said sufficient to lead me to
understand that his antagonist got the worst of the
argument.
I returned to Covent Garden for the season of
1861-62, which opened with Howard Glover's 'Ruy
Blas.' On the Saturday it was to have been produced
I had not received the whole of my part, Don Sallust,
nor did I until the Tuesday following, the opera being
first performed on the Thursday, two days after; the
parts for the overture were given out for rehearsal
that very day at half-past four, after the general re-
hearsal was finished. The opera contained one or
two effective numbers, but was not a success; how-
ever, it proved of great benefit to me, as owing to
the advice and hints of my friend Walter Lacy, who
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had played the part, with great success, with Fechter
at the Princess's, I made my first step histrionically.
I met with an accident in this opera which nearly
ended fatally. Harrison and I played the last scene
as arranged by Fechter. Ruy Blas at the end of
the duel stabs Don Sallust and throws him through
a window at the back of the scene. Harrison in-
cautiously used a real dagger, and one night stabbed
me in the side; I had the presence of mind to put
my hand behind me as I fell, and draw the dagger
away. I did not take any notice of the wound until
the next day, when it pained me; I then showed it
to my doctor, who, after probing it, told me it was
very lucky I was so well covered with adipose tissue,
otherwise the dagger would have pierced the lung.
A reproduction of 'Robin Hood' with Madame
Guerrabella (Genevieve Ward) Haigh, Honey, and
myself followed; it did not prove attractive and was
played alternately with operas of the répertoire, until
the production of Balfe's Puritan's Daughter,' about
the beginning of December, which had a run of fifty-
seven nights. I found it very tiresome singing the
same music night after night, especially the ballad
with its inevitable 'encore.
The other novelty produced was Benedict's opera,
the 'Lily of Killarney. There was so little to do
in the first act that I was inclined at first to refuse the
part, whatever the consequences might be, and they
were dire, according to the rules of the theatre, a copy
of which was attached to each engagement, all one-
sided in favour of the manager. But my indignation
was set at rest when Benedict showed what he had
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done for his 'dear boy' in the second act; I was
cut out of the third for reasons which it is not necessary
to explain. I was fortunate in having the assistance
of the only capable stage-manager I ever had to work
with, William, or as he was always familiarly called,
Billy West. He gave me a lesson at one of the
rehearsals I never forgot. I was always nervous and
fidgety at stage rehearsals, to cover which I assumed
a vivacious nonchalant air which I did not possess.
The first day we rehearsed the · Lily' on the stage
I was playing the fool somewhat, whilst Billy was
eyeing me very gravely. At last he stepped up to
me, and said quietly : 'My boy, you have the finest
part in this opera; if you set to work steadily, and
attend to me, you will make a great part of it; but
if you insist on playing the fool in that manner, you
will make nothing of it. Remember there is one step
from the sublime to the ridiculous, and if you are not
careful you will make it.' I put aside my hat and
cane, and set to work in earnest, and never again was
I tempted to indulge in fooling at rehearsal. We
played the 'Lily' for five or six weeks, every night.
Danny Man is a very exigent part, and I was not
sorry when the season came to an end, for I was
beginning to feel fatigued. I had sung every night of
the season from the end of September until the week
before Easter except two—one night when ‘Maritana'
was given with Madame Guerrabella, and one night
when I had a violent cold.
I 2
CHAPTER XIII.
1862 : an Eventful Year-Costa suggests Italian Opera—I start for Italy
-My Visit to Rossini in Paris—Recalled to London by an Offer from
Gye-Costa's Advice in regard to Engagements-Costa's Rebuke to
Tamberlik--An Inauspicious Rehearsal-Costa on Artistic Jealousy
-A Flattering Reception and an Unfounded Charge-Engaged by
Mapleson-A Bad Start at Her Majesty's—A Difficult Part-
Concurrent Engagements at Her Majesty's and Covent Garden-
Production of Wallace's 'Love's Triumph'- Charles Lucas's
Prophecy-My Last English Opera at Covent Garden-Balfe's
'Armourer of Nantes'-A Free Performance and a Stupid Audience
--A Curious Bet-Four Seasons' Work-English Opera, Old and New
Styles-George Honey-St. Albyn-Palgrave Simpson and Harrison.
The year 1862 proved a very eventful one for me.
As I have said before, I found singing an opera every
night very fatiguing; not the physical exertion—though,
besides the singing on a large stage like that at Covent
Garden, the mere going through a long opera entails
no small amount of bodily exercise—but on account of
the expenditure of nervous force. I could never do
anything by halves; if I went down to the theatre
determined to spare myself except in the more im-
portant points, I had only been a short time on the
stage, and got warmed to my work, when all idea of
saving myself was cast to the winds. Five months of
such continuous excitement, with the addition of study
and rehearsal of new parts, and the worries which it
would appear are inevitable in a theatrical career,
would tell on the most robust frame. Towards the
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end of the English opera season I called to have a
chat with Costa, in the course of which I mentioned
this subject, at the same time explaining the difficulty
of altering the system ; nobody would believe in the
feasibility of breaking the run of an opera even for
a single night. He asked me why I did not turn
my attention to the Italian opera. I said I would,
willingly, but I doubted if an opportunity would
present itself whilst I continued to sing in England
regularly. He advised me to go back to Italy for
twelve months, and make a reputation there in some
of the good theatres, and then there would be no
difficulty in finding a place for me at the Italian Opera
in England. I liked his proposal, and talked it over
with my wife, who was also pleased, and advised me
to give the plan a fair trial. I saw Costa again and
told him I had decided upon taking his advice, where-
.upon he gave me a letter of introduction to Rossini,
begging him to recommend me to his friends in Italy,
and one to Mario, asking him to introduce me to
any agent in Paris who was likely to be able to further
my interest. Mario had removed to a house some- .
where in a new street near the 'Arc de l'Étoile,' and
I tried in vain to find him. I called on Rossini, sent
in my card with Costa's letter, and was shown into
a small room where Rossini was seated, with his
face lathered, a towel round his neck, waiting for the
barber to apply his razor. Of course I called to
mind the scene in the ‘Barbiere' on the spot. After
a cordial salutation he begged me to step into the
next room for a few minutes. The shaving operation
over, I was recalled, when I had a long conversation
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OF CHARLES with him about music and the opera in London, and
friends of his whom I knew. I had armed myself
with the cavatina from Maometto Secondo,' • Alle
voci della gloria,' in case he wished to hear me. I
felt very disappointed, as he did not ask me to sing,
yet he offered to give me letters to influential musical
friends in Italy ; I did not feel inclined to accept
recommendations from a man who did not know what
I was capable of except from hearsay.
When he dismissed me, he requested me to call
again before I left Paris, which I promised to do,
hoping that he would then express a wish to hear
what he was recommending. In the meantime I
received a letter from a friend of mine who had acted
as treasurer to the Pyne and Harrison Company to
the effect that Mr. Gye had asked him if he thought
I would like to sing at the Italian Opera, as he had a
very good chance open, if I cared to avail myself of it.
He wished to bring out a new prima donna-an
Englishwoman who had made a certain reputation in
Italy under the name of Fanny Gordosa—early in the
season. She was to make her debut in “Il Trovatore’;
and Graziani, who was to have sustained the part of
Di Luna as usual, could not be in London in time.
He could not offer me an engagement, nor any pay,
except the opportunity of my being heard on the
Italian stage, which probably would be to my interest
in the future. The other artists were Nantier-Didier,
Tamberlik, and Tagliafico. The offer tempted me;
I hoped if I made a success I might attain the object
of my ambition, so I consented to play the part. I
called again on Rossini, and was again disappointed
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that he did not ask me to sing. The only interest he
displayed was in a buffo named Frizzi, who was.
engaged for Covent Garden. He confessed he had
never heard him, nor, I believe, seen him ; but he had
been strongly recommended, and Rossini was particu-:
larly anxious I should beg Costa to show him all the
attention he could. I took leave of the old maestro
without troubling him for any letters.
My first visit after I returned to London was to
Mr. Gye. I agreed to the terms proposed, and he
then accompanied me to the stage to inform Costa of
my appearance in “Il Trovatore. When he left,
Costa asked me if I had made an engagement. I said
* No. “A mistake,' said he; 'never do business with
the theatre without having all arrangements reduced
to writing. But,' said I, there is no engagement;'
and I related the terms on which I was going to sing.
He merely said, Well, I will take care of you ; do
your best, and probably something good will come of
it.' I spoke to Harris; and he also seemed sanguine
about my being engaged.
At the first rehearsal I attended, Tamberlik arrived
about twenty minutes late. Costa pulled out his watch
and showed it to him; he made some excuse, having
had a heavy performance in William Tell’ the night
before. 'I excuse you this time,' said Costa ; but
pray do not let it occur again.'
At the general rehearsal I was so nervous I sang
• Il balen' nearly half a note sharp throughout. I was
perfectly aware of it myself, but could not come down ;
everybody thought I was going to make a dreadful
failure. When I was dressed for the performance,
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Costa came to my room, and, after examining my
make-up attentively, requested me to make sundry
alterations about my dress and hair. When he was
satisfied that my appearance was all correct, he said,
* Now go and do your work, and do not let me hear
any more talk about Italian jealousy. I said I had
never mentioned such a thing. He replied, “It has
been repeated to me you have. . There are many
singers here not Italians—Signor Tagliafico, for in-
stance; they have never suffered from jealousy. I
still protested my innocence. “Well, well,' he said,
I may be misinformed; but if there should be any
jealous feeling towards you, remember that nobody
was ever jealous of an ass.'
My reception when I appeared on the stage was
such that I was quite overcome. For five minutes I
stood bowing whilst the audience and orchestra rose
to their feet and cheered me; the ladies waved their
handkerchiefs as they stood up in the boxes and stalls.
It was said that such a scene had not been witnessed
at the Italian Opera since Grisi made her final bow to
the public.
When the applause finished and I had to begin, the
first few notes stuck in my throat ; but as I fell into
my part, I conquered my agitation, and maintained my
ground throughout the opera. I was congratulated by
everybody concerned upon my success. It is needless
to say I was very pleased ; only one little whisper
might have marred my happiness, had not my con-
science been perfectly clear on the subject. It was
intimated to me that the authorities declared I had
packed the house in order to secure the ovation I
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183
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CXCI
mo
received. At that time I had no money to spare for
such a purpose; I did not purchase a single ticket, nor
did I make use of all the manager sent me. I gave a
box to my friend who arranged the business between
Mr. Gye and me, with strict injunctions not to applaud
until the house gave unmistakable signs of approval.
I sent Madame Sainton two stalls ; and whatever else
I received, I deposited in the waste-paper basket.
Throughout my career, I have never given a single
admission to anyone to applaud me either in theatre
or concert-room ; I have always depended on the
verdict of the public. I sang at two subsequent per-
formances in response to the usual intimation from the
theatre ; I had a fourth call, but I was engaged to sing
in Liverpool the same night, so I was, very unwillingly,
obliged to excuse myself. I was the more annoyed,
as Rosa Czillag was to have sung in place of Gordosa,
who had not been a success. I called on Mr. Gye, by
appointment, to see if I could arrange anything definite
for the season; he was detained, however, by business
of greater importance, and I left the theatre without
seeing him. I went directly over to Her Majesty's
Theatre to see Mapleson, and ask for a box to witness
the first appearance of Madame Guerrabella (Genevieve
Ward) in ‘I Puritani.' I was denied admission to his
room by the Cerberus at the stage-door. I sent in my
card, and the messenger returned in a few minutes,
and informed me Mr. Mapleson wished to speak to me
immediately on important business. He received me
in his usual jovial manner--asked me some questions
about my engagement at Covent Garden ; I told him
I was not under any engagement. Then you must
2
S
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UT10
YYID
I
come to me,' said he. I demurred, as my secret wish
was to be at Covent Garden. However, Mapleson's
cajolery, and my desire to be engaged at the Italian
Opera, settled the matter, and I left the theatre with
my engagement for that and the following season in
my pocket. The only stipulations I made were that I
was not to be called on to play Don Giovanni nor
Figaro in the · Barbiere,' and that I retained the right
to sing at private concerts. I made my first appear-
ance on a Saturday night after I had been singing at
the Crystal Palace. I was very nervous, and sang
• Il balen' atrociously. I wished I could have dropped
through the stage, and hidden myself for very shame ;
but the public was merciful, and insisted on my repeat-
ing the song. I pulled myself together, and the second
time redeemed my honour. I felt very disappointed
with myself, and feared I had cancelled the success I
made at Covent Garden. The “Trovatore' became
my bête noire ; each day it was announced for per-
formance in the evening was, to me, a day of utter
misery until I had got through the second act.
Strange to say, it was a favourite opera of mine. I
liked the part of Di Luna ; when I played it in
English it never cost me a thought. I presume the
two slips I made, at the rehearsal at Covent Garden
and the first performance at Her Majesty's, left an
impression on my nervous system which I never suc-
ceeded in erasing. During the season, I played De
Nevers in ‘Gli Ugonotti, Almaviva in “Le Nozze di
Figaro,' etc. Almaviva I found the most difficult part
I ever attempted, and I never was at all satisfied with
my performance of it.
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In consequence of the influx of strangers to visit
the Exhibition, our season was protracted until the
month of September; for the same reason the English
Opera at Covent Garden opened early in the same
month, and I was in a dilemma, for I was engaged
at both houses. I succeeded in arranging matters
amicably by singing at each alternately the few nights
they were open together. On Monday I played in
*The Lily of Killarney,' English, at Covent Garden ;
on Tuesday in 'Il Trovatore,' Italian, at Her
Majesty's; on Wednesday in ‘Dinorah,' English, at
Covent Garden. I do not know whether such a com-
bination ever occurred before—it certainly has not
since—I played at both Italian Operas and the English
Opera in one season.
Until the production of Wallace’s ‘ Love's Triumph,'
about the middle of November, the operas of the
répertoire were successfully played. The new opera
was not a success ; the music and libretto were both
charming, but the stage of Covent Garden was too
large a frame for the picture, and there was a lack of
elegance about the whole of the mise-en-scène which
destroyed the brilliancy of the work. I believe it
would have been a great success had it been played
with spirit in a theatre such as the Princess's, where
was
ICI
ICCO
than in the large theatre.
I declined to sing the baritone part; it was of no
importance whatever dramatically or musically ; the
only number it contained being a ballad introduced to
make weight, à propos of nothing particular. I went
into the stalls one day to hear a little of the rehearsal,
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IT1
was
1
and found Charles Lucas there. I had barely sat
down by him than he said, “Young man, you have
made a mistake in refusing the part; the opera will
be the greatest success we have had since “The
Bohemian Girl.”' I replied it would not be a success
at all. My reply made him angry, and he asked sharply
if I thought his long experience was worth nothing.
'I repeat,' said he, “it will be an enormous success,
and you will be sorry you did not take part in it.' It
was not a success, but I was sorry I had refused the
part, as Wallace was a good friend of mine, although
I could not have done anything with such a part to
render him any service.
The last opera of the season, and the last English
opera I sang in at Covent Garden, was Balfe's
‘Armourer of Nantes.' I had had a disagreement with
the management, and in consequence my part in the last
act, which was of importance to the development of
the plot, was reduced to crossing the stage in a pro-
cession. I did not see any fun in waiting in my
costume a whole act for this, so I declined to do it ;
and after some disputing it was arranged I should be
represented by a 'double,' the consequence being that
the dénouement remained a profound mystery.
During the run of the 'Armourer,' the theatre was
opened free on the occasion of the marriage of the
Prince of Wales. The house was densely crowded,
but a more stupid audience I never sang to; there
was literally no applause throughout the performance.
A short Mask was played the same night, à propos of the
royal nuptials. I do not recollect the title nor the name
of the composer ; the libretto was by John Oxenford.
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187
11
In the first act of the “Armourer' I had a barcarole
to sing in the wing before I made my appearance on
the stage ; it was written to suit me exactly. Nobody
knew better than Balfe how to put music into a singer's
throat. In returning to the refrain after the second
part of the melody, I made a very long messa di voce
on the fifth of the key; this was made the subject of a
bet among the gentlemen of the orchestra which I was
called upon to decide. Some of them concluded that
I began the messa di voce with my face towards the
back of the stage, and then turned round gradually a
complete circle, so making the crescendo and dimi-
nuendo. I laughed heartily at the idea, as I adopted
no such device, which, indeed, would have had no effect
in producing the result desired.
With the “Armourer of Nantes' I bade farewell to
the English Opera for some years. The first two
seasons I was with Pyne and Harrison, my engage-
ment did not contain any stipulation regarding the
number of nights I was bound to sing, so, if required,
and I generally was required, I had to sing every
night. At Her Majesty's Theatre, 1860-61, we only
played four times a week, the other two nights were
devoted to Italian Opera the first half of the season ;
but on those nights I generally had a concert in
London or the provinces, so I might as well, or better,
have been playing in an opera. The last season at
Covent Garden I would not sign for more than four
nights a week; I did not accept engagements out of
the theatre, so my work was lighter. Before that it
had been tolerably severe. I cannot recapitulate all
the operas I took part in, but I will give a sketch of
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-
-
-
ons (
1
1C
my work during my first four seasons on the operatic
stage, as nearly as I can remember.
In 1859-60 I sang in Dinorah' (first time on the
English stage), · Victorine' and · Lurline'-new operas
- The Trovatore,' The Rose of Castille,' 'Sata-
nella,' 'The Sonnambula'-new to me; in 1860-61,
* Robin Hood,' "The Amber Witch'-new-'Queen
Topaz'—first time in England—“The Bohemian Girl'
--new to me—' The Trovatore, etc. ; in 1861-62,
* Ruy Blas,' · The Puritan's Daughter,' and 'Lily of
Killarney'-new—and operas of the répertoire which
I had already taken part in ; in 1862-63, “The
Armourer of Nantes'-new-and operas of the réper-
toire. The average season must have been at least of
five months' duration ; the average number of times I
sang in each about 110. I had seldom more than a
week's rest from rehearsal. Contrast this with the
work young singers are called on to do in the latest
edition of English opera ; theirs is a path of roses
compared with that we of the old régime trod, and our
emoluments were on a much more economic scale than
are paid now ; though I will venture to remark, as far
as my general observation goes, that there are some of
the young aspirants of the present day who might have
taken a lesson from many of my old comrades. I
never had but once a quarrel with one of our company,
and that was about some stage business, which was
soon made up. With the management we might have
been a family of porcupines ; on the slightest provoca-
tion quills shot up and caused wounds not readily
healed. I wished for nothing more than to do my
work in peace to the best of my ability. Earnest
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at all times, I never thought of the amount imposed
on me; I saw the willing horse invariably carried the
heaviest pack, and had the least consideration shown
him, but my enthusiasm was proof against the abuse
of good-will. The only part I refused was that in
Love's Triumph, and had it not been that I was
really much in need of rest, I do not think I should
have refused it. During these four seasons I can only
call to mind three occasions on which I disappointed
the public.
We had one or two eccentric characters among the
members of the English Opera Company; George
Honey was one. I never could make out why he had
anything to do with the opera, or why. anyone know-
ing anything about the requirements of a singer, even
a buffo, could have induced him to leave the sphere he
was adapted to. He was a clever, eccentric comedian,
and in a part like Don Florio in “The Rose of Cas-
tille,' the first part he played under the Pyne and
Harrison management, with 'Why did you not say so
at first?' a comic twitch of the head, and an extrava-
gant make-up, he made a decided hit. He had a
hollow, unmusical voice, and knew very little about
the art of singing; yet he firmly believed his forte
lay in serious song. His favourite attempt was 'A
father's love' from · Lurline.' I never heard it, but I
have been told on good authority it was the most
comic thing he ever did. I did hear him attempt the
long buffo scene in Balfe's 'Puritan's Daughter,' and
that was one of the most dismal things I ever heard ;
and so must it have proved to the audience, as it was
entirely omitted after the first or second performance.
ca
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
On one occasion, when we were playing “The Rose
of Castille' for Louisa Pyne's benefit, Honey, at the
rehearsal, took me aside, and begged of me to give
him plenty of time to get out the low C in the duet, as
it was his great effect, and on former occasions I had
done him out of his round of applause. Of course, I
promised, and kept my promise; but the low C stuck
the stage, and waited in expectation; when I turned
round I saw my friend red as a peony, almost burst-
ing, but not a sound could he produce. The audience
took it as a good joke, and roared with laughter, to
Honey's intense disgust. His good sense or good
fortune led him back to his own sphere, in which he
did excellent service ; nobody who saw him as Eccles
in · Caste' will ever forget what an admirable perfor-
mance it was.
St. Albyn (a second tenor) was another extra-
ordinary character. He never had any voice to
speak of, either in power or compass; he was for
ever discovering a production by which he could
sing (?) the high C from the chest. Like the boa
constrictor, in order to seize his prey, St. Albyn, to
seize upon the high C, was obliged to have some un-
yielding object which he could grasp firmly. On the
road home after the opera he used to exhibit for any
friends who accompanied him, seizing the lamp-post,
and uttering the most distressing screams. He gave
me a specimen in my dressing-room one evening, and
was quite satisfied he was on the highroad to wealth
and undying fame. A few nights after he came to
me looking very dismal, and informed me he was
me
was
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going to turn baritone. “Baritone !' said I ; 'what,
after the discovery you have made ?' 'Ah,' said he,
with a sigh, 'there's no help for it.' 'How's that?' I
inquired. "Well, the fact is,' he replied, “ I'm losing
my voice.
A libretto being in request, Palgrave Simpson called
to see the manager with a production in his pocket.
Said he: 'My dear Harrison, I have the very thing;
a splendid part for you--heroic, passionate-in fact, a
part that will fit you like a glove! The manager's
eyes glistened, for he still felt being left out in the
cold in “The Puritan's Daughter. 'And,' added
Simpson, 'the best of it is you are dumb throughout
the first two acts—not a line to speak nor a note to
sing !
*Thank you, sir ; I wish you a very good-morning ;'
and Simpson, much to his surprise, was bowed out of
the managerial presence forthwith.
II
nora
CHAPTER XIV.
My New Comrades : Tietjens, Alboni, Trebelli, and Giuglini-Trebelli's
Father-Dressing-rooms at the English and Italian Opera-An Oper-
atic Perquisite-The Advantages of Italianization-A Visit to Paris
-Madame Carvalho and Monjauze- I persuade Mapleson to let me
play Valentine-Gounod's Congratulations-Divergent Opinions as
to the Part — Origin of ‘Dio Possente' - The Season of 1863—-
Schira's 'Niccolò de' Lapi'-A Trying Part-Mlle. Artôt in “La
Traviata!--A Dilatory Faust – Revival of Oberon?-Alboni's
Magnificent Singing and Excessive Nervousness-- My Holiday and
Escape on the Lake of Lucerne-Début at Worcester Festival -
Schachner's New Oratorio : his Criticism on Benedict's 'Caur de
Lion'—Mapleson's Operatic Tour—'Lucia’at Dublin-My Dress as
Enrico-Mistaken for Oliver Cromwell—The Dublin Gods and
'Faust'-Mephisto's Misadventures—Return to London—Wanted, a
Faust.
111n
WO
S01
SPITE of the hard work and heart-burnings I experi-
enced, it was with a feeling of deep regret I changed
my stage. I had enjoyed my little triumphs ; I had
won the esteem and friendship of my companions, and
I now found myself among comparative strangers.
Teresa Tietjens, Alboni, and Giuglini I had met at
some of the festivals, and in private concerts, but I
was not on intimate terms with them. Mlle. Trebelli
I met whilst I was in Paris in 1862 at a party given
by Madame Orfila, to whom I was presented by some
friends of Patey's. At the request of the hostess I
sang a solo piece, after which Mlle. Trebelli, to whom
I was introduced, asked me if I would sing the duet
from · Il Barbiere' with her. I replied that it would
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
193
001
give me great pleasure. As we were moving towards
the piano, Trebelli's father stepped up and inquired,
'Qu'est ce que tu vas chanter ?'Le duo du Barbier.'
'Avec qui ?' 'Avec ce monsieur anglais.' 'Com-
ment! avec un anglais ! (horrified). "Mon Dieu !
He must have found reason to change his opinion of
English singers, for he complimented me highly, and
we became subsequently great friends
In a short time I found myself as much at home in
my new sphere as I had been in the old one. I found
many comforts and attentions I had never before ex-
perienced. The dressing-room of the English operatic
artist (I give my own experience) was uncarpeted, the
toilette-table without a cover, the looking-glass, of the
commonest description, was just large enough to show
the head, and lighted by a jet of gas, protected by a
thick wire shade, and a common oil-lamp. When I
sang in 'Il Trovatore,' on my first appearance at the
Italian Opera, I dressed in the same room I occupied
during the English seasons, but what was my surprise
at the metamorphosis I found! Instead of a bare cell,
it was converted into a comfortable room with a
carpet, a clean table-cover, a cheval glass in addi-
tion to my old friend, and the stinking oil-lamp super-
seded by a couple of wax candles. These latter were
the perquisite of the artist occupying the room, who
used in most cases to carry them off after the perfor-
mance, or as much of them as was left, and thus econo-
mize the cost of light in private life. It was a custom
with the more economical to extinguish the candles,
and pack them away as soon as the operation of dress-
ing was over ; or, if the make-up was not elaborate,
13
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REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
they were not lighted at all, and so available as a
· marketable commodity. One, who was a member of
the R. I. O. Company for many years, it was well
known, used to travel with his portmanteau half full
with these spoils of the dressing-room. I do not sup-
pose Mario, Tamberlik, Faure, etc., travelled about
with a stock of candle-ends; I know I did not. I
found, also, a great improvement in the behaviour of
the dressers; the hail-fellow-well-met, patronizing air
they assumed when I was only an Englishman gave
place to one of deference I was not prepared for when
I became an Italian. Nor was this confined to
dressers; outside the theatre I remarked a similar
increase of politeness and attention on the part of
individuals who, in other phases of life, were in the
habit of thanking God they were true John Bulls.
This might be ascribed to a flight of imagination on
my part had I not noticed an equivalent decrease
of attention and interest when I sacrificed health,
strength, and money in endeavouring to secure a home
for opera in the national tongue some twenty years ago.
In the course of my first Italian Opera season I had
two offers of engagements, either of which would pro-
bably have changed the whole course of my career.
Madame Carvalho, whom I met frequently at Chor-
ley's and in private parties, asked me, after we had
been singing a duet one evening, to enter into negotia-
tions with her husband with regard to an engagement
for the Théâtre Lyrique in Paris, where they were
about to put ‘Don Juan' on the stage with all the
care and attention for which that house was celebrated.
I declined, on the ground of never having sung in
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French, and my imperfect conversational knowledge
of the language. She replied that need not present
any difficulty; if I would entertain her proposal, the
engagement would be made that I should not be re-
quired to sing for three months, during which time
there would be ample time to exercise myself in con-
versation, and pass one or two parts in French with
a good master, so as to acquire a proper accent.
Through our chorus-master, Chiaromonte, I had an
offer from Calzado for the Italian Opera in Paris ; we
did not, however, agree on the subject of terms.
Had I had only myself to think of, any difficulty
which stood in the way of my accepting either of
these engagements might have been overcome; but
I had already a small family, which I could not afford
to take about with me, and an establishment of my
own which I did not feel inclined to break up, so I
took no further steps about either.
At the termination of the English season 1862-63
I again went to Paris, when I paid my first visit to
the Théâtre Français ; and I saw Gounod's 'Faust'
for the first time. I was prejudiced against both. I
had heard so much about the superiority of French
actors, and Chorley had so lauded Faust' to the
disparagement of modern Italian opera, that I deter-
mined nothing should make me like them. The play
at the Français was 'Le fils de Giboyer,' with a
cast I have never seen equalled — Got, Delaunay,
Bressant, Prévost, Favart, Plessis, etc. The curtain
had not long risen before prejudice had given place
to admiration ; for the first time I saw what could
be achieved by a combination of fine actors working
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together under a competent head with one common
interest—the interest of the drama they were repre-
senting. It was a perfect whole ; there were strong
situations which stood out, as the scene in which
Giboyer discovers himself to his son ; and that of the
reception where the daughter of the bourgeois, outraged
by the supercilious way in which her lover (her father's
secretary) is treated by the guests, offers him a cup
of tea—a very simple incident in itself, but a most
striking one as played by Favart and Delaunay ; these
were only parts of the picture, not merely worked
up for the individual display of a particular actor.
But my prejudice received the severest rebuke from
• Faust'; I was completely carried away by the
music, and the way the opera was put on the stage.
Madame Carvalho was the poetic embodiment of
Marguerite ; Monjauze, a singer of whom very few
of my readers will remember even the name, I have
the exception of Junca, who played the part with us
at Her Majesty's Theatre in 1864, was the best
Mephisto I have seen. The Valentine, whose name
I do not remember, was a small man with a small
voice, who strutted about like a bantam, and brought
to my mind the fable of the frog and the ox.
Mapleson had secured 'Faust' for the season of 1863.
When he told me and mentioned the intended distribu-
tion of the parts, he said nothing about Valentine, so
I inquired to whom it was to be confided. He said :
• Oh, anybody ; there is nothing in it.' “Then,' said
I, as you have not already disposed of it, give it
to me.' Nonsense !' he replied; I have something
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197
I
rem
better than that for you ; I am not going to throw
you away in such an insignificant part as that. In
vain I attempted to convince him he was wrong, and
that Valentine's death was the finest ensemble in the
opera. It was only after much earnest petitioning that
he consented to my playing the part.' He only
remarked : 'If you are determined I am only too
happy, as it will strengthen the cast, and I wish you
joy of it. His wish was fulfilled; I had great joy
of it! It turned out so well that Gounod came to my
dressing-room immediately after the death-scene to
thank me cordially for having undertaken the part
and created a new feature in the opera. My brother
baritones were not so cordial in their thanks. Graziani
remonstrated with me for having played it at all, as
in consequence it was afterwards always given to the
principal baritone, and he could find nothing in it
worth doing. Opinions differ ; it is a short part, but
very sympathetic to the audience, and it does not
contain one ineffective bar of music. When · Faust'
was produced in English early in 1864, I suggested
that Gounod might write a song for me, taking the
melody which occurs in the prelude to the first act as
a theme. At first he demurred, as he considered he
had not been well treated with regard to the business
arrangements connected with his work; but he con-
sented when he learned it was for me, and in a few
days he sent me the P. F. score of 'Even bravest
heart may swell,' known in its Italian form as 'Dio
possente.'
The season of 1863 opened with the “Trovatore,'
with the same cast as in 1862. On the 7th May,
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Schira's opera “Niccolò de' Lapi was produced for
the first time, with Tietjens (Selvaggia), Trebelli
(Laodomia), Giuglini (Lamberto), and myself (Niccolò)
--a very trying part. It was singular that a professor
of singing should have had so little perception of the
register of a voice. My first number, a romance, .Qui
sulla bianca lapide,' was so high that I was obliged to
have it lowered a semitone, and even then it lay at the
utmost stretch of my voice, all between B flat and G
above the bass stave. In the second act, I had a
prayer with chorus which ended on F sharp below the
stave. But the last act was the most exigent. Here
I had three slow sustained movements to sing one
after the other—the first lying on my back asleep in
prison ; the last, the most fatiguing of all, the prophecy
-before Niccolò lays his head on the block, ending
with · L'Italia libera sarà ! It was only played three
nights. To satisfy some of the principal singers, there
were so many interpolations I think they confused the
drama without increasing the musical effect; besides,
it was badly put on the stage. We had an Italian
stage-manager then, who could not speak two words
of English. When anything went wrong, he used to
give up the ghost, and march to and fro with his
hands under the tails of a long overcoat muttering to
himself. My companions were not interested in the
work. I had not at that time read D’Azeglio's novel
from which the drama was taken ; and though I was
highly complimented on my performance by those who
spoke to me on the subject, I am sure I was not
sufficiently imposing to give the proper dignity and
weight to such a character as that of Niccolò de' Lapi.
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I played Germont the elder in the “Traviata' on the
first appearance of Mlle. Artôt, a pupil and imitator
of Madame Viardot. As I was leaving the theatre, I
went to her room to wish her ‘Good-night,' and found
her lying on the floor in hysterics. She also played
‘Maria' in “ La figlia del reggimento,' and 'Adalgisa ?
to Tietjens' 'Norma. She was a good singer, and
possessed undoubted histrionic talent; but she marred
her performances by exaggeration—she would have
done more had she done less. “Faust’ I have.
already mentioned. Tietjens was highly commended.
for her ‘Marguerite ’; Giuglini sang charmingly;
Trebelli made a great success as Siebel, although I
think it is a mistake to give the part to a contralto ;
Gassier was not a success as Mephisto. A contre-
temps occurred at the first representation, all the more
serious considering the financial importance of the
success of the opera. When I had finished the scene
of the cross with Mephisto, I walked deliberately up
to my dressing-room. I saw Giuglini in his room
preparing to put on his tights for the change of dress ;
I told him they were waiting on the stage for him-
Marguerite was ready to start for church, but there
was no Faust to meet her. A long wait ensued-ten
minutes or more—which seemed an hour to those who
were on the stage ; fortunately there was a patient
English audience in front, whose anger found vent in
a few hisses bestowed on Giuglini when he at length
reappeared on the scene. “Faust' was an enormous
success; we played it frequently throughout the re-
mainder of the season. Early in July "Oberon’ was
reproduced, with Reeves in the character of Sir Huon,
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Tietjens as Rezia, Alboni as Fatima, Trebelli as Puck,
Bettini as Oberon, Gassier as Babekan, and myself as
Scherasmin—a most uninteresting part dramatically,
and insignificant musically-his only numbers being
the quartet Over the dark blue waters,' and the duet
On the banks of the Garonne.' My chief interest in
the opera was Alboni's singing, which was splendid
throughout. The song in the third act I can only
describe as gorgeous ; and yet I never saw any singer
more nervous, though it seemed impossible with such
a physique as hers. When I led her on to the stage
with my arm round her waist she trembled all over,
and the perspiration dropped from her forehead like
beads during the entire scene.
I took my holiday at Brunnen, on the Lake of
Lucerne, with Patey. We had an adventure which
almost ended fatally. We were across the lake at
Treib fishing one evening, when I noticed that a
storm was brewing. With some difficulty I induced
the boatmen (fortunately we had two) to start on our
return before it burst. They laughed at my fears ;
but by the time we were about half-way across, the
waves were so high they could scarcely move the
boat. For a few moments even they looked dis-
mayed ; but the danger we were in excited them to
strain every nerve, and they managed to pull near in
to the shore. It was, however, impossible to effect a
landing. I had given up all for lost, when a huge
wave lifted the boat round the head of the jetty into
smooth water, and we were safe. Shortly after we
landed, a cry was raised that there was a barge sink-
ing. She was coming in from Fluelen timber-laden, the
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er
rance
three men on board screaming for help. There was
no time to be lost; but nobody seemed inclined to risk
going out to their assistance. After a great deal of
persuasion, a small crew at last volunteered ; they
rescued the men, and fastened a hawser to the prow
of the barge, by which she was hauled up to the shore
a few feet under water. The steamer could not land
her passengers, and passed along on the other side of
the lake.
On my return, I made my first appearance at a
• Three Choir Festival' at Worcester. Among other
works, I sang in a new oratorio, entitled “Israel's
Return from Babylon,' by Herr Schachner, which did
not impress me much. Herr Schachner called on me
one morning to run through one or two passages in
his work; I was not in the room, so he amused him-
self reading through Benedict's Richard Cour de
Lion,' which happened to be lying on the piano, as I
was studying it for Norwich. “Ach Gott!' said he, as
I returned to my room, 'what is that for music? It
is so weak—so lemonade ! However, at Norwich
Festival the week after, it proved stronger than Mr.
Schachner anticipated; it was a great success, and
was performed several times after in London and the
provinces. After Norwich I joined Mapleson's com-
pany for the operatic tour, commencing with a season
of three weeks in Dublin. Sims Reeves was engaged
to play Edgardo, Sir Huon and Faust. “Lucia' was
the opera on the opening night, with a new addition
to our company, Elisa Volpini, a charming Spaniard
(who made a real success), Reeves, and myself. I
played Enrico for the first time, and for the only time,
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mou
in the costume of the Highlander as represented out-
side a snuff-shop-an absurd fashion adopted in Italy
and most Italian theatres at that time. I afterwards
had a dress of my own made, in accordance with the
locale in which the drama takes place. A photograph
of me in this costume was standing on the chimney-
piece of the house of an intimate friend of mine in
Scotland when his bailiff called upon him one morning
to transact some business. He remarked, “That is a
very good portrait.' ‘Do you recognise the likeness ?'
said my friend. Oh yes,' he replied; “it's Oliver
Cromwell!
The house was packed to suffocation for the first
performance of “Faust'; expectation had been raised
to such a pitch by the notices of its enormous success
in London, and Tietjens, Trebelli, Reeves and I
formed a very attractive cast. The opera was re-
ceived with immense applause ; on the stage all went
well without a hitch until the church scene. The
gods used to amuse themselves between the acts of
an opera by treating their friends to specimens of
their own vocal talents, and would not allow the opera
to proceed to the interruption of their own displays.
It happened that as all was ready to commence the
third act, a gentleman aloft was regaling the gallery
with a song. The audience began to show signs of
impatience, as they were more interested in the new
opera than in the celestial amateur. Mapleson also
grew impatient, and gave orders to ring up the curtain,
which was no sooner done than a storm burst out in
the gallery, which was only calmed on the curtain
being lowered again ; the gentleman then continued
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his song. At the conclusion a voice calmly remarked :
'Now we're ready; you can go on as soon as you like!
The stage-manager rang up and went round to
arrange the procession on the opposite side. Mephisto
had to appear through a trap which was worked
according to signals from the stage—first bell to make
ready, second to send up, third to lower. Mapleson
came round again very excited by the disturbance
which had taken place, gave the first pull and retired ;
the stage-manager returned immediately after and gave
what he thought the pull to make ready, instead of
which up came Mephisto, long before he was wanted.
The next pull was given, and down went poor
Mephisto just as he was about to open his mouth ;
nor could he induce the carpenters in attendance to
send him back again, so that Marguerite had the
entire scene to herself.
I found the Dublin audience very enthusiastic at all
times; but occasionally the facetiousness of the gallery
was somewhat troublesome. My first experience of
it was in the scene of Valentine's death. After the
duel, Martha, who rushed in at the head of the crowd,
raised my head and held me in her arms during the
first part of the scene. There was a death-like still-
ness in the house, which was interrupted by a voice
from the gallery calling out: 'Unbutton his weskit!'
Of course the untimely jest caused a general titter,
and for a few moments took off the attention of the
greater part of the audience ; I felt annoyed, but I
kept my attention fixed on my work, and soon
succeeded in bringing back that of the audience to
myself, and made a great success.
1
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A great many stories have been published à propos
of the witticisms indulged in by the gods at the
Theatre Royal, Dublin ; this one I have never seen
in print. A celebrated English tenor, by no means
a favourite in Dublin, was singing on its first pro-
duction there in an opera by Balfe, which had been
played before her Majesty the Queen, that circum-
stance being duly announced in playbills and advertise-
ments. In the last act he had a ballad which in
London was rapturously encored every evening during
the run of the opera. In Dublin it was received in
dead silence, and as the singer retired up the stage
a voice from the gallery demanded, apparently with
great curiosity : “And was that the way you sung it
for the Queen ?'
One night when I was playing Plunkett in • Marta'
at the end of the Good-night' quartet, according to
the business arranged, I took up a candle and pro-
ceeded to light the two girls to their room, but I
had scarcely put my foot inside the door than a witty
individual called out : "Ah, ah! would ye now?' A
quiet joke like that at the end of an act can do no
harm ; but in the midst of a scene like the death of
Valentine, a jest is both ill-natured and vulgar; it
robs those who are interested of their enjoyment, it
destroys, for a time at least, the illusion, and distracts
the performer to the detriment of the scene he is
portraying. In the case of the tenor, it was sufficiently
humiliating to have to retire without applause ; the
jest, although perhaps unintentionally so, was simply
brutal!
We returned from the provinces to London for
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205
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five performances at Her Majesty's Theatre at cheap
prices, “Faust' being announced for the opening night.
Sims Reeves, who had been in Wales, sent word to
say he had caught a little cold and could not appear.
The house was crammed to suffocation, and there was
nobody in the company who knew the part. What
was to be done? It would have been a fearful loss to
dismiss such a house, and there was not the slightest
hope of them accepting any other opera. At last
Volpini (husband of the prima donna of that name)
was prevailed on to go on, and went through wonder
fully well, considering that what he knew of the music
he had only picked up by ear. A little knowledge
happened to be a very useful thing on that occasion.
wa
CHAPTER XV.
eason of 1864–“Faus? My Daughter's Tek The Shakespea
Season of 1864—'Faust' in English-I play Mephisto at Short Notice and
under Difficulties—My Daughter's Terror at the Duel Scene—“The
Merry Wives of Windsor?–Mirella'–The Shakespeare Centenary
_Music hath Charms '—Costa's - Naaman -Operatic Tour-Off to
Barcelona-We lose our Way-Stage Properties in the Custom-
house-A Land of Garlic-Opera at Barcelona—'Macbeth'-'Where's
the Romance ?—Return Home-With Mapleson in Dublin.
On the 23rd of January, 1864, "Faust' was brought
out in English at Her Majesty's Theatre, and was
played three or four times a week until the 5th of
March. I played my original part Valentine, intro-
ducing my new song; Reeves was the Faust; Marchesi,
Mephisto; Madame Lemmens - Sherrington, Mar-
guerite ; and Madame Florence Lancia, Siebel. Owing
to a misunderstanding between Marchesi and the
management respecting a renewal of his engagement
for two weeks beyond the period originally stipulated,
I was called on to play Mephisto at a short notice
too short for me to represent the part as I conceived
it. I should have liked to dress it differently, and get
rid of that abominable red costume; but I had no
time to arrange anything, barely sufficient to learn my
music thoroughly. On the first night I essayed the
part I was handicapped by my friend Swift, who was
called on suddenly to take Reeves's place. As usual,
he did not know his music, and was quite innocent of
the stage business. Whenever I had to address him,
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
207
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I could not find him ; throughout the opera, whenever
we had a few bars' rest, he left the scene to take care
of itself, and retired to the wings to study what was
coming. I do not know what effect his vagaries had
on the audience, but on me they were most distressing.
My eldest daughter, Edith, was taken by her mother
to see one of the morning performances—her first visit
to a theatre. She was told of the duel scene, and
impressed with the idea that it was only in play, in
case it might startle her. All went well until she saw
Reeves and me using our swords, then the little mouth
began to pucker up and the lips to tremble, but she
kept on repeating to herself, “It's only in fun,' until at
last I received the fatal wound and fell; then she burst
out into a yell, and had to be carried out of the theatre,
to which nothing could induce her to return. She was
not satisfied until she saw me safely. seated at dinner.
In signing a new agreement with Mapleson for the
seasons of 1864 and 1865, I did not notice a paragraph
in the contract which precluded me from singing in
the United Kingdom otherwise than at Her Majesty's,
or other theatre under Mapleson's management, except
by his permission. I was engaged for the operatic
tour in the autumn of 1864 and that in the spring of
1865, but I had some months to fill up between the
two. This caused me some anxiety, as I had never
thought of singing out of my own country, and con-
sequently had not cultivated the acquaintance of any
of the agents who catered for the Continental houses.
Through the instrumentality of Volpini, I signed a
contract to sing at the Lyceum Theatre, Barcelona,
for three months, from about the ist of December.
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In the season of 1864 three operas, new for England,
were announced. Of these only one, «The Merry
Wives of Windsor,' with the title of “Falstaff,' was
produced. It was one of the operas in which I enjoyed
myself. I had little anxiety, as, with the exception of
the duet with Falstaff, there was nothing of any im-
portance to sing, and that was not very exigent.
Tietjens and a very good contralto from Vienna,
Caroline Bettelheim, played the two merry wives ;
Gassier and I their respective husbands ; Junca was
Falstaff; Giuglini, Fenton ; Guiseppina Vitali, a fair
soprano, Anne Page. Manfredi played Slender (Lyall
played it in after-seasons, and admirably), and Maz-
zetti Dr. Caius, very indifferently. The opera was
well put on the stage; the moonlight scene in Windsor
Forest at the end was one of Telbin's masterpieces.
Tietjens and I used to have great fun in the scene
when Ford empties the buck basket, expecting to find
Falstaff hidden therein, I turning out the foul linen
and she pelting me with it, though occasionally it was
a somewhat unsavoury game, for, to carry out the
illusion, like the man who painted himself black all
over to play Othello, our property man supplied linen
which was decidedly foul.
* La forza del destino' was not brought out until
some years later, and · Tannhäuser ' not at all during
my Italian career. I always regret this, as I had a great
desire to play Wolfram. Gounod's 'Mirella,' which
had not been promised, was produced on the 5th of
July. Tietjens played · Mirella,' a part which I never
thought suited her. I had little to do in it, and that
little was cut down after the first night. Owing in a
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
209
great measure, I believe, to an accident, the whole of
the scene between Vincenzo and Ourrias at the begin-
ning of the third act was left out. Ourrias, who has
sworn to take Vincenzo's life, strikes down Vincenzo
as he leaves the scene. Giuglini would not rehearse
the stage business ; the consequence was he did not
drop down at the right moment, and my stick, coming
in contact with his head, brought him down with a
sounding thwack. This opera was also well put on
the stage, and well played throughout ; all of us
engaged in it exerted ourselves to the utmost to
make another success for Gounod. Carvalho and
his brother-in-law Miolan came over from Paris on
purpose to superintend the last rehearsals.
To assist in making the cast of ‘Fidelio' as com-
plete as possible, I undertook the small part of the
Ministro ; I also played Plunkett in “Martha,' and
during the after-season, for the first time, the Duke in
· Lucrezia Borgia.'
The Shakespeare Centenary Festival took place at
Stratford-on-Avon in April, at which I sang in a
miscellaneous concert and “The Messiah.' I was
much amused when I went to the hall for the latter
performance to find men parading outside the doors
bearing placards warning the public not to enter and
listen to the devil's drums and trumpets. Mellon
wrote a song for me to the words “Take, oh take
those lips away,' which I sang at the miscellaneous
concert, and also at the supper held at the Free-
masons' Tavern on the eve of Shakespeare's birthday,
accompanied by Benedict. The assembly had become
very much excited in consequence of a scene between
on
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some partisans of G. V. Brooke* (who, unknown to
most of the guests, was present) and the chairman,
Benjamin Webster. The confusion and clamour
became intolerable. It was suggested that the only
way of restoring order would be for me to sing ; I
complied, and in an instant silence prevailed. I
had scarcely finished the last note when the room
became a perfect pandemonium ; the guests mounted
on the tables, cheering and waving their handkerchiefs,
insisting upon an encore. With this I also complied,
and then, finding the disturbance was about to re-
commence, I made my escape.
I had little time for a holiday, as the season ended
on the 13th of August, and the Hereford Festival
began on the 30th. I had not very heavy work to
do : the second part of the Creation’; the music of
Rossini's 'Stabat Mater,' with English words, which
had nothing to do with the Latin hymn; a part of
the 'Messiah'; Benedict's · Richard,' and sundry pieces
at the evening concerts. The Birmingham Festival
followed on the 5th of September. Here I had more
to do, namely, Elisha in Costa's · Naaman,' performed
for the first time; the whole of the bass solos in the
IU
* Gustavus Vasa Brooke was born in Dublin : he was a student at
Trinity College. On an occasion when a favourite actor disappointed the
public, he offered his services to play "Hamlet. There was no dress in
the theatre to fit him, and he played the part in a velveteen jacket. His
success was such that he devoted himself forthwith to the stage. He
made his first appearance in London, at the Olympic Theatre, in the part
of Othello with great success. He was a great favourite in the provinces,
especially in Liverpool. In Australia he was the idol of the public. He
was on board the London, making his second voyage to Australia, when
that steamer took fire. Nothing would induce him to leave her. He
remained assisting the other passengers to escape until it was too late to
save himself, and so lost his life.
The Sham
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
2II
Messiah’; Sullivan's cantata - Kenilworth,' and songs
in the miscellaneous concerts. The part of Elisha
was written for Belletti, but as he had left England
and retired from professional life, it was Costa's desire
I should undertake it. It suited me exactly, and I
succeeded in satisfying Costa with my performance.
Like Balfe, he knew how to write for singers, an
all-important essential in writing a vocal work. What-
ever else they may have to find fault with in Costa's
work, our young composers would do well to study
his treatment of the voice, a subject on which they
apparently have never bestowed a thought. At a
pianoforte rehearsal at the maestro's house, where all
the singers taking part in the work were assembled,
I had, as usual, an attack of nervousness; the first
words I had to sing were, What can I do for thee?'
I had lost my head, and did not sing the right notes,
although there is no difficulty about them. Costa
turned round laughing, and replied to the question,
'Sing in tune!
The operatic tour followed immediately, about which
I have nothing particular to record, except that
Gardoni was our principal tenor, a fine singer, and a
much better actor than he generally had credit for.
He was a very good Faust and Sir Huon, although
the music of the latter, written for Braham, did not
suit him. In 'Mirella' he was excellent, a great
improvement in every way on Giuglini. I never
could understand why Gardoni should be comparatively
forgotten, and Giuglini quoted as one of the great
artists who have lived. Gardoni was the superior
in every way; his voice was pure, Giuglini's was
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212 REMINISCENCES R
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throaty. He was a handsome man, and in parts which
suited him an excellent actor. Giuglini was an
awkward, ungainly man, and no actor at all; Gardoni
could sing any style of music, cantabile or florid;
Giuglini could not execute a rapid passage of four
notes. What I conceive established him as a great
favourite was a lackadaisical sentimentality which the
public, especially the British public, accepts for poetic
sentiment. Withal, Giuglini was the last of his race ;
there has been no tenor on the Italian stage since
who has been able to fill the place he left vacant.
I started for Barcelona towards the end of November.
At Paris I called on the agent Verger to receive a
month's pay in advance, according to my contract, but
the money had not arrived. I amused myself taking
my wife, who accompanied me, sight-seeing. Mapleson
was in Paris also at the time, looking after novelties,
and we all went one night to the Théâtre Lyrique,
where they were playing “The Magic Flute,' in which
Madame Carvalho played Pamina, and Christine
Nilsson Astriffiammante. I was very much delighted
with Madame Carvalho ; it was the only time I ever
heard Pamina's air really sung. I do not remember
any singer who sang Mozart's music so well as she
did; one of her favourite songs in private concerts
was 'Voi che sapete,' which was simply the perfection
of singing. The last time I heard her was in the
part of the Countess in · Le nozze di Figaro”; although
her voice, never a great one, was much worn and
sharp, her singing of the air ‘Dove sono' was one
of the finest pieces of vocal declamation I ever heard.
I was not at all impressed with Nilsson ; she had a
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY 213
V
charming voice, but her singing was mechanical, and
altogether her performance was stiff and cold.
Mozart's music is easy to get through, but most
difficult to sing. The money was so long on the road
that Verger advised me not to wait, but to go on to
Barcelona, where it would be all right. I had not
sufficient confidence, and preferred waiting in Paris
without being at the expense and trouble of a journey
to Spain ; but I gave notice that at the expiration of
a given number of days more I would wend my way
back to England. Perhaps this had the effect of
wakening them up, for the amount arrived, and I
started. I forgot to add that I saw Un ballo in
maschera' at the Italian Opera during my stay in
Paris, with Madame Charton - Demeur, Fraschini,
Delle-Sedie, etc. Except that Fraschini had a splendid
voice, and the men in the stalls generally wore black-
dress coats and lavender or other light-coloured pants,
and, that the necks of the double basses might not
interfere with a view of the stage, the instruments
were buried in holes in the floor of the orchestra, so
that they might as well have been played in the next
street, there was nothing which struck me particularly.
We stayed at a hotel kept by a man who had been
concierge of that I generally put up at, in consequence
of a letter he wrote me, promising all sorts of comforts
and conveniences at very moderate rates. The hotel
was small, the rooms were small, the number of guests
was very small, being limited to three-my wife, self,
and manservant. The waiter, a most shaky-looking
young man, I found, on inquiring about his health,
slept over an open drain. The only things I found
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supplied on a liberal scale were dust and the bill.
After a great deal of experience of hostelries, I have
concluded that the only cheap one is that in which
you can procure what you want, whatever you have
to pay for it.
The journey from Paris was decidedly tiresome. To
relieve the monotony we got on the wrong route. The
evening after we left, I began to think we were very late
arriving at Perpignan, so after a little hesitation I asked
a gentleman what time we ought to reach it. Oh,
said he, “you are not on the way there; you ought to
have changed at Narbonne.' "Then,' said I, 'where
on earth are we going to ?' You are on the road to
Marseilles, and we shall stop soon at Cette, where you
had better get out and take the early morning train
back to Perpignan. They will send you back free of
expense if you explain that you were not warned about
the change at Narbonne.' I thanked my kind fellow-
traveller cordially. I did not meet with quite such a
friendly reception from the station-master at Cette,
though, as my friend predicted ; I did not understand
much of what he said, but it sounded very like abuse
to my ears. However, station-master number two was
more civil, and promised to make all straight for us.
There was nothing for it but to find a resting-place for
the night, which was soon accomplished. We partook
sparingly of a very uninviting meal, and drank the
sourest liquid called wine I ever tasted. We hurried
off while it was still dark next morning, instead of
taking a good long rest, and found, on arriving at Per-
pignan, that the diligence did not start until eight or
nine in the evening. The atmosphere was still, to us, :
4
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we (
summery. We strolled about and enjoyed the sun
and blue sky. According to the 'Encyclopædia Britan-
nica’ there are some sights to see a cathedral, etc. ;
but we did not know of them, so they remained un-
visited. From Perpignan we crossed the Pyrenees to
Gerona in a diligence drawn for most of the journey
by the most wretched cattle I ever beheld, and in-
habited by industrious fleas. We arri ved at the frontier
about five in the morning, and had to wait a couple of
hours for the Custom-house officer to examine our
baggage. There was a sort of café on each side of the
narrow street. I tried both, but found it would be
impossible to make a meal in either. Each of the
rooms I entered had a fire in the middle of the floor,
round which squatted three or four old crones looking
like the witches watching the caldron in Macbeth,'
who did not even take the trouble to ask me if I wanted
anything. I do not as a rule look for dirt when I am
Y
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offence to many; but here no search was necessary-it
was evident to the dullest vision.
I had among my luggage three large boxes con-
taining stage necessaries—tights, shirts, collars, wigs,
etc. The officer pounced upon one of these to be
opened; he was very much astonished when he found
an assortment of firearms, swords, daggers, etc., inter-
spersed with imitation jewellery, decorations, etc. ; he
was nevertheless very polite, and when I informed him
whither I was bound, and for what purpose, he ordered
the box to be closed and not another package to be
touched.
Before arriving at Gerona we had to ford two.
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streams, one of them deep, and with a rapid current.
Fortunately we had better horses than during most of
the journey. It was afternoon when we arrived at
Gerona, very hungry, but we could not find a morsel
of food; the only attempt at eatables was some large
almond comfits, which were anything but comforting
to an empty stomach. The train seemed to travel as
it was convenient to the engine-driver ; we stopped at
every station, and many times where there was no
sign of one, but we did ultimately arrive at Barcelona.
There we had another Custom-house visit ; after the
usual preliminaries I was ordered—they were not so
polite as at the frontier—to open my wife's portmanteau.
The inspector thought he had discovered a prize in a
large paper parcel which lay on the top of the contents,
and asked me what it was. I told him I did not know,
and he had better unfold it and find out. There were
so many folds of paper about it, I wondered myself
what precious article it could be. At last the unrolling
came to an end, and out fell an old pair of stays. I
could not help indulging in a quiet snigger as I received
instructions to fasten up the portmanteau and clear
out.
There was no mistake about being in the land of
garlic ; each time the omnibus conductor put his head
inside the vehicle I imagined I could see the fumes
floating about in the atmosphere, they were so dense.
The odour I had already become accustomed to ; it
began about a quarter of a mile before arriving at the
first Spanish village, gradually increasing until we
arrived at Barcelona, where it reached its zenith. In
about half an hour after my arriving at the hotel, "de
cre
* ATT
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T
CL
las cuatro naciones,' I became possessed of, to me,
some curious facts. The manager with whom my
contract was made did not exist, so far as Barcelona
was concerned; my name was entirely unknown, as it
had not appeared in the announcements, and the pro-
prietor of the hotel who gave me the information
seemed to me to be wondering what mad freak had
brought me so far away from home. However, I sent
over a card to the manager informing him of my arrival,
and that I was at his disposal whenever he had need
of me. To make all complete, the dinner, even after
such a long fast, was very bad, and the wine detestable.
By appointment I had an interview with the manager
next day, and it was arranged I was to make my first
appearance with a tenor who had just arrived in a few
days in 'Il Trovatore. I was only acquainted with
one member of the company, the orchestral conductor,
Bottesini, and he was going away to fulfil another
engagement, and would not be conducting when I
made my début. Before his departure they played an
opera of his, Marion Delorme,' in which there was
some very good music, but I have never heard of it
since. We had a rehearsal every day of “Il Trova-
tore' at the piano for about ten days, and one or two
with the orchestra, and the general rehearsal the night
before the first performance. I found myself in ex-
cellent voice when I started, and sang through the
first act with great vigour. Everybody seemed per-
fectly satisfied, and prophesied all kinds of good
things; but suddenly, whilst I was talking after the
curtain dropped, my voice left me, and I could scarcely
whisper. I had to go through the remainder of the
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n
IV
ds
as
rehearsal in dumb show; when I returned to the hotel
I was perfectly miserable, and really began to think it
was a mad freak to come away so far from home. The
next day when I awoke I found my voice quite clear
and right again ; the loss of it was caused, not by cold,
but by nervous excitement, which a good night's rest
had carried off. I went more cautiously about my
work at the performance, husbanding my resources
somewhat in the beginning. The public received me
with great favour; they applauded almost every phrase,
and after my song "Il balen,' I was called down to the
footlights several times.
I made my mark with the public, and retained their
sympathy throughout my stay. My second opera was
'Rigoletto,' which I had not played before; that was
followed by · La Traviata,' in which I received a tre-
mendous ovation after · Di Provenza,' an air which, in
my opinion, is often too severely criticised. If it is
sung as a barrel-organ would play it, I confess it is
monotonous and commonplace; but if artistically sung
and declaimed, it is neither one nor the other, but a
charming and effective song.
In ‘Rigoletto' the first night I was so terribly in
earnest that in the last scene I ripped open the sack
without thinking what it might contain, and to my
horror beheld an enormous black moustache. I closed
it again instantly, but the audience had already seen,
and a general titter ensued.
I seemed to have got into a sea of Verdi, for after
this they wished me to play Macbeth. I was sorely
tempted, I was so anxious to try it; but I could not
see anything approaching a Lady Macbeth in the
m

MR. SANTLEY IN RIGOLETTO.'
To face page 218.
,
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219.
prima donna to whom the part was entrusted, and the
mise-en-scène, as far as I could make out, was the most
inappropriate. It was produced with Colonnese, a
basso cantante, for whom the part was much too high ;
however, he succeeded in going through it all except
the romance in the last act, which he suppressed. In
should be played entire, unless it was announced that
certain pieces would be left out. No notice was taken
in the bills of the romance in ‘Macbeth,' consequently
the audience were all on the qui vive to hear it, and
when they found it was passed over, and the last
scene commenced, some disappointed individual in
the gallery called out, ‘But where's the romance ?'
Others joined in, until at last there arose a fearful
hubbub; the curtain went down, and after a few
moments' pause out came the call-boy to explain to
to sing the romance, and did not know it, therefore
could not oblige them. He withdrew, and the storm
burst out again more furiously than before; they were
determined to sit there until they heard the romance.
Again the call-boy made his appearance; silence was
restored after a time, and he told them that M. Colon-
nese, although he had never sung the piece, and did
not know it without the music, would come forward
and sing it if they would allow him to read it from the
score. Oh yes;' with or without the score, it did
not matter, so that he sang the romance. The curtain
rose, and on came Colonnese, looking rather sheepish,
with the score of the opera, and went through the
piece. At the end he received a tremendous round of
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applause, and the opera was allowed to proceed in
perfect quietness.
I was very glad, when I had seen it, that I had
kept to my resolution not to play in it. The mise-en-
scène and dressing were simply ludicrous. The witches
were got up after the fashion of Mother Hubbard,
with hats and crutch-sticks, and short petticoats just
below the knee, made of plaid stuff of such patterns
as were never worn in or out of Scotland. Macduff
wore a Highland kilt with a well-starched smooth
white collar round his neck, and instead of a claymore
he carried a small neat dress-sword hanging at his
belt. He had his hair nicely curled, and altogether
looked very spruce. Lady Macbeth wore a white
flowing robe, with an enormous tartan sash of no par-
ticular clan, and only wanted a touch of the brogue to
make her complete. I played Enrico in • Lucia,' the
small part of Oberthal in Il Profeta,' to oblige the
management, and lastly Renato in Un ballo in
maschera.'
Spite of sundry discomforts, I enjoyed my three
months' stay in Barcelona. The bright sky and sun,
instead of the fog and darkness in England, were
more than sufficient to atone for the indifferent food
and accommodation I found. The audience at the
opera was very exigent, and at times they used to
indulge in rather coarse invective when they were not
satisfied ; but personally I found them very interested
and attentive, and profuse in applause. The draw-
back against this was the difficulty I had in conjuring
money out of the managerial treasury; as I went in
at one door the manager escaped by another, a game
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OF CHARLES SANTLEY
of which I soon grew tired. Even legal threats pro-
duced no effect. After some days of fruitless en-
deavour to catch my man, I pinned him at last in a
cul-de-sac, and then and there explained my intention
-unless the money due to me was forthcoming before
twelve the following day, to leave Barcelona by the
diligence the same evening. As I had become a
favourite with the public, he could not afford to lose
my services, and before the appointed hour my claim
was satisfied. Knowing where the shoe pinched, I
had not so much difficulty in obtaining what was justly
due to me afterwards.
The Lyceum is a splendid theatre -- like the Scala,
very good for sound—but the habit of smoking in the
corridors and in the ante-chambers of the boxes
renders the atmosphere very unpleasant, even to a
smoker, to sing in ; the lady singers must find it very
trying, unless they are sufficiently strong-minded to
indulge in a whiff themselves. At times, when there
was a very full house, towards the end of the opera,
the back of the pit was scarcely discernible from the
stage, in consequence of the dense cloud of smoke
which hung over it. The orchestra and chorus were
both very fair, and Castagneri, who succeeded Bot-
tesini, was a very able conductor, besides being a very
amiable man. For my last performance I played
Rigoletto,' after which I was called out several times
to receive a farewell ovation.
The next day, my birthday, I started on my return
journey, with Bottesini's father under my care as far
as Paris. I had only two days at home, and then
started to join Mapleson's company at Dublin. I
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arrived on the morning of their first performance.
During the forenoon I strolled over to the theatre,
and found them rehearsing Lucrezia Borgia. The
gentleman who had undertaken the part of the Duke
seemed to know very little of it, and I wondered how
he was going to get through it. After awhile Tiet-
jens espied me standing in the wings, rushed off the
stage, and begged of me to sing in the evening. I
pleaded fatigue after my journey from Spain and
across to Dublin, and I feared I should not remember
the part, as I had only sung it once or twice, and that
some time ago. However, she said: “If you don't
sing, the theatre must be closed. You hear that poor
man hardly knows a note of his part, and Swift' (my
everlasting friend) 'is so hoarse he can scarcely make a
sound.' I ultimately gave way, and did sing at night,
and such a comical performance I never before or
since took part in. Wherever the tenor had anything
important to do, we cut the music according as Arditi
called to us from the orchestra. Two or three times
we were on the point of having a disturbance in the
gallery ; nothing but the respect the audience enter-
tained for Tietjens and myself could have prevented
it. We arrived at the end, and the curtain dropped to
a storm of howling and hissing ; but we had saved the
performance, and went home content.
Towards the end of March I made my first appear-
ance in Italian opera in my native town at the old
Theatre Royal. It seemed like a dream to find my-
self on the stage which I had ten years before contem-
plated with longing eyes, without a ray of hope that I
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should ever appear on it. It was a most sympathetic
old theatre, easy both to speak and sing in. We
played Faust,' 'Trovatore,' etc. We finished the
spring tour at Manchester. In addition to the
operas already in my répertoire I played Carlo
Quinto in `Ernani.'
CHAPTER XVI.
Season of 1865-Loss of Giuglini-Advent of Di Murska-I play
Papageno, and sip a Cup of Castor-oil-A Panic Averted—Gloucester
Festival—'Don Giovanni'— Telbin's Skeletons—My Season at the
Scala — “Trovatore’: a Critical Audience - Too many Cooks—I
escape from Milan.
IeV
In the season of 1865 two events occurred of import-
ance. Giuglini, who had been ill for some months,
had fallen into so hopeless a condition that his name
was withdrawn from the prospectus—a great disap-
pointment to the subscribers and frequenters of Her
Majesty's Theatre. He was ordered back to his
native place by his medical advisers, where he
lingered until 12th October. He was a great loss,
and as a singer he has never been replaced; he was
the last tenor who appeared in England of the real
Italian school. There have been more powerful lungs,
and more energetic limbs, but not one of the tenors
who succeeded him could compare with him as a
singer; his phrasing was perfect, which everyone who
heard him in ‘I Puritani,' Faust,'· Lucrezia Borgia,'
and many other operas, will readily admit.
The other great event was the first appearance of
Ilma di Murska in ‘Lucia.' She made a great suc-
cess artistically and financially ; throughout the season
she drew crowded houses whenever she appeared.
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She was an excellent artist, and an accomplished and
exceedingly well-read woman. She possessed un-
doubted genius, though of a somewhat erratic order.
She possessed something else which was not so
pleasant-a big black dog named Pluto, who accom-
panied her wherever she went. He used to attend
rehearsals until I found his odour so offensive that I
insisted on his being turned out of the green-room, for
which I was severely reprimanded by his mistress.
Although her voice would class her as a light
soprano, she was, in my opinion, much more at home
in the dramatic than the florid opera. For instance,
her Senta in the 'Flying Dutchman’ was by far the
finest impersonation of all the characters I have seen
her play. In 'Lucia,' in the 'Sonnambula,' · Linda,'
etc., it was in the dramatic scenes where she made her
success. Her Leonora in the 'Trovatore' was admir-
able; I do not remember any finer. She was most
eccentric in her ways, which may be accounted for in
some measure by the manners and customs of the
people among whom she was born and brought up,
which, according to her narration, must have closely
bordered on savagery. I was conversing with her on
one occasion about the language of her native country,
Croatia, when she informed me that the low peasantry
were mere cannibals, that when they were blessed
with more children than they could conveniently pro-
vide for they devoured the infants. I thought she
must be jesting, and told her so, but she assured me
seriously it was a fact. She was exceedingly super-
stitious, and at the same time very devout; she always
said a short prayer and made the sign of the crosę
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before going on to the stage, and, if she happened to
be conversing, would interrupt the conversation in
order thus to prepare herself for her work.
She was very sensitive, especially in the matter of
age. One evening, when we were playing · The Magic
Flute,' I was waiting in the wings to go on for my
second scene, when I heard somebody near at hand
sobbing violently. I looked about, but could not dis-
cover the soul in pain. The sobs continuing, I
stepped around to the next wing, and there discovered
Ilma di Murska with a pocket-handkerchief to her
eyes, sobbing as though her heart would break. I
tried to pacify her, and remonstrated with her on
giving way so, having to go on immediately for the
great song. For some time I could not induce her to
tell me the cause of her grief; at last, after a good
deal of persuasion, she sobbed out : 'It is a-all that
na-na-nasty X.'s f-f-fault!' Why,' said I, 'what has
she been doing?' 'Sh-sh-she's been tel-el-elling un-
untruths a-bou-bou-bout me! Well, what has she
said ?' 'Oh! oh! oh! the w-wi-wicked thi-i-ing says
I-I-I'm' (with an explosion) 'fo-fo-forty-five! She
had barely time to dry her eyes when she had to go
on the stage; her grief, however, did not seem to
affect her powers, for, to my astonishment, she sang
as well as ever. No other singer whom I have heard,
except Jenny Lind, sang the slow movement of 'Non
paventar' as well as Di Murska ; but she lacked Jenny
Lind's firm accent and brilliancy of execution, conse-
quently the quick movement was not on a par with
the other, and I must confess I always felt somewhat
disappointed with it.
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The tenor engaged to take Giuglini's place, Emanuele
Carrion, a Spaniard who for many years enjoyed a
high reputation in Italy, Russia, Spain, etc., came to
England too late to establish himself as a favourite
with the public. He was a genuine artist, but his
voice had lost its freshness, and age had deprived his
presence of what comeliness it had possessed, the con-
sequence being that he made very little impression on
the habitués of the theatre. M. Joulain, the tenor who
had been on the tour with us, played Edgardo in
* Lucia,' and essayed Raoul in the ‘Huguenots,' both
unsuccessfully.
I played three new important parts during the
season-Papageno in “Il Flauto Magico,' Creonte in
Cherubini's “Medea,' and Pizarro in ‘Fidelio.' Cip-
riani Potter told me many times I was the only Pizarro
from whom he heard every note of the aria through
the instrumentation. I suppose it must have been
the quality of my voice, as Staudigl, whom he had
heard in the part, must have possessed a more power-
ful organ. I believe I sang the music of Creonte well
enough, but I know that my representation of the
Grecian king lacked dignity. I was not satisfied with
either my dress or make-up, yet I had nobody but
myself to blame; I made a considerable improvement
when the opera was revived some years afterwards at
Drury Lane. I made a success in the part of Papa-
geno; a celebrated critic told me that I sang the
music better than any baritone he had ever heard, and
that, although I did not possess the comic powers of
Giorgio Ronconi, there was a quiet humour in my
acting which gave him great pleasure.
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I had nearly fallen a victim to a very unpleasant
trick during one performance of this opera. The
supper which Tamino commands for the hungry
Papageno consisted of pasteboard imitations of good
things, but the cup contained real wine, a small
draught of which I found refreshing on a hot night
in July, amid the dust and heat of the stage. On the
occasion in question I was putting the cup to my lips,
when I heard somebody call to me from the wings; I
felt very angry at the interruption, and was just about
to swallow the wine, when I heard an anxious call not
to drink. Suspecting something was wrong, I pre-
tended to drink, and deposited the cup on the table.
Immediately after the scene I made inquiries about
the reason for the caution I received, and was in-
formed that as each night the carpenters, who had no
right to it, finished what remained of the wine before
the property men, whose perquisite it was, could lay
hold of the cup, the latter, to give their despoilers a
lesson, had mingled castor-oil with my drink!
At the first performance of The Magic Flute,'
Madame Sinico and I had just commenced the duet
towards the end of the opera, when Ilma di Murska
ran across the stage, followed by one or two gentlemen
in evening dress; immediately an alarm of fire was
raised. My wife and two daughters were in a box on
the third tier, which caused me considerable alarm, as
I knew there was no possible chance of their escaping.
Madame Sinico attempted to leave the stage, but I
held her firmly whilst I retired to the wings to make
inquiries. The stage-manager hurriedly told me some
gauze had caught fire, but the fire had been extin-
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guished, and there was no more danger. When I
turned round again, the audience was all in a commo-
tion; the occupants of the gallery were climbing over
each other's heads, and the members of the orchestra
were escaping with their instruments. I saw not a
moment was to be lost to save many from being
trampled to death, so I rushed to the footlights, and
called out with more energy than politeness : “There
is no fire ; it is put out! Sit still; we are going on
with the opera!' I then made a sign to Arditi ; we
recommenced the duet, and the audience, or what was
left of them, seeing that all was right, calmly reseated
themselves to enjoy the remainder of the perform-
ance.
‘Tannhäuser' was again promised, and again not
produced.
In the autumn I made my first appearance at a
Gloucester Festival. I sang in the 'Elijah,' the first
part of St. Paul,' part of the 'Messiah,' and Mendels-
sohn's ' First Walpurgis Night,' over the rehearsal of
which I came to grief with the worthy conductor. He
came to me next morning, and our little difference was
soon made up. The same evening I sang 'Oh ruddier
than the cherry' at the miscellaneous concert, and
when I had finished, the doctor laid down his stick,
and, clapping me on the back, said, “There, I would
forgive you anything for that! It is very singular, I
have always thought, that this same doctor had a great
liking for me, and yet he was the only musical man
with whom I remember having had a quarrel which
was never made up. I cannot help expressing my
regret, as I feel I was much more to blame than he
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was. At one of the performances in the cathedral I
sang Gounod's cantique · Nazareth. At the end of
it, as I was leaving the platform, Howell, the principal
double-bass, remarked, on one side, What a splendid
song, Santley!' the doctor, on the other side, exclaimed,
* What rubbish !
Of the autumnal operatic tour, I need only note that
I essayed the part of Don Giovanni for the first time
at Manchester on the 14th of September. As usual,
I had one rehearsal the morning of the day of perfor-
mance. Mario, who was always a late riser, did not
come in until we were half-way through the rehearsal ;
the others, who, except Tietjens, had, like myself,
never played in Don Giovanni' before, were all
present throughout. Mario, who had played the Don
himself, gave me several valuable hints, but of course
my performance histrionically fell far short of the ideal
dissipated hidalgo. Had I been less diffident, and not
feared making mistakes, I should have succeeded
better. Ambrogetti is always quoted as the model
Don Giovanni, and by people who could never by any
possible chance have seen him. Strange to say, but
a few days ago (this is the 22nd of October, 1891) I
read a criticism in an old paper (the Mirror, or some
such name) on Ambrogetti's Don, in which the writer
compared him most unfavourably with the elder
Garcia, and found him lacking in all the necessary
qualifications for the proper representation of the
character. It is, without doubt, a difficult part to
play—a thoroughly unscrupulous blackguard in the
garb of a polished gentleman. I never saw it well
played, nor do I think I ever arrived at playing it in
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V
such a way as would have satisfied me could I have
witnessed my own performance, though in after-years
I was many times highly complimented in private on
it. How often I wished I had accepted Madame Car-
valho's offer, and played it at the Lyrique in Paris ;
with the advantages which would there have been at
my disposal I believe I should have succeeded in lay-
ing the ghost of Ambrogetti. I played it throughout
the tour, and again in London during the short season
in October
During this short season in London we produced
* Der Freischütz,' in which I played Caspar, a part
not musically adapted to my voice, but a part I had
always been enamoured of. I succeeded better in this
than in Don Giovanni, as all except Tietjens were
new to the work, and I had sufficient rehearsals to
carry out my ideas. The 'incantation scene' was
splendid-another of Telbin's fine efforts. He intro-
duced some very tall skeletons, which made a great
effect. I had no idea how they were arranged, until
one evening I heard a great laugh as I was intent on
casting the bullets. I knew something ludicrous had
happened, but I was too intent on my work to examine
into the nature of the circumstances ; I really enjoyed
myself so much in that scene that I was lost to
all idea of its being a mere representation. When
the cloth fell for the next scene I discovered the
cause of the merriment—the drapery had fallen from
one of the skeletons and exposed its construction ;
simple enough — a man holding a mop-handle, on
which was fixed a skull. I succeeded in having my
way about the working of the incantation, which was
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performed in dead silence, without the usual accom-
paniment of clanking chains, etc. I believe the
effect must have satisfied the audience, for except
on the occasion above referred to, a pin might have
been heard to drop in the house during the entire
scene.
Soon after this series of performances concluded I
started for Milan to fulfil my engagement at the Scala.
On my way, I remained a few days in Paris in order
to hear 'L'Africaine,' in which I was to play Nelusko,
and of course pay a visit to the Théâtre Français,
which gave me much greater pleasure. I had letters
of introduction to several musical and other influential
people in Milan, three of which I delivered, and this
I regretted having done, for they were the cause of
no little persecution for loans, gifts, etc. One gentle-
man returned my call the day I had my first quarter's
money handed me; the cash was lying on the table
when he entered my apartment. It evidently proved
too great a temptation to see so many francs lying idle,
so after a little conversation he called me out of the
room, and told me a long tale of woe which 500 francs
would turn to gladness ; would I lend him that sum ?
I could not say I was not in possession of so much, as
he had seen the money. After some demur I handed
him 500 francs, on the understanding that they were
to be refunded before the end of the season. I left
Milan without receiving back a penny of the loan, but
a friend, who undertook to pursue him, managed to
screw 200 francs out of him. But I had no need of
letters of introduction to make the acquaintance of
similar gentry, all bent on plunder. I had journalists,
nia
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or people who called themselves such, who wanted
subscriptions to papers I had never heard of, and did
not wish to see; one insolent fellow insisted upon
being paid a year's subscription to a journal because I
had taken in three numbers and kept them. I told
him he might take them away if he could find them
in the waste-paper basket, where they must have been
deposited, as I never opened anything of that kind.
He then began to use rude language, which I put an
end to by informing him that if he did not quit my
room on the instant he would find himself landed in
the hall without the trouble of walking down the stairs.
He actually then tried humble-pie, but I escorted him
to the door, and dismissed him with a caution. Surely
artists themselves are to blame that such a nuisance
has to be endured.
The opening opera was “Norma,' with Madame
Fricci and a German tenor named Steger, but I did
not hear it. This was succeeded by Halévy's 'La
Juive,' in which also there is no baritone part. I went.
in one evening and heard the first act, after which I
left, and did not return. The managers began to think
it was time to get an opera ready in which Fricci and
Steger would not be required, as they might either of
them be unable to sing any night, playing five times
a week in such heavy operas, consequently I and the
other tenor, both of us having a right to choose our
opera, were consulted, and to my great annoyance he
insisted upon the 'Trovatore.' He being the tenor,
there was nothing for it but to submit, which I did,
not very graciously, I confess. Besides my own dis-
like to appearing in it, I heard constant rumours that
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the subscribers were not at all disposed to accept an
opera which had been played to death. However,
the managers were satisfied, and we immediately set
to work to rehearse. We had a pianoforte rehearsal
every day for a fortnight, then three full rehearsals
with orchestra and chorus on the stage, and lastly a
general rehearsal in costume, at which what they were
pleased to call the 'Artistic Commission' presided.
We had, besides, a rehearsal for the stage business
with the stage-manager, Piave, the author of several
of Verdi's librettos, including that of the “Trovatore.'
I was highly amused, for the old gentleman wandered
about the dark stage with a coil of wax taper directing
us; he had evidently forgotten all about his own work.
He told me to come on on the wrong side for my first
entrance, and was highly indignant when I suggested
he was mistaken, but he soon afterwards begged my
pardon when he found his mistake led to a muddle.
The prima donna was a very good artist, and had
been a great favourite at the Scala ; the contralto, a
Frenchwoman, had never sung in Italy, and, judging
from her pronunciation, I should say knew very little
about Italian ; Bagagiolo was the bass. I thought it
would turn out a very fair performance, but the audi-
ence had determined otherwise. The tenor they
hissed from his first note to his last—very unjustly,
I think; the prima donna came off almost as badly ;
the contralto they would not listen to, and even the
bell used in the last act in the tower scene received a
volley of hisses for tolling out of tune. When I went
on in the second act to sing the 'air,' my legs trembled
so I could scarcely stand. I received some encourage-
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ment in the middle of the song, as they applauded the
cadence; but I was obliged to cut my final cadence
short, being so nervous that I had not sufficient breath
to complete it. To my great surprise and joy, I
received immense applause; I was called to the foot-
lights four or five times, and there was a general call
for an encore, which I was sensible enough to resist.
The remainder of the opera gave me no trouble. I re-
ceived a fair share of applause after each of my phrases
in the duet, and I was quite content. I called in to
say good-night to the prima donna before I went up
to my dressing-room, and found the tenor there con-
doling with her. I felt exceedingly sorry for them,
for they had neither of them merited the treatment
they received.
The opera, of course, could not be repeated; it was
then a question what could be mounted to replace it.
Many works were suggested, and at last “Il Tem-
plario,' a weak opera by Nicolai, was chosen. The
tenor of the “Trovatore' was 'protested,'* and left
Milan. For the part of Ivanhoe a new one was
engaged; a fair singer with a very small voice. To
the mezzo-soprano who at Barcelona took the part of
Fides in ‘ Il Profeta' was assigned the rôle of Rebecca.
A small English lady played Rowena, Bagagiolo
Cedric, and I Brian the Templar. The music I
found old-fashioned and Aimsy ; from that point of
view the part did not interest me, but I thought I
could do something with it dramatically, and so make
up for the lack of musical interest. Mazzucato super-
intended the rehearsals. He was a very talented man,
* Protested' means that he received his congé.
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very courteous, but very stiff and cold in his de-
meanour, never condescending to use the familiar
'thou' with the artists during rehearsals. I do not
know how many rehearsals we had, but I was
thoroughly saturated with the music long before we
got through those in the green-room. We had several
on the stage with full orchestra, and with a multiplicity
of directors—Cavallini directing the orchestra with his
fiddlestick, and taking the time from Mazzucato, who,
seated in front of the stage, beat the time with his
hand, whilst the chorus-master stood in front of his
regiment also beating time. Altercations between the
conductor and the principal instruments were not un-
common. I remember one which amused me very
much. Cavallini turned to the principal 'cello and
bass, and remarked that a certain B ought to be
natural, not flat; the professors replied he was mis-
taken, upon which a long argument ensued, ending in
the double-bass requesting the conductor to 'shut up,'
as he did not know what he was talking about. Re-
becca had never sung out at rehearsals, so nobody
knew what her capabilities were; on the stage with
the orchestra she was compelled to sing out, and then
doubts began to be expressed about the probability of
her success. At the general rehearsal the ‘Artistic
Commission ? did not approve, and to save a protest'
she was requested to resign on the plea of ill-health.
I thought we should have had all our trouble for
nothing, but the day following a lady was found who
undertook to be ready with the part in a few days.
Poor girl, she little knew what she was undertaking!
The opera was played, and Rebecca was a failure.
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The disapprobation of the public was displayed in a
most brutal manner, and again I thought we had
laboured in vain ; but the prima donna of the 'Trova-
tore' was induced to undertake the part, and with her
we managed six or seven performances, the greater
part being on nights assigned to certain charitable
benefits.
A proposal was then made that the 'Favorita'
should be mounted, for which a new prima donna
was to be engaged. I made some demur, as I never
liked the part of the King, and when I learned who
were to be my companions, I declined. The part
which I had looked forward to, Nelusko, through
some intrigue, had been assigned to another artist.
Altogether the season had been a wretched one for
me; singing so seldom, I had no chance of making
way with the public, and now that the part in which I
hoped to gain their sympathy was taken away from
me, I longed to get away. Luckily, on the night of
the last performance but one of the · Templario' the
agent who made my engagement arrived in Milan,
and came to see me in my dressing-room. I stated
my troubles to him, and asked him to try and break
my engagement, that I might get back to England.
He seemed unwilling to undertake the job, but an
offer of double commission on my salary turned the
scale, and before the termination of the performance
he brought me the welcome news that I was free after
one other performance of the ‘Templario.' The last
performance was given for the benefit of a charitable
institution; between the second and third acts they
played a ballet which lasted about an hour and a
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quarter, and between the third and fourth acts another
which lasted three-quarters of an hour. I left Milan
the day on which · L'Africaine' was produced, and
I afterwards learned that all the leading baritone
numbers had to be omitted, and I confess I was
spiteful enough to be very glad of it. I expected on
my return to join Mapleson's operatic tour at Dublin,
but our ideas of terms differed so much I would not
accept the engagement.
CHAPTER XVII.
Season of 1866–Madame Grisi at Her Majesty's—A Gluck performance
at Dudley House - Hoel makes a big leap : his Life saved by a
Goat-'Ernani' - Season of 1867 — Puffs and Promises First
Appearance of Mlle. Christine Nilsson-La Forza del Destino'
produced under Difficulties-Mongini draws Blood --I sing with
Jenny Lind in 'Ruth'-Her Majesty's Theatre destroyed by Fire.
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MADAME GRISI was announced to appear in a limited
number of performances at Her Majesty's Theatre
during the season of 1866, and as an additional attrac-
tion, Mlle. Tietjens was announced to take part in
them, playing Adalgisa in 'Norma,' and Donna Elvira
in ‘Don Giovanni,' etc. The only appearance of
Madame Grisi was in ‘Lucrezia Borgia. I had been
singing at the Crystal Palace concert in the afternoon,
and after dining there I went up to the theatre to see
a little of the performance. I felt very sorry for Grisi
that she had been induced to appear again ; it was a
sad sight for anyone who had known her in her prime,
and even long past it. I met her behind the scenes,
and she upbraided me with having forsaken her, as she
particularly wished me to play the Duke. I do not
know why she should have been so desirous of my
assistance, as Gassier played and sang it exceedingly
well; probably she fancied I would be more careful
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about seconding her. Mongini was engaged as first
tenor; he certainly had a voice, but it never had any
effect on me; he never produced such a startling effect
with his high notes as Tamberlik used with the C sharp
in the duet in 'Otello”; and, oddly enough, when the
1
willing to come forth. For instance, in the great
scene in "Lucia,' the high B flat was always half
stifled. He was an indifferent singer and actor, but
his fine manly presence and robust voice gained him
the sympathy of those who know nothing of, and are
not interested in, artistic excellence—the bulk of an
audience. Mr. Tom Hohler made his first appear-
ance in ‘I Puritani,' and sang a few times during the
remainder of the season.
Another tenor, a M. Arvin, Italianized into Arvini,
came out in 'Il Trovatore,' and went in again imme-
diately. “La Donna del Lago' (Rossini) and 'La
Vestale' (Spontini) were both promised, but not
given. “Ifigenia in Tauride' was promised and per-
formed with Tietjens as Ifigenia, Gardoni as Pilade,
myself as Oreste, and Gassier as Thoas. I mentioned
that I had already sung in some performances of this
opera at Charles Hallé's concerts in Manchester. A
great deal of enthusiasm, which, however, did not last
very long, had been got up about Gluck at the time
Hallé performed it in Manchester, in 1860 and 1861,
in consequence of which the Earl of Dudley, then
Lord Ward, I believe, arranged to have two per-
formances at his residence in Park Lane, for which
Tietjens, Reeves, Belletti and I were engaged. The
accompaniments were played on the pianoforte by
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Ganz, and by a quintet of strings, with Carrodus as
leader. At the rehearsals Lord Ward requested
Belletti to present me to him. He said he had not
yet had the pleasure of hearing me, although he had
heard a great deal about me, as he always looked to
the artists of the Italian Opera for his musical enter-
tainments. On the evening of the performance I had
to sing at Hanover Square Rooms first. I arrived
about ten o'clock, but the performance was delayed
awaiting the arrival of some royal or otherwise impor-
tant guest. We commenced the opera' at twenty
minutes past midnight; I was already beginning to
feel exhausted, having dined at 3.30; however, I was
in good form, and got through the most arduous scene,
on which I was inwardly congratulating myself, when
horror) to repeat it. I tried to excuse myself, but in
the end I was obliged to give in. As soon as I could,
I got away without visiting the supper-room, and I
could not find a morsel to eat when I arrived at home.
I was in a measure repaid, for a few days after, when
Hallé called upon me to pay me for my services, he
brought a message from Lord Ward to the effect that,
as I had done more work than any other of the artists,
he did not see why I should not receive at least the
same compensation (my terms were fifteen guineas,
the others' twenty-five), and he begged of me to
accept the additional ten guineas, with his earnest
thanks for my admirable performance.
The opera was fairly well performed at Her
Majesty's; at any rate, we all did our best, but it
did not prove attractive, and was only played three
earne
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nights. There are fine bits in it, but to me Gluck's
music is tedious; and, judging from experience, the
public is much of my opinion. An exception may be
made in favour of Orfeo,' which, with a highly-
talented artist in the principal character, proved
successful lately at Covent Garden. Hallé revived
* Ifigenia’a few years ago at his Manchester concerts,
but the performance fell perfectly flat.
Dinorah' was produced for Ilma di Murska, with
Gardoni as Corentino and I as Hoel ; it was a great
success, and we played it several nights to crowded
houses. It is a part which dramatically suited Murska
perfectly, and musically, except for the “Shadow
song,' where her execution was very ragged, although
the public appeared quite satisfied. I was within an
ace of killing her during one of the performances.
She insisted upon crossing the bridge and doing the
fall, when it breaks, herself, instead of having a double,
as I had always seen it done before, and in conse-
quence I was obliged to jump in to save her myself.
There were some mattresses on the stage to prevent
breaking bones. On the evening in question she had
not fallen in the usual place; had I made my ordinary
jump, she would have come to an untimely end to a
dead certainty ; but fortunately I saw her danger, and
made, I believe, the biggest jump (except once when
I was pursued by a horse) that I ever made in my life,
and cleared her. She was fearfully alarmed, and it
took me some little time to recover the shock.
On the first night or two I had enough to attend to,
much attention to my fellow-artists,
except in so far as the work required ; but when I had
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time to observe minor particulars, I noticed some
change in Di Murska's attire in the last act. She fell
into the water with a plain band round her waist, and
her hair adorned solely by its natural gloss ; when I
carried her on the stage, after rescuing her from a
watery grave, I found her waist was encircled by a
gold or gilt zone, and her hair was bright with gold
powder. I was so amused and astonished that I for-
got all about the romance until the ophicleide (I could
never understand why Meyerbeer gave those few
notes to that instrument) wakened me from my
reverie. I was very fond of the part of Hoel, but I
always wished the few pieces stuck in at the com-
mencement of the third act had been left out; they
retard the dénouement, when, after the bustle of the
storm scene, the audience are all anxious to know the
fate of the lovers—and it left time for my voice and
enthusiasm to cool. I strove hard to have them
eliminated, but manager and conductor were afraid
the public would not have enough for their money, so
there was nothing for it but patience. The goat was
always a great nuisance; it never would do what was
required of it, and was always getting in the way.
According to the attendant at Covent Garden, when I
was playing Hoel in 1859, the poor animal was the
means of saving me from a serious accident. At the be-
ginning of the second act I used to cross the bridge and
wait at the other end until I made my second entrance.
The goat and attendant also took up their quarters at
the end of the rostrum, and I generally filled up the
time with a little conversation with the latter. One
night he told me that, had it not been for his crossing
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the bridge as he did each night by way of a little drill
for the goat, I would certainly have broken my neck,
as he found the bolt which kept up the bridge had
been inadvertently left out, and he and the goat had
very nearly been precipitated on to the stage. I
rewarded him for having prevented a serious acci-
dent, after which it was extraordinary the number of
perils I escaped, saved, according to his account,
through his instrumentality!
'Ernani,' which had not been played for many
years, was revived, with Tietjens, Tasca, Gassier, and
myself. Carlo Quinto is a part I always enjoyed ; it
is full of singing. However, it presents one difficulty,
which I have seldom heard overcome. The air · Lo
vedremo o veglio audace,' a very rugged declamatory
address to old Silva, is succeeded by a cabaletta, all
grace and tenderness, addressed to Elvira. As a
rule this air is bellowed, and consequently the voice
cannot sustain the soft delicate melody which comes
almost immediately after it. It is a question of accent :
if properly declaimed, the air requires no extraor-
dinary expenditure of force, which may then be pre-
served for the more trying, because much more sus-
tained, cabaletta, and the singer (provided the part suits
his voice) who depends on art rather than on physical
strength will suffer no distress in the execution of this
-one of the most trying scenes I know in Italian opera.
Mozart's · Il Seraglio ' was produced, with Tietjens,
Sinico, Dr. Gunz, Foli, and Rokitansky in the
principal parts; it was played three or four times at
most. I did not see it, and cannot say anything about
the performance.
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After the holidays came Worcester Festival, of which
there is nothing to say, followed at the end of October
by Norwich Festival, the only new feature of any im-
portance in which was Benedict's cantata · St. Cecilia,'
libretto by H. F. Chorley. Costa's Naaman' was
given, conducted by the composer, the Prince and
Princess of Wales being present at the performance.
The rest of the autumn and winter was filled up with
the operatic and concert tours, and various concerts
between the two, ‘Monday Pops,' Sacred Harmonic,
etc., and a couple of weeks at Her Majesty's Theatre in
November, during which I played Leporello in · Don
Giovanni,' according to accounts, with great success.
I liked playing the part very much, though the music is
much too low for me in the concerted parts.
The particulars of the season of both Italian operas
were always announced with a great flourish of
trumpets, but the season of 1867 at Her Majesty's was
heralded by a perfect symphony in several movements
for those instruments. The first movement gave a
summary of all the wonders which had been produced
from the foundation of the Italian Opera, and the
wonderful people who had executed them, terminating
with a confident assertion by Mr. Mapleson that in no
other house have new works and revivals been pro-
duced in such rapid succession, or with such complete
efficiency, as at Her Majesty's Theatre'; and a kind of
coda, intimating the principal works to be produced.
second movement consisted of puffs of the
principal artists, the third of the casts of the different
operas, and the fourth was a medley of stage personnel,
répertoire, and rates of subscription. As usual, a great
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many promises were not performed, e.g., 'Guglielmo
Tell,' 'La Vestale,' and 'La Donna del Lago ';
* Mirella,' with Christine Nilsson, also fell under this
category ; but 'La Forza del Destino' (promised so
many times) and 'I Lombardi' were produced, and
• Falstaff' revived.
The great theme of the second movement of the
brazen symphony was the engagement of Mlle.
Christine Nilsson. “It is with the highest satisfaction'
Mr. Mapleson announces he has secured the services
of Mlle. Christine Nilsson, etc. “This young Swedish
singer, upon whom it has been said by connoisseurs
the mantle of Jenny Lind has fallen, will come,' etc.
She wore a mantle handsomely trimmed and lined, but
it was not Jenny Lind's! She made her first appear-
ance on the 8th of June in the “Traviata,' Mongini
playing Alfredo, and I old Germont. She was charm-
ing to behold, and sang charmingly, and made an
immense success.
'I Lombardi' was performed on the 30th of April,
the second night of the season ; it is one of Verdi's
earlier operas. It abounds in melody, but the noisy
scoring imparts a vulgar tone to many numbers which
would otherwise stand out in bold and rugged relief.
'I Lombardi' is certainly not a favourite opera of mine,
nor did I find Pagano a very interesting part gene-
rally ; but there is one recitative and air, “Ma quando
un’suon terribile,' which is worthy of any singer's
attention. It made such an effect on the audience
that on the first night I received a great round of
applause after a fine phrase which occurs in the middle
of it, and a regular ovation at the end.
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*Falstaff' was revived in May, the title rôle being
played by Rokitansky, who was not an improvement
on Junca, spite of possessing a much more sonorous
organ. Slender was played by Charles Lyall-his
first season at the Italian Opera—an immense improve-
ment on his predecessor. It was a piece of genuine
comedy; Gassier always called him the English
Saintefoy. For the benefit of those who may not
have heard Saintefoy, or do not remember him, I may
as well mention that he was comic tenor at the Opéra
Comique for many years, one of his last creations
On Saturday, the 22nd of June, “La Forza del
Destino' was produced. We had a great deal of
rehearsing, but unfortunately we had lost our clever
old stage-manager · Billy' West, and his successor had
never had any experience, consequently we all went
our own way, the result being, to say the least of it,
unsatisfactory. After the general rehearsal it was
found impossible to set the second scene (Scene 5 of
the libretto) of the second act unless the cloth of the
back of Scene I was removed a couple of wings nearer
the footlights, so that at the first performance we all
had to scramble for room. In addition to this, on the
very day of performance I received notice that the
words of the grace before the supper must be altered
or omitted by order of the licenser of plays; yet, spite
of these contretemps, which were of themselves suffi-
cient to upset those concerned without the anxiety of a
first night, we got through creditably enough. After
many and many such experiences of the getting up
and rehearsing of operas in which I have been engaged,
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my only wonder is that we got through some of them
at all ; and I can only conclude that we must be an
extraordinary race of people to perform such miracles
-producing attractive performances by means of such
wretched rehearsals.
There is some beautiful music in · La Forza,' but,
judging from the only performance I ever saw at the
Teatro Dal Verme, in Milan, some years ago, with a
very good cast and very well put on the stage, I
should say on the whole it is tiresome. I was in Paris
for a few days before the opening of our season. At
Arditi's request I called on Verdi to ask him if he
would point out to me any particular effects he wished
brought out in my part. He received me very coldly,
and said as he had gone through the opera with
Arditi, he did not see any reason why he should go
through it with me. I was a little astonished at his
brusque manner, and excused myself the best way I
could, and was retiring, when he called me back and
told me if I liked to call again on another day,
appointing it himself and the hour, he would consider
about what he could do. I returned on the day, when
he informed me he was very busy at the opera with
the revival of · Les Vêpres Siciliennes,' and had no
piano in his rooms, so he could not assist me in any
way. I told him not to disturb himself, and that I
was quite satisfied with having had the honour of
making his acquaintance, on which he bowed me out.
I confess I was a little hurt, as I presented myself and
made my request very modestly. I determined, how-
ever, to do my best with my part, and I worked more
than ordinarily at it, and I think my labour was repaid,
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as I made a great success in it. I was very much
amused with Mongini, with whom I had to sing three
duets. The first one, when I assisted him into the
tent after he was wounded, was very soft, and at
rehearsal one day he impressed strongly on me that it
should be sung as piano as possible, as he was sup-
posed to be dying from loss of blood. At the next
rehearsal I began my part in a whisper, but he
evidently forgot about the loss of blood and did not
husband his voice; I could not hear myself, so was
obliged to use more power too, which did not result in
a model piano. However, he expressed himself per-
fectly satisfied, so I made no remark.
He used to grow very excited over his work, so
much so that towards the end of an opera in which he
took great interest he seemed scarcely able to control
himself.
He had been a dragoon and used to the broad-
sword, and when excited laid about him most
vigorously. I am no swordsman; I never studied
anything except the small sword for a short time, more
to acquire greater freedom in my joints than for actual
sword practice. I was consequently no match for
such an adversary, and I confess he made me feel
somewhat nervous in the duel at the end of La
Forza. He did pink me one night. I thought he
had cut off the end of my first finger, the blow so
benumbed it. When I dropped dead, my right hand
being out of sight of the audience, I felt with my
thumb and found the blood trickling freely. I had to
lie on the stage about ten minutes before the curtain
fell, and a very long ten minutes they appeared. I
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was very much relieved when I found my finger,
except for a tolerably large cut, all safe.
We played it only a few times, and I do not think
it has ever been revived since.
'Don Giovanni' was played with Nilsson as Donna
Elvira. It was intended that I should play Don
Giovanni ; but Gassier, who was asked to play
Leporello, refused. He was a very good comrade,
and I could quite understand his objection to giving
up a part he had always played during his engagement
at Her Majesty's to a comparatively new-comer ; so,
to avoid annoyance to him and trouble to the manager,
having played the part already, and successfully,
I undertook the part of Leporello. Tietjens, of
course, played Donna Anna ; Sinico was the Zerlina,
Gardoni Ottavio, and Rokitansky Il Commendatore.
I think it must have been a very good performance ;
it certainly was attractive, as it drew several full
houses.
Dinorah,' with the same cast as the year before,
was performed, as also were ‘Fidelio'; 'Oberon,' with
Mongini as Sir Huon; "Medea,' given once for
Mongini's benefit, he playing Jason ; ' Freischütz,' in
which Mongini played Rodolfo ; and · Les Huguenots,'
in which he played Raoul. There were several new
ladies announced to appear in the list of engagements.
I forget whether any of them did appear; if they did,
they disappeared, as nothing more was ever heard
of them, and I have not the slightest recollection
of what they did or did not do. The season must
have been good. Nilsson was a great success—in
fact, took the opera-going public by storm, crowded
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houses whenever she sang being the result ; but it
was not so wonderful as the brazen symphony would
have led the public to expect.
After a few weeks' rest came the Hereford Festival,
this year before Birmingham, as they found the greater
attraction of Birmingham detrimental to the interests
of the smaller festival. I had little to do, as Weiss
sang · Elijah,' and most of the sacred music. The
the first time, in her husband's oratorio Ruth.' I
was greatly elated at having to take part in a work,
and sing an important duet, with an artist who had
been always one of my deities. It is not my business
to criticise any work in which I take part ; only one
thing I will take the liberty of saying, as it applies not
alone to the composer of 'Ruth,' but to all the com-
posers of modern oratorios except Costa. The work
showed an intimate knowledge of the powers of
every instrument except the human voice, which, I
contend, ought to have the first consideration with the
composer of a vocal work. The principal feature of
* Ruth' was the air in which Ruth says: “Thy people
shall be my people, and thy God my God.' Though
thoroughly unvocal, Jenny Lind declaimed it in such
a way that I trembled with excitement. This was not
the only feat she performed. She sang 'I know that
my Redeemer liveth' as she only ever did sing it, in
my opinion ; but it was in a much smaller effort that
she made a lasting impression on me. The tenor
was not on the orchestra at the commencement of the
second part. Townshend Smith turned to me, and
asked me if I would sing the tenor recitative Unto
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which of the angels said He at any time, Thou art My
Son; this day have I begotten Thee?' I replied : 'I
cannot; it is too high.' 'Oh,' said he, “it only goes
up to G! “Yes,' said I, “but how? Ask Madame
Goldschmidt. He did, and she immediately arose
and sang it. I was so struck with the way in which
she rendered those words I scarcely breathed. It
was a lesson to me, and at the same time a reprimand,
which I never forgot. It was one of the great lessons
I have had in my life, by which I may confidently say
I profited. It was a reprimand, inasmuch as I had
never given my mind to the deep study which the
words of the oratorio necessitated on the part of a
singer who is desirous of impressing the audience
with their true meaning.
Birmingham came immediately after. Weiss sang
both in ‘Elijah' and 'St. Paul,' so my share in the
oratorio was pretty light. I sang the three songs in
the 'Messiah’; “But who may abide,' according to
the custom prevailing there, being sung by the
contralto. They say it was written for alto—possibly !*
I know in my young days, when I used to be hauled
off, pretty much against my will, to the performances
of the Old Festival Choral Society’in Liverpool (I
suppose I was about nine or ten when I first went),
* But who may abide' was always sung by a bass;
moreover, I never heard an alto attempt to sing it, and
I certainly have never heard a contralto who could
sing it with any effect. I sang in Sterndale Bennett's
* Since the above was written, I learn that the point has been cleared
up by the recently discovered annotated programme book of the original
performance of the “Messiah. On that occasion it was sung by the
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oratorio, in which I had only a slight morsel—which
he wrote on his journey from London to Birmingham
on the Sunday evening preceding the festival—and in
Gounod's Mass. Benedict's "St. Cecilia' and J. F.
Barnett's “Ancient Mariner' were included in the
evening programmes ; I took part in both. I had
some friends to sup with me one evening after the
performance - Sterndale Bennett, Benedict, J. W.
Davison, C. L. Gruneisen, Charles Lucas, etc. The
conversation somehow worked round to an ancient
quarrel between Costa and Bennett, when, to my
great surprise, Charles Lucas proposed that I should
act as mediator in endeavouring to restore friendship
between them. I have often wished since I had had
the courage to undertake it, as a man like Lucas was
not likely to propose such a thing without well
weighing his proposal. I excused myself entirely on
the ground that such an attempt on the part of a man
so much younger than those with whom he was
requested to treat would no doubt savour strongly
of impertinence.
The operatic tour commenced soon after. I see
we played the · Huguenots,' with Alessandro Bettini as
Raoul. The notice says, “ “ Les Huguenots” seems
to have created an extraordinary effect. I should
think it did! I remember a tale about a tomtit on a
pear-tree, which might have been applied to this
performance. At the rehearsal I heard the orchestra
trying something which seemed to a certain extent
familiar to my ears, but I could not put a name to it.
I asked Arditi if it was some overture they were going
to play before the opera. "What overture?' said he.
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· That you have just been rehearsing.' Oh, don't
bother me' (very angrily); it's the introduction to
the opera. “I certainly did not recognise it,' said I.
*No, nor Meyerbeer himself, with half an orchestra-
and such a half! Oh, we did have joyous times at
the opera in the Emerald Isle, and made many
extraordinary effects — a great many quite unin-
tentionally!
Some effects, and very inartistic ones, however,
were made intentionally-for instance, on the last
night of our Dublin season the prima donna, after the
great air in 'Oberon,' went forward to the footlights,
an upright piano was wheeled on to the stage, at
which a gentleman in evening dress took his place,
and accompanied the lady in 'The Last Rose of
Summer. I know such things are asked for by
audiences. I have been requested in Dublin to sing
• The Stirrup Cup'as an encore in ‘ Il Flauto Magico,'
and I have been asked to substitute the same song
for the air in “Il Trovatore' in America. I cannot
help saying I think it is not only bad taste, but bad
judgment, to give way to such requests.
We returned to town for the customary short season,
and opened on the 2nd of November with Faust,'
in which Clara Louise Kellogg, of whom much had
been said during her career in America, made her
first appearance on this side of the Atlantic. She
also played during the same season in La Traviata,'
· Marta,' and Linda di Chamounix' (in which I
played Antonio for the first time). She had genius,
yet though she was successful in almost all the parts
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she attempted, she did not attain the position her
talents merited, but through no fault of her own.
On Thursday, the 5th of December, we played
* Don Giovanni,' in which Kellogg played Zerlina; the
next day I went to Brighton, to fulfil an engagement
at a small festival. I sang · Elijah' on the Friday
morning, and in a miscellaneous concert in the even-
ing I sang. Oh, ruddier than the cherry.' On Satur-
day morning I was having breakfast, when Lewis
Thomas was announced. I thought it was an early
hour to receive a visit, and when I saw his doleful
countenance I thought he was unwell and could not
sing, and had come to ask me to do his share of the
work in addition to my own; I felt uneasy for the
moment, as the thought passed through my mind, for
I had to get back to town to play Pizarro in ‘Fidelio'
at night. After keeping me in suspense for a few
moments, he informed me that Her Majesty's Theatre
had been burnt to the ground. It was a shock, for I
had become much attached to the old place ; I felt a
little uneasy, too, about my theatrical wardrobe, worth
about £ 500, which I anticipated had been destroyed
in the fire, and was not insured. However, that did
not trouble me so much as the loss of the splendid
theatre, the number of people who would be thrown
out of employment, and the almost certainty that an
auditorium possessing such perfect acoustic properties
would never be erected again. On my return to town
I hastened round to look on the remains of my old
home, where I had enjoyed many modest triumphs,
and in which I sang the last notes heard within its
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through the presence of mind of one of the firemen
belonging to the theatre, named Easten, who cut off
the bottom of the staircase leading to my dressing-
room just as the fire was laying hold of the wood-
work.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Death of J. C. Tully, Composer, Conductor, and Gourmet-A Bumptious
Yankee Tenor—‘La Gazza Ladra’—Florid Singing-Decadence of
the Florid Style='Production'_'Rigoletto'-Kellogg and her Drum
-A Monstrosity at the Crystal Palace-Dr. Wesley-Carl Formes
-At Covent Garden-A Deluge and an Empty House.
ncerts
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At the beginning of the year 1868 vario
-Monday Popular, Sacred Harmonic, Martin's Choir,
etc.—kept me occupied until Mapleson's tour began
(I have no record of the date, but I presume early in
February), and continued until shortly before the opera
season at Drury Lane Theatre. About the end of
January was announced the death of Mr. J. C. Tully,
a very clever musician. He was best known as an
arranger of music for burlesques, pantomimes, and
melodramas, for which he had a singular aptitude.
He, however, did much service as a conductor of
English opera, and directed the performance of “The
Amber Witch' at Drury Lane in 1861. He was, like-
wise, composer of a very successful opera on the
subject of · Black-eyed Susan,' which enjoyed a long
run at Drury Lane Theatre. In 1857, or about that
time, he had an English opera company of his own
at Sadlers' Wells. I have heard a good story in
connection with the venture, which may perhaps
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amuse my readers. He engaged as principal tenor
an American gentleman who, having made a small
reputation as a concert singer, imagined. he had
become an artist of importance; the terms were left
open, at his suggestion, until he had shown what his
capabilities were. The public did not appear so
satisfied with them as he himself, and occasionally
gave vent to their disapprobation. On Saturday Mr.
Tenor presented himself at the treasury, when Tully
asked him what he thought the salary ought to be ;
there was a great deal of explanation about enormous
success and public favour, etc., so, to cut the matter
short, Tully requested that, without further parley,
he would name a sum. The tenor replied, with great
confidence, that he thought he was worth £20 per
week, or nothing. “Then,' said Tully, suppose we
say the latter. Tully was a genial man, and a great
favourite with all who knew him well; he was also a
'gourmet,' and had a splendid caterer in his wife. He
confided to me, when we were discussing gastronomy,
that anybody who had not partaken of Mrs. T.'s lobster
salad had no idea what lobster salad meant.
The opera season, which commenced on the 28th
of March, was much more modestly announced than
the preceding one. The only new addition to the list of
singers was Fraschini, the tenor. He had sung in
England in 1847, at Her Majesty's Theatre, but he
had then to compete with other tenors who were
already great favourites, and he failed to establish a
position. He had a magnificent voice, of which he
made more lavish use than the delicate subscribers
to the Italian opera cared for ; he phrased well, and
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certain passages I have never heard any other tenor
make so much effect with ; for instance, that in the
duet of the last act of Marta' with the soprano, “Era
la stella dell' amor. He was uninteresting on the
stage, which may account for his not meeting with
the success his talents and gifts as a singer merited.
Auber's Gustave' and Wagner's Lohengrin' were
promised, but not performed. Of the latter we had
three or four rehearsals, but for some cause, to me
unknown, it was abandoned. I was not sorry, for I
did not conceive any great affection for the part of
Federico. “La Gazza Ladra,' also promised, was pro-
duced, with Kellogg as Ninetta, Trebelli as Pippo,
Foli as Il Podestà, Bettini as Giannetto, Lyall as the
Jew pedlar-in which he made a great success—and
myself as Fernando. It was one of the few operas
in which I had an opportunity of displaying my powers
as a florid singer, and judging from accounts my efforts
were successful. My master always said it was the
style I should most excel in ; it was the one he was
most desirous I should cultivate, as there were few
male singers, even at that time, who could execute
the music Rossini wrote. Whether the composers did
not care to write in that style, or could not find singers
to execute it, I do not know, but since Rossini no
composer except Mercadante has entrusted male
singers with florid music. It is a style now considered
old-fashioned and out of date, which no doubt is true
as regards public performance; but it is a pity the
practice of it by students is fast becoming obsolete.
The constant study of what is very often miscalled
declamatory music by those who have made but a
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cursory study of joining notes together in groups of
two, three, four, six, etc., has a bad effect on the tone
produced ; it becomes hard and uneven. Thus the
cantabile style, which really means the singing a
succession of notes without cessation of sound, and
which is the foundation of all good singing, is never
acquired. Why do pianists study five-finger exercises ?
Is it merely to acquire facility of execution ? Certainly
not; it is, for the greater part, to give equality of tone
to each note, and to join the notes that there shall not
be any sensible cessation of sound, without running
one into another, as they are struck in succession. So
with singing; the practice of groups of notes is to give
equality of tone to each note in the voice. This study
is really the study of production,' about which so
much nonsense is talked at the present day by many
who profess to teach singing, but who know nothing
about it themselves.
I will not say any more on this subject at present,
as I intend to speak fully upon it at some future
time.
Early in the season I played in ‘Rigoletto' with
Kellogg (Gilda) and Fraschini (the Duke). Of course,
reference was made to Giorgio Ronconi. I do not
object, but I think I was much more aware than those
who criticised me of how far behind my great model
I was. However, credit was given me for progress in
the histrionic part of my work, so I am comforted.
Kellogg sang and played the part of Gilda to perfec-
tion; she was always thoroughly in earnest. Her
earnestness excited my emulation, and materially
assisted in my making a success. •Les Huguenots'
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was played with a tenor called at Her Majesty's
Theatre Signor Ferensi, a Hungarian, whose real name
was Ferensky. I do not remember anything about
him, except that, after coming out, he soon went in,
and I never heard any more of him.
Nilsson essayed the part of Cherubino in ‘Le Nozze
di Figaro.' It was pleasant to hear the music in the
proper keys, but the impersonation was not a success.
She wore a nondescript dress which spoiled her figure;
instead of a sprightly page, she looked exactly what
she was, a woman dressed in male attire, and very un-
happy without the petticoats. Kellogg did not arouse
great enthusiasm with her Maria in La Figlia del
Reggimento. I think the drum spoiled it. She had
been practising the roll for some time, and mastered
it as far as private performance went, but when it
came to the point in public where she had to exhibit
her dexterity, the drum was not forthcoming, and the
public were highly amused at her dashing off the
stage, and interpolating a scene not in the libretto :
Where's my drum ? where's my drum?' A trifle
such as this is sufficient to upset an entire impersona-
tion, or, at any rate, a great portion of it. The drumming
did not go off so well as it might have done, and the
agitation it caused the drummer was very noticeable in
the address to the regiment, Convien partir. She
made a great mistake, too, for which, however, she
had ample precedent, of substituting a flimsy waltz for
the original finale of the opera. I have wondered
many a time why Leonora in the 'Trovatore' was not
resuscitated to execute a waltz and make all things end
happily
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ds.
To Nilsson was assigned the part of Margarita
in 'Faust. After Madame Carvalho she was, in my
opinion, the nearest approach to the ideal Margarita.
On the 15th of July I took part in a monstrosity at the
Crystal Palace for the benefit of Mr. Mapleson, con-
sisting of a concert in the afternoon and a performance
of 'Le Nozze di Figaro 'in the evening. The Musical
World says: “The glimpses of the brilliantly-lighted
stage from the semi-gloom of distant points were singu-
larly striking and effective! I could not judge of that,
but the effect of the semi-gloom of distant points from the
stage produced a gloom throughout my whole system,
which spite of every effort on my part I could not shake
off. I went through my part mechanically ; it was one
of the most dismal exhibitions, as far as I myself was
concerned, that I ever took part in ; it was like one of
the disturbed dreams I am accustomed to when my
mind is troubled or overworked. I invariably dream
I am back again in the old office where I served my
time, with my books all in confusion, or that I have to
sing an opera which I have quite forgotten or never
known. I am aware it is accounted a silly thing to
relate one's dreams, but I will venture to give an
example of my troubled ones. In one I had to sing
an opera composed by Signor Pezze, the violoncellist,
of which there were three representations. I had never
seen a note or word of it, but I dressed and went
through the first performance without a mistake ; at
the second I had some difficulty about my dress, and I
was constantly going down wrong turnings in the
music. At the third I could not find several parts of
my costume, and at last was obliged to rush on the
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stage without hat, jacket, or boots, and when I found
myself before the footlights I could not remember a
word or note of my part. In another curious dream, I
was playing in ‘Don Giovanni' with my usual com-
panions at Her Majesty's. At the end of the first act I
thought I would like a blow of fresh air, as the theatre
was very close and hot, so I laid aside my costume,
put on my walking-dress, and set out for a stroll.
After some time I found myself at one of the landing-
places on the Lake of Como ; the moon was shining
brightly, so I thought a short sail would be pleasant.
Accordingly I hired a boat and rowed about for a con-
siderable time, until I thought perhaps I might be
wanted to finish the opera. I hastened back and was
met at the door by Madame Trebelli (Zerlina), who
told me the stage was waiting. I got on my costume
in that short space of time in which one accomplishes
all kinds of wonders in dreams, went on, and to my
astonishment found myself in a real cemetery. All
was dark; I could only distinguish the white tomb-
stones; there was no orchestra and no public, and
whilst I was debating what I had better do, everything
faded away and left me to finish my sleep in peace.
The Handel Festival took place in June. I sang
the solos in the 'Messiah,' and on the selection day two
airs, 'O voi dell'Erebo,' from 'La Resurrezione,' and
Oh, ruddier than the cherry,' from 'Acis and Gala-
tea.' The former was little known ; it was shown to
me by Manuel Garcia when I was having lessons from
him, and for some reason it was published with a
recitative taken from another part of the work, while
that which precedes it, and naturally leads into it, was
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left out. I restored the original recitative. I think it
is one of Handel's finest songs, but very difficult. I
sang it first in 1858 at a concert given by Molique, but
never succeeded in satisfying myself about the execu-
tion of it until the last Handel Festival in 1891. On
the Friday I joined Foli in the duet «The Lord is a
man of war. During the week Dr. Wesley called
upon me to make arrangements about the Gloucester
Festival. He brought an air from a work of his father,
or uncle, which he asked me to sing at one of the per-
formances in the cathedral, saying that it was far finer
than that stupid song of Handel's he had heard me
sing at the Crystal Palace (referring to 'O voi dell'
Erebo'). We were not of the same opinion, but I
said little, though I thought much about the difference
of tastes. I have already mentioned the little brush I
had with him at the festival of 1865. At Hereford,
subsequently, we sang his fine anthem, “The Wilder-
ness. When I came down from the orchestra I met
the Doctor, who had just descended from the organ-
loft, and complimented him on his work, asking him
why he did not write an oratorio. He held his pocket-
handkerchief over his mouth as though to prevent a
breath escaping (a nervous trick habitual to him), and
after chuckling for a few moments, in a half-whisper he
confided to me that his great desire was to write an
opera-with fairies in it! Done, of Worcester, told
me a very good story of him, and very characteristic
of the man. The Sunday preceding a Worcester
Festival the two were invited to dine with one of the
patrons who lived about a couple of miles from Done's
house, where Dr. Wesley was put up for the festival
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week. At dinner there was a fine haunch of venison
which everybody seemed to enjoy very much. Re-
turning home on foot, Wesley walked in the middle of
the road and did not utter a single word until Done
had put the key into the lock of the house-door, when,
touching him on the arm to call his attention, he said,
with a very grave face, 'Did they give you any of the
fat ?' At the festival in 1865 I forgot to mention one
of the Doctor's little vagaries, which I think was rather
amusing. I was waiting with Louisa Pyne to go en
to the orchestra to commence the 'Elijah,' when Dr.
Wesley stepped up, saying he would give us a signal
to follow. We waited some minutes, when, to my
astonishment, I heard the orchestra attack the opening
bars of the first recitative. Blagrove suggested it
would be as well to wait until the singers appeared, so
a pause ensued. Miss Pyne and I immediately pro-
ceeded to take our places, but before I could reach
mine, the conductor started again, and I began the
recitative as I walked across the platform.
The opera tour followed. Among our company
we had Carl Formes, whose voice and hair created
such emulation in my bosom when I first attacked the
bass clef. He was another eccentric man, who drew
the long bow further than any other individual I have
ever known; but his wonderful adventures, much
after the style of Baron Munchausen, were related in
perfect good faith. He was a remarkably good shot.
Madame Rudersdorff told me that he used, when they
were on tour together, as a specimen of his skill, to
hit a penny, which she held betwixt her finger and
thumb at the full length of a large room, with a pistol
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shot. He told me a story of how he once went for
a holiday to the Rocky Mountains. He was out in
quest of bears--a sort of game worthy of his prowess
—and had wandered a long time without meeting any,
when at last, turning a corner in the mountain-path he
was pursuing, he heard a noise, and, looking up,
descried a grizzly bear advancing towards him. He
had scarcely time to put his rifle in position, when the
beast was close in front; he fired both barrels and
missed. He then attacked the bear with his hunting-
knife, and succeeded in killing him. While he was in
the act of skinning him, a strange sound attracted his
attention, and to his horror he descried another grizzly
coming down; this time he went more calmly to work,
and brought his quarry down with his rifle. I suppose
he skinned this fellow also, but how he carried the
skins away, or what became of them, I do not
remember. He also related how, through his tact
and foresight, the victory was gained at Bull's Run
during the American War, and how in a storm on
the Atlantic he saved the ship in which he was sailing
-one of the German Lloyd Line—by supplying the
place of the quartermaster, who was thrown down and
severely hurt by a sudden turn of the wheel. But he
could act as well as talk; he played Rocco in ‘Fidelio,'
Marcel in the 'Huguenots,' in a style that no man in
my time has approached, and except Giorgio Ronconi
his Leporello was the finest I remember, especially in
the last scene. He was inferior to Ronconi in the
comic scenes. I had not known him long before I
discovered that, with all his terrible talk and bluster,
he was as gentle as a lamb. We became very intimate
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friends, and continued so until he died two years ago.
On one occasion, when he was 'up a tree,' he borrowed
a small sum from me-about the year 1869 or 1870,
I should think; I thought he had forgotten all about
it-I had myself—but during his last visit to London,
in 1888, he mentioned it, and said that as soon as he
was in a position to do so he would repay me. I
told him not to trouble himself, as I had forgotten all
about it; but he kept his word, and I received P.O.
orders for the sum-with interest—at Brindisi, on my
way to Australia in 1889, whither his letter was
forwarded to me. I wish some others would imitate
his example, albeit without the interest!
Our London autumn season was carried on at
Covent Garden, where we had an addition to our
company in Miss Minnie Hauck. She made her first
appearance in · La Sonnambula'; it was a very crude
and imperfect performance, both lyrically and histrioni-
cally. Mongini played Elvino ; he was about as
unlike the ideal Elvino as anything could possibly be,
but his voice pulled him through. I find that Mr.
Santley was indisposed, and Signor Tagliafico took
his place. Mr. Santley never felt very disposed when
he had to appear as the Count in the 'Sonnambula.'
It must have been in the course of this tour that I
first played Tom Tug in the Waterman.' I was
intimate with Mrs. Glover, the late lessee of the
Theatre Royal, Glasgow, and most of her family. She
wrote asking me as a favour to sing a song on the
occasion of her eldest daughter's benefit at the Theatre
Royal, Leeds. I always had a decided objection to
appearing in evening dress before the footlights
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between the acts of a drama, so I declined singing a
song; but I told Mrs. Glover, if I could obtain
permission from Mapleson to go to Leeds, and her
daughter were willing to play a short musical piece,
I would do that with pleasure. My offer was joyfully
accepted. I got my friend Lyall to help me to work
up the dialogue, as I knew I could have but one
rehearsal, and that probably a scratch one. Fortu-
nately the manager was strict about business, and I
found all concerned in the drama were perfect in their
parts. I was highly amused at his anxiety about my
reception. He insisted that, instead of being dis-
covered seated at the table with old Bundle, I should
enter after the curtain rose, something being inter-
polated to increase the expectations of the audience.
I objected to the Crummlesonian dodge, and was
discovered when the curtain rose, but received as
enthusiastic a reception as man could desire. The piece
went very well; the house was crammed from floor to
ceiling, and the manager said they had never seen such
a house before.
In the following spring, at a time when there was
little doing, I had an offer made me by the manager
of the other theatre in Leeds—a son-in-law of Mrs.
Glover—to play 'Tom Tug' twice in that town-once
in Sheffield and once in Bradford. I accepted, as the
terms (sharing) seemed highly satisfactory, and, judging
from the success of my former performance, I looked
forward to making a substantial sum. I began at Brad-
ford, but there was a poor house ; except Miss Glover,
none of the actors knew their parts. Mr. Bundle did not
know even the first line, and I had to prompt him all
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through the first scene. I felt somewhat depressed.
The second performance was in Leeds—the house, to
my astonishment, very poor ; but Sheffield was a trifle
better. The last night was the second performance
in Leeds ; at the hour when those who intend being
present at a performance are about leaving their
homes, there came on a storm ; the rain fell in sheets
of water, not a soul could stir out, and umbrellas were
quite useless. I arrived at the theatre, and found my
dressing-room floor covered with water-I had to
stand on a plank to dress myself. When I was
nearly ready, the call-boy came in to ask me if I was
going to play. Certainly! I said. “Why not?
What have I come for?' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'there's
hardly anybody in the house.' 'Is there anyone at
all ?' I asked. “Yes, but very few. No matter,' I
said; “if there's only one, I'll do the best I can in
return for his good-nature in turning out on such a
night as this.' When the curtain rose, I could not
distinguish a single being in the house. There were
a few determined admirers, though, for the receipts
were twelve shillings and sixpence. I think I may
boast of having played to the smallest, or one of the
smallest, houses ever known. The whole venture
netted a sum of eleven pounds for my share, one of
which I gave to the attendants at the theatre; the
rest I handed to Miss Glover, as she had lost her
purse, with ten pounds in it, in one of the hotels. I
had my week's trouble for nothing, minus my travel-
ling and hotel expenses.
II
CHAPTER XIX.
Season of 1869–Gye and Mapleson combine-A Phenomenal Buffo
Nilsson as Ophelia- I play the Doge in ‘I due Foscari—A Spirited
Conductor-A Hard Day's Work--Rossini's 'Messe Solennelle'-In
a Railway Accident; an Insinuating Doctor - Concert touring in 1870
- Brutus and the Goat.
THE season of 1869 is a memorable one in the annals
of Italian opera. About the beginning of the year an
announcement appeared in the Queen, written, I pre-
sume, by C. L. Gruneisen, to this effect : 'We have
reason to believe that the two Italian Opera House
potentates, Mr. Gye and Mr. Mapleson, have signed
and sealed for the long-rumoured fusion of the two
establishments which they have directed. The details
of the convention have not yet transpired, but the main
clause is that there will be only one Italian Opera
House for the year 1869, and that is to be at Covent
Garden Theatre. Her Majesty's Theatre will remain
Y
has one year unexpired of his lease under Lord
Dudley. His lordship having declined to renew it
for a longer period, Mr. Mapleson naturally could not
make the outlay for the mise-en-scène of one year only.
It is given out that the two troupes will be wedded, so as
to form one very powerful company, which will include
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Adelina Patti and Mlles. Nilsson, Tietjens and
Trebelli-Bettini, Mario and Mongini, Graziani and
Santley, etc. Whether there are to be two directors
or only one is not officially stated as yet, but report
affirms that Mr. Gye will vacate to leave Mr. Maple-
son in office. It is also added that, if Costa and Arditi
will consent to work together, they are to be alternate
conductors. Of the fact of the “fusion ” there can be
no doubt ; about its successful working opinions will
differ. Those who believe in the union of the Guelphs
and Ghibellines, the Montagues and the Capulets, or
of any two Corsican families who have pronounced
for the vendetta, can attach faith to an artistic accolade.
The directors may manage to agree, but how will
the prima donnas, the tender tenors, and the profound
bassi ?'
It is worthy of note that the blustering baritones
are not mentioned amongst those of the company
likely to be victims of the green-eyed monster
The combination was effected, and out of the long
list of artists, only one of importance, Pauline Lucca,
did not appear. I was much disappointed that Costa
would not consent to the arrangement to have two
conductors, and consequently seceded. I hoped to
have served under his command again at the opera.
There were probably heart-burnings and rivalries
amongst some members of the company, but as I did
not interfere with other people's business, I could only
conjecture from certain indications and occasional re-
pressed hints. Most of the operas promised were
performed, also one of which the prospectus said,
• Negotiations are in progress for the performance for
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the first time in England of Ambroise Thomas's cele-
brated opera “Hamlet,” the character of Ophelia by
Mlle. Christine Nilsson.'
The season opened with · Norma,' Tietjens, Sinico,
Mongini, and Foli ; followed by Rigoletto,' with Van-
zini (Mrs. Van Zandt, mother of the Mlle. Van Zandt
who came out at the Opéra Comique), Scalchi, Mon-
gini, Foli, and myself.
'Fidelio,' 'Linda di Chamounix,' and the evergreen
"Trovatore,' came in their turn. Ilma di Murska
played Linda, but I never liked her in it. She intro-
duced at the end a wretched air with variations by
Proch, which acted like a cold linseed-poultice on the
last finale, and bored everybody both in the house and
on the stage. Her execution of the cavatina was
very limp, and though a few extra high notes brought
the house down, she was entirely out of her element in
the opera. We had an importation in the shape of a
buffo named Bottero, of whom great things were
written in Italian musical journals (no great recom-
mendation for anyone who knew how they were com-
piled), and of whom I heard from one who ought to
have known better that he was a combination of Luigi
Lablache and Giorgio Ronconi under one skin! He
made his first appearance in a trivial work, 'Don
Bucefalo,' by Cagnoni, a fifth-rate Italian composer.
The audience evidently did not agree with my
informant, as the theatre was half emptied of its
occupants before the second act had nearly approached
its termination. The piece was repeated once, and
withdrawn. Signor Bottero subsequently essayed the
part of the Podestà in · La Gazza Ladra,' with Adelina
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Patti, Trebelli, Bettini, and myself. I never saw
Lablache on the stage, but I have seen Giorgio
Ronconi play this part, and certainly did not discover
a ghost of him in Signor Bottero. He soon returned
to his native heath.
The great sensation of the season was undoubtedly
the production of 'Hamlet,' with Nilsson in the
character of Ophelia. With the exception of the
· Brindisi,' I liked the part of Hamlet very much, and
took great pains to study not only the opera, but the
drama. The costume adopted I did not like, nor
could I procure a wig of the colour I wished, so I was
not at all satisfied with my make-up. Notwithstanding,
I had the satisfaction of being complimented on all
sides. I met Thomas at breakfast the morning after
the first performance, who thanked me very cordially
for the pains I had taken with the part, and expressed
himself perfectly satisfied with both my singing and
acting, adding that the play scene had never been
acted so well before. At the breakfast I was seated
between two members of the press, musical critics
both. My right-hand neighbour, in the course of con-
versation, remarked that I was a very lucky man.'
I wished to know why. He replied, 'Why? Imagine
you, a young man and an Englishman, being entrusted
with the part of Hamlet at the Royal Italian Opera !!
What could I answer? I said, I do not quite see
what luck has to do with it; do you suppose the
managers or the composer would have entrusted me
with it if they had not considered I had sufficient
ability to perform it? Whilst still at the table my
left-hand neighbour happened to make a remark about
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my playing the last scene of 'I due Foscari' on the
occasion of Nilsson's benefit at Drury Lane the
previous season. I explained to him that Mapleson
asked me to sing one extra night that week, as he
wished to make the benefits of the three prima donnas
as strong as possible. After a moment's thought I
agreed, on consideration that I might play the final
scene of 'I due Foscari.' Finding that the parts
were in the theatre and the chorus knew the music, it
was settled I should do it. It was a fancy I had
nursed for a long time,' I continued, although I only
knew the opera from reading it, as I had never seen
it performed.' 'Do you mean to say,' said my neigh-
bour, 'you never saw Giorgio Ronconi play the
Doge?' 'No,' I replied, 'nor anyone else. “I am
sorry I did not know that before,' he remarked, 'or I
would have said a great deal more about it; I thought
you had seen Ronconi in it more than once, and were
giving us an imitation of his performance.' I felt
much flattered, but I heartily wished he had known
the facts before. I may as well add that the morning
after the benefit I received a most charming letter
from the Earl of Dudley, in which he said that he
had entered the theatre as the scene from I due
Foscari' was going on, and not distinguishing who
was playing the Doge, inquired, and found to his
astonishment it was Santley. He expressed himself
highly pleased with my performance, and added he
hoped Mr. Mapleson would see his way to bring out
the opera the following season, that I might have the
opportunity of playing the part in its integrity.
At the beginning of the season 1869 I was some-
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what indisposed; I had been working too hard all the
winter, and during our operatic season in Scotland
after Christmas we had encountered some severe
weather. I caught a cold which I could not shake off
during the prevalence of east wind in the spring.
However, I had to get into harness as soon as the
opera season opened. By way of a rest, early in the
month of May I accompanied Arditi to Paris to hear
· Hamlet,' and get an idea of the mise-en-scène. The
performance was very fine. The success was 'attri-
buted almost entirely to Nilsson's performance of
Ophelia, with which I did not agree. Faure was an
excellent Hamlet, and I am certain without the co-
operation of such a great artiste, the representation,
spite of Nilsson's splendid singing in the mad scene,
would have been exceedingly dull. I was very much
fidgeted by the way in which the conductor used his
fiddlestick; he flourished it to such an extent that at
times he drew my attention entirely away from the
stage. I was very much amused when Arditi turned
to me during the interval between the second and
third acts, and exclaimed, “If that conductor continues
to make those flourishes with his stick I shall be
obliged to leave the theatre ; I cannot pay the slightest
attention to the singers ! We attended a performance
of Wagner's · Rienzi' during our stay. It was splen-
didly put on the stage, and in every way an excellent
performance. Monjauze, the tenor I have already
spoken of in connection with ‘Faust' the first time I
heard it, played Rienzi finely. But the theatre was
hot and stuffy, and I did not feel very well, so after
the third act I left the theatre and went for a drive
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by moonlight in the Champs Elysées, which I enjoyed
much better than the opera.
On our return we had hard work rehearsing every
day, and I had three or four performances each week ;
during that in which “Hamlet' was produced on the
Saturday, I had two other performances. On the
Wednesday we had a full rehearsal of the new opera
from eleven until nearly four; I then had to rush off
to Kuhe's concert, where I sang two pieces ; and in
the evening I had to play Tom Tug in the Waterman'
at the Adelphi Theatre for the benefit of the Misses
Harris, daughters of Augustus Harris, the stage-
manager. I felt anything but fit after my morning's
work, but a bottle of dry champagne with my dinner,
a good cigar, and forty winks, restored me, and when
I was dressed to go on I felt as fresh as a lark.
I had the great pleasure of playing Hoel in 'Dinorah'
with Adelina Patti, an opera in which she shone to
greater advantage than in any other in which I have
seen her. We rehearsed the stage business well; she
was the only prima donna I have known who did not
resent interference with the business she was accus-
tomed to. I suggested that a little more or much
more passion would be a great improvement when she
recovered her senses in the last act and recognised her
lover, and that she should throw herself without fear
into my arms. She acted on my suggestion, and the
result was such a storm of applause that we had to
wait some moments before we could proceed with the .
opera.
Patti was very anxious to have · L'Étoile du Nord'
reproduced, as Catarina was one of her favourite parts.
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277
She wished me to play Peter, which I would have
done with all my heart; but after the hard work I had
done, and in view of the fact that it was late in the
season, I was obliged to decline; I really could not
have studied a new part, and one so exigent, at that
time.
Towards the close of the season I played “Rigo-
letto' for the only time with Adelina Patti, on the
occasion of her benefit, Tamberlik playing the Duke.
The only important performance for me beside the
opera during the season was a Rossini Festival at the
Crystal Palace, held in the Transept, with a chorus and
orchestra numbering about 3,000. The programme
consisted of the 'Stabat Mater' and a selection from
Rossini's works, among them the Blessing of the
Banners from “The Siege of Corinth,' in which I sang
the solo part. I may as well mention the fact, as I am
certain nobody would otherwise be aware of it, as I
myself could not hear my voice. Costa, who had been
seriously ill for a little time and confined to his room,
left his sick-bed to do homage to the master he loved.
Though he was not in a fit state to be at work, he
conducted throughout with unflagging spirit, and never
more emphatically proved himself .conductor of con-
ductors.
Rossini's Messe Solennelle' was performed for the
first time in England about the middle of May-I
cannot find the exact date. Tietjens, Scalchi, Mongini
and I sang the solo parts. With the exception of the
* Kyrie' I do not care for the work, and it made very
little effect. It was performed at the Worcester
Festival the same year, and occasionally after, but was
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soon all but lost sight of. At this festival Sullivan's
*Prodigal Son,' one of his best serious works, was per-
formed for the first time; Sullivan himself conducted.
Nobody who heard it can surely ever forget how mag-
nificently Sims Reeves sang the scene, 'I will arise
and go to my father'-a sort of thing one hears once
in a lifetime.
Returning from this festival, I and some of my com-
rades had a narrow escape. The train started from
Worcester about three-quarters of an hour late, in con-
sequence of the railway officials having neglected to
provide sufficient accommodation for the unusually
large number of people returning to London. On the
road we lost more time ; and as we were nearing Lon-
don we were almost an hour and a half behind time.
The engine-driver had just slackened speed to enter
Westbourne Park Station when he became aware of a
train, heedless of signals, coming on to cross our line.
He put on full speed, hoping to clear the other train,
but to no purpose ; it came on and struck ours just in
the middle, smashing a luggage-van immediately in
front of the coach I and my companions occupied,
which was thrown off the line and ran for a short dis-
tance bouncing over the sleepers. Looking out, the
first thing I saw was a shower of musical instrument
cases, among them a double bass. The doors were
jammed with the concussion, so we scrambled out of
the windows. The coaches in front were lying upside
down. I asked an official who came by how the acci-
dent had happened, but the only reply I received was,
Have you got your ticket ?' I went on to the station,
where I heard the guard was seriously hurt, and
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having his wounds dressed in the waiting-room. I
popped my head in at the door and asked the surgeon
who was attending on him if he was badly hurt. The
doctor turned round, and after a glance called, 'Is that
you, man ? Are ye hurt?' I recognised in him a
calico - printer I had known in Glasgow. No,
said I, “thank God! Then go to your carriage,
and I will come to you presently.' In a few minutes
he came up and begged of me to keep myself within
doors for a couple of weeks and he would get me
£ 1,000 damages. I replied that I was thankful to
be unhurt, and preferred going to Norwich, where I
was due the next week, and earn my money doing my
duty.
At Norwich we performed a selection from an
oratorio called · Hezekiah,' by Hugo Pierson—very
dry stuff indeed—of which I never heard any more ;
also Rossini's Messe Solennelle,' which did not rouse
any enthusiasm.
We played Hamlet' on the operatic tour which
succeeded, in Manchester and Liverpool, and also in
London, during the short season, with Ilma di Murska
as Ophelia. She did not sing the music as well as
Nilsson ; otherwise there was little difference between
the two representations. I had my own dress (a fac-
simile of Fechter's) and make-up, which not only im-
proved my appearance, but, feeling I looked more like
Hamlet, I am sure I played better. One great im-
provement was the substitution of Carl Formes as the
Ghost for the buffo who essayed it on the first produc-
tion of the opera.
The year 1870 was the last year of my connection
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with the Italian opera in England-it marks an epoch
in my life which I have ever since looked back on
with regret. My ambition and delight were the stage ;
the concert-room, save under exceptional circumstances,
had little attraction for me. I believe I would have
preferred being an actor of moderate fame to being the
most renowned singer on earth. I worked during the
four seasons of English opera and nine years of Italian
opera with an object in view, and if I did not become
a consummate actor I earned fame even in that capa-
city. Often I think now, when I have an hour and a
half to wait between two songs, having no relation to
each other, in a miscellaneous concert, how much more
satisfying it was to have to embody a part, and to have
my attention riveted throughout the evening on the
delineation of a character I was representing.
The beginning of the year seemed to be prophetic;
I made my first appearance at the London ballad con-
certs, and also sang at a series called the Exeter Hall
Saturday Evening Concerts, under the management of
Mr. George Wood. A concert tour was arranged in
my name by this gentleman from the end of January
for about six weeks, and my companions were Madame
D’Alton, Wilhelmj, and Arabella
Goddard, with Sidney Naylor as accompanist. I know
nothing of the business part, but I believe the tour was
fairly successful. I had two genial companions in Wil-
helmj and Naylor, and the time passed more pleasantly
than I anticipated. Concert touring I always found ex-
ceedingly disagreeable after the novelty of the first few
days had passed. A journey every day, Sunday included
very often ; the same dinner day after day (on one tour
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were
nine times out of ten it consisted of bad soup, fish, a
saddle of mutton indifferently roasted, and a pair of
boiled fowls buried in a mass of bookbinder's paste);
the same programme to go through every evening, and
a different bed to sleep in each night. The monotony
is appalling, yet I have known artists who say they
enjoy such a life. I do not; I abhor it, and always
did. The only relief from the daily routine was when
little scenes of jealousy arose about encores, or some
such subject, and they were not a pleasant change.
On one of the first evenings we had a scene with
Wilhelmj and Madame Goddard ; they played one of
Beethoven's sonatas, which, being long, Wilhelmj
suggested might be cut, as it was usually. Madame
Goddard would not consent to cutting anything of
Beethoven, but insisted on playing the last movement
at a speed which did not at all accord with Wilhelmi's
notion. At the end of the sonata he came down off
the orchestra in despair, and cried like a child. To
end the dispute the cuts were made and the movement
played at a proper speed.
Towards the end of the tour we went to Ireland.
Madame Goddard objected to crossing the channel, so
Ernst Pauer was engaged to take her place. In Dublin
and Belfast everybody was perfectly satisfied, but in
Cork, where I fancy they had omitted to make a proper
announcement of the change, there was quite a hubbub
when, instead of an elegant female form, a tall, gaunt-
looking male appeared and sat down at the piano.
The disturbance continued for some time, but was
stopped at last, if I remember rightly, by our genial
manager, Edward Murray, stepping forward to explain
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why the change was necessary. During the interval
between the two parts of the concert Miss Helen
D’Alton was presented with a handsome testimonial in
the shape of a necklace, brooch, and earrings, as a
token of the esteem and admiration in which she was
held by her fellow citizens. She was a native of Cork,
which city her father had served as Mayor. The
testimonial was presented by the then Mayor, who was
requested by the gallery boys to 'spake up.' I re-
plied for Miss D’Alton ; my speech having been pro-
vided for me, I had merely to read it, which I did
without any shyness or nervousness, and evidently to
the satisfaction of the audience, as they gave me a tre-
mendous round of applause at the end, with an accom-
paniment of 'Bravo, Santley!
From Ireland we crossed over to Scotland to com-
mence an operatic tour. Among the soprani we had
Mlle. Monbelli and Mlle. Reboux, both French, the
former an elegant and accomplished lady and a charm-
ing singer, possessing good qualities as an actress,
although lacking experience sufficient to develop her
intentions. Except Madame Viardot I never heard
anyone who sang Spanish songs so well. Of Mlle.
Reboux, who sang the small part of Vincenette in
• Mireille'at Her Majesty's Theatre in 1864, I recol-
lect little, except that I did not find her a great
acquisition. We had also a new contralto, Mlle.
Morensi, a handsome American, who played Zerlina
to my Don Giovanni. She was so tall I felt like a
pigmy and suggested in our scenes together Leporello
might attend with a step-ladder to enable me to put
myself on a level with her.
me
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After Scotland we played in Liverpool at the old
Amphitheatre, one of the best theatres for sound I
have sung in ; its perfect acoustic properties must have
been quite accidental. I believe it was run up in about
six weeks in order to hold a great political meeting.
In my youthful days it was the home of John Vanden-
hoff, Gustavus Brooke, Barry Sullivan, and other cele-
brated actors under the management of W. R. Copeland.
I have already mentioned it was my first theatre, where
I was taken to see Ducrow's circus. It was here that
Walter Lacy made his first appearance riding on an
elephant's trunk in . Blue Beard.' An accident occurred
to Vandenhoff at one of his benefits when he was playing
Brutus in ‘Julius Cæsar,' similar to the one I have
related as happening to me during a performance of the
Bohemian Girl.' As he commenced the speech,
Romans, countrymen and lovers,' a goat which used
to be kept in the stable belonging to the theatre
marched gravely on to the stage and planted itself
between his legs, facing the audience,
mained, apparently wrapt in admiration, until the speech
was finished, when it took itself off as gravely as it
entered.
L1
llar
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. George Wood undertakes Italian Opera at Drury Lane — The
' Flying Dutchman'; first Representation of Wagner in England
An Obtrusive Cat-I desert Italian for English Opera-We start with
“Zampa?--Broken Promises-Friendly Critics—A Season of Death
-Friendship with Charles Dickens- Fechter's Misfortunes—Trial of
the Albert Hall--Stage v. Platform.
THE Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, opened on
March 29, still under the joint management of Messrs.
Gye and Mapleson. With the exception of Tietjens
all Mr. Mapleson's old company were engaged by Mr.
George Wood, who undertook the management of an
Italian Opera at Drury Lane. The announcement of
both operas appeared in the same number of the
Musical World. In addition to the company we had
on the tour, the engagements were announced of
Madame Volpini (from the Imperial Opera, St. Peters-
burg), already a favourite in London in 1864 ; Mlle.
Savertal (from the Opera, Pisa), who did not appear ;
and Mlle. Pauline Lewitsky, a Russian, who did ap-
pear, a graceful girl and pretty singer, and nothing
more. The novelties produced were Ambroise
Thomas's "Mignon,' in which I hoped to have played
Lothario, as Thomas expressed himself so satisfied
with me in “Hamlet ’; but for some reason Faure was
engaged at the last moment, and the part was given to
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Cason.
a
him. I did not admire Nilsson as Mignon. She sang
exceedingly well, and acted a great deal and looked
much more like a boy, when dressed in male attire,
than she did when she tried Cherubino. Some of her
scenes were very charming, but the feu sacré neces-
sary to represent Mignon was wanting. It was a
great mistake to give the part of Federico to a woman;
it upset the concerted music, and did not add to the
interest of the performance.
The · Flying Dutchman,' the first opera of Wagner
produced in England, was not brought out until
ten days before the close of the season. I thought
it was going to be shelved, and I was anxious to
play Vanderdecken, as I felt sure it was a part
which would suit me well. I found Ilma di Murska,
who was to be the Senta, was partly the cause of
the delay, so I asked her plainly where her objec-
tion lay, and after a little beating about the bush
she said because it was all Flying Dutchman, while
Senta was nobody. I told her she was wrong, that
Senta was of quite as much importance as the
Dutchman, for without Senta certainly he would be
nobody. She afterwards altered her mind when she
came to look into the part, and we worked together
very earnestly at all the stage business. The audience
from their applause showed they enjoyed the per-
formance. Wagner, however, failed to attract the
public. We only played it two or three nights, and to
very poor houses. I had another adventure with an
animal, this time a cat, on the first night. I had
finished my opening scene, and was leaning on a piece
of rock waiting for Daland to make his entry, when I
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heard a sound of Ts! Ts!' behind me. I looked out
of the corner of my eye, and espied a cat stealthily
crossing the stage. Instead of leaving her to go on
her way, one of the men in the boat was trying to
send her back. Being very tame and knowing all the
people belonging to the theatre, she stopped to see
who was calling her. I was in dread, for I knew that
if the public saw her, she would attract all their atten-
tion and the rest of the act would go for nothing. It
does not matter how interesting a scene on the stage
may be, a song or solo in a concert, a speech or a
sermon ; a cat or a dog, or even a mouse, appearing
unexpectedly will carry away the attention of the
entire audience. To my great joy the cat did not
recognise a friend in the boatman, so went quietly
off. I spoke about the carelessness of allowing a cat
to wander about the stage during a performance ; but
I was told she was only looking for her customary
supply of milk—and the first act of the opera
might have been ruined in consequence. Ilma di
Murska was better suited with the part of Senta than
with any part I saw her play. She looked it to per-
fection : the weird, earnest, yet dreamy, expression on
her face denoted a spirit ready to make the sacrifice
that was to be demanded of her—to give her life to
save the soul of the unhappy man, whose curse it was
to wander until he should find a being capable of such
a sacrifice. She acknowledged the mistake she had
at first made, and played with an energy and spirit I
had never before seen her display.
* L'Oca del Cairo' (Mozart) and ·Abou Hassan'
(Weber), two comic operas, each in one act, were pro-
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LIII
duced together. They are both pretty, but were not
seen to advantage in so large a theatre, and made
very little effect. For the second time in my operatic
experience I was announced to play Macbeth in
Verdi's opera, this time with Mlle. Savertal, but, as
I before said, Mlle. Savertal did not arrive, and
nothing was heard of the opera. Cherubini's 'Les
Deux Journées' was also promised, with the dialogue
set to accompanied recitative by Signor Arditi. I was
very glad it was not performed ; it is not, properly
speaking, an opera, but a drama with incidental music;
and I am certain, however compressed the dialogue
might be—as it is the principal part of the work—and
however well set, the result would have been a very
heavy, tiresome performance. Rossini's 'Tancredi'
was promised, but not performed.
At the termination of the season I was asked to
accept an engagement for the following year at the
Italian Opera, under the joint management of Messrs.
Gye and Mapleson. The loss on the season at Drury
Lane had been such that Mr. George Wood gave up
the idea of carrying on his management, but I did not
like changing about from one company to another, and
overtures had been made to me to appear in English
opera at the Gaiety Theatre, which, on my consenting,
would be changed into a lyric theatre entirely. I
fancied the reputation and position I had gained at the
Italian Opera would be sufficient to make my name a
solid attraction, and in combination with as good a
company as could be got together, an attractive opera,
good orchestra and chorus, and proper stage manage-
ment, I should have an opportunity to establish a
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permanent home for opera in England. My wife
and most of my friends endeavoured to dissuade me
from quitting the Italian Opera ; but obstinacy and, I
must candidly confess, a certain amount of vanity pre-
vailed, and I entered into an engagement to appear
at the Gaiety Theatre in the month of September
following. The band of the theatre was not sufficient
for the requirements of an opera; there were not
sufficient strings, and the wind, especially the 'wood,'
was incomplete. I had a promise that all this should
be remedied. The chorus consisted chiefly of young
fresh voices, and I was satisfied that with the attention
Meyer Lutz, the conductor, would bestow on it, there
would be little left to desire. The mise-en-scène and
dressing I had no doubt about. But the greatest
difficulty of all had to be overcome: what opera were
we to produce? Suggestion after suggestion was
made, each of which for one reason or other was
abandoned. At last I recollected what Balfe had
told me some years before, if ever I could find an
opportunity to play “Zampa' not to miss it, as the
part would suit me perfectly, and the music also, with
very little transposition. It was written for Chollet, a
tenor, or, I fancy, a sort of baritone with a powerful
falsetto, as no pure tenor could have reached the low
notes written in the part.
For my holiday I went to Jersey with my friend
Lyall. I took with me the score of • Zampa,' and was
convinced if well put on the stage it would prove
attractive. When I returned there were only three
weeks left before the production of the opera ; I had
not seen a word of the translation, and at last, when I
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did, I found the words had been translated without
any regard to the musical accent, and that it would be
impossible to make use of them, so I set to work and
retranslated the whole of my part and the scenes in
which I was concerned. The dialogue I did not like,
and I re-adapted that also. The rehearsals began and
went on vigorously, for, with one exception, I found
my companions as zealous and earnest as myself; we
rehearsed the greater part of the day, and at night,
of what we had still to rehearse—a serious task for me,
as I am very slow at such work. When we came to
the orchestral rehearsal, I found that the promises
made me had not been kept; the band, with the
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tional violins, was the same as before. I expostulated
in vain. It was too late to retract, or I would have
left the theatre. Lutz had done his best (and that is
saying a great deal) to remedy the deficiencies in the
wind department; he was very vigilant, and made
everything go, as far as the means at his command
would permit, to my satisfaction. The opera was
successful, thanks to the efforts of all concerned. I
felt especially grateful to Madame Lancia, who under-
took the part of Camilla, one of the most ungrateful
parts for a prima donna I know, and played it with as
much earnestness and ability as though it had been
one of the most sympathetic. We played · Zampa’ for
nine weeks in succession. The manager was anxious
to make a change, as there were no rehearsals going
on, a thing he did not seem to understand. I asked
what he had an idea of doing. •Don Giovanni.'
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Oh, indeed! I said ; and who are your singers ?'
Amongst the ladies he mentioned two who were little
better, if any, than music-hall singers. I wanted to
know then who was to play Don Giovanni. “Why,
you, of course.' "No," I said, 'I do not. If you want
me to play Don Giovanni, you must engage three
lady singers of whom I approve, and you must have
a better orchestra, and you must have the opera pro-
perly translated, as I decline adopting any translation
I have yet seen. He talked about managerial
authority, etc. I replied, being master of the situa-
tion, that I intended to maintain my position. After
some discussion, it was ultimately agreed we were to
produce . Fra Diavolo,' in which I was to play the
hero. It was brought out a week or two before
Christmas. I endeavoured to make the part quite the
opposite to Zampa. Zampa, according to the story,
was a gentleman of a roving, unsettled, wild disposition,
whilst Fra Diavolo was nothing more nor less than
a common vulgar thief, whose Brummagem airs of
gentility were the very thing to captivate a silly,
empty-pated, vain lady like Lady Allcash. I have
no idea what success, if any, I made in the part; I
never read a line about it, and two opinions I had
from friends were so contrary that from them I could
not judge. One, a Dublin friend, recommended me
never to attempt Fra Diavolo again. Another, a
German, told me he had seen every notable Fra
Diavolo in his time, and he had never seen any-
one who represented the character as well as I
did. Those, if any live, who saw it can judge for
themselves; those who did not must regret or rejoice
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MR. SANTLEY IN 'FRA DIAVOLO.'
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as they think proper. The theatre was closed on
Christmas Eve--a Saturday. The five nights pre-
ceding of the same week, in addition to Fra
Diavolo, I played Tom Tug in '
an after-piece, and right glad I was when Christmas
Eve arrived, and I was free.
Between the end of the Italian opera season and my
holiday there were the Hereford Festival, of which
nothing particular need be said, and the Birmingham
Festival in the succeeding week. Of the new music I
took part in was a cantata by Dr. Ferdinand Hiller,
'Nala and Damayanti,' to my taste a very heavy work ;
it was of the numerous compositions of the same class
which I had all the trouble of learning and rehearsing
for a single performance. I never heard of it again.
I also took the part of St. Peter in Benedict's oratorio,
about which there was a great deal of unamiable cor-
respondence published in the Musical World. It was
a very unequal work, not to be compared with his last
opera, ' The Lily of Killarney.' The libretto was poor,
and a great portion of the music written in a hurry, the
result being an uninteresting composition. With the
exception of an air, 'Oh that my head were water!' I
did not feel interested in my part. The scene of the
denial,' which might be made an effective scene, I
was quite disappointed with, it was so insignificant.
The oratorio was performed a few times during the
succeeding winter season, but has rarely been heard
of since.
I cannot help noticing the number of deaths which
occurred this year of celebrated people connected with
music and the drama. Leigh Murray, the best jeune
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premier of his time, in January ; George Hogarth,
Charles Dickens's father-in-law, many years musical
critic of the Daily News, in February ; Mary Keeley
(Mrs. Albert Smith), in April ; Charles Green, the
aeronaut, in the same month ; Charles Dickens, on
the 9th of June ; John Cooper, said to be the last
actor of the Kemble school, and R. K. Bowley, a
leading man in the Sacred Harmonic Society, and for
some years preceding his death manager of the Crystal
Palace, in August; M. W. Balfe on October the 21st;
and Adolfo Ferrari, a well-known professor of singing,
on the 27th of December.
I was much grieved at the death of Charles Dickens,
for our intimacy had ripened, and I was on the eve of
enjoying his hospitality as a domestic friend at Gad's
Hill. From our first meeting I fancied he had a
liking for me; he always had a kind, encouraging word
to say to me. Our friendship reached the point of
intimacy through the misfortunes of a mutual friend
—Charles Fechter, the celebrated actor, who after
several brilliant seasons suffered the reverses conse-
quent upon making artistic merit the sole means of
attracting the public. Without speaking of him as an
actor, no man in my time has ever clothed the pieces
he produced with such artistic effect as he did. Each
piece was a perfect picture, of which he himself formed
the bright centre, shedding such light upon his fellow
workers that they developed powers which before
they had never been deemed capable of. I will only
instance one play, 'Hamlet,' as he produced it at the
Lyceum. It was a masterpiece of acting and stage
management. He made a large sum of money by his
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earlier productions at that theatre, which he spent on
remodelling and rebuilding the stage; but the public
require something they have a capacity to appreciate,
which is not artistic excellence, and little by little they
abandoned Fechter, until he found himself in difficul-
ties. He made a very fine engagement for the United
States, but he could not leave England without settling
certain imperative claims. Then it was that, being
aware of my intimacy with Fechter, Dickens asked
me to join him in supplying Fechter with the means
of satisfying those claims. We each advanced him
five hundred pounds, which was repaid in a short time
after he had entered on his engagement in the States.
I met Dickens one morning in Manchester, as he was
leaving the Free Trade Hall, where he had been
arranging the platform for his reading; we had a little
commonplace chat and parted. About two years after
I was at a musical party at his house, opposite the
Marble Arch; I arrived very early, and found him
and G. Dolby only. I had grown much thinner since
the last time we met, and he inquired if I was prepar-
ing to come out as Romeo, and, · By-the-bye,' said he,
'what has become of that heavy chain you wore last
time I saw you? Oh, I know, Dolby; now he has
grown so thin he's afraid of the weight overbalancing
him!'
I cannot recollect the precise date, but it was during
the season at the Gaiety, at Boucicault's request, I
accompanied him and Benedict to the Albert Hall,
which was then nearly completed, as he was desirous
of testing its acoustic properties. I sang a couple of
pieces whilst he roamed about from one part of the
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building to another, to test it from various points.
Benedict afterwards played a couple of pieces on the
piano, when I joined Boucicault in the auditorium,
and we both came to the conclusion that it was not a
good room for sound. The opening, at which her
Majesty was present, took place in April, 1871, when
our judgment was verified. I was engaged for the
Gaiety, to open as soon as the Christmas burlesque
was withdrawn ; the new work chosen was Lortzing's
"Czar und Zimmerman,' christened in English 'Peter
the Shipwright ’; as it was deemed wiser to keep this
back until Easter, we played 'Fra Diavolo' for three
weeks, rehearsing the new opera during the day.
Madame Lancia could not return, as she had a prior
engagement for a tour in the provinces, so Madame
Blanche Cole was engaged to replace her. She
lacked the warmth and earnestness of her predecessor ;
but with a fresh voice, well cultivated, and the grace-
ful naïve manner in which she played Zerlina in . Fra
Diavolo,' and Maria in Peter the Shipwright,' she
proved an attractive acquisition to our company.
Lortzing's opera ran for some weeks. I began to feel
the strain of singing every night the same piece, and,
to make matters worse, I took cold, which, having to
continue singing, I could not throw off. I was glad,
however, of a real excuse for bringing the season to a
close, for I was thoroughly disappointed ; as far as I
could see, my attempt at assisting to make a home for
opera in my native tongue was totally unsuccessful. I
sacrificed money, as during the same period I could
have earned double the sum I was paid at the theatre
by singing at concerts. I sacrificed health to a certain
extent; the atmosphere of a dressing-room under the
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295
stage, without ventilation, and the dreary monotony
of going on the treadmill every night, disposed or
indisposed, told on me. I was glad at Christmas,
when I was released from my toil ; but now I rejoiced,
as I had no intention of returning to it any more.
I tried hard to induce the management to produce
Auber's Le Cheval de Bronze. There are many of
the operas belonging to the 'opéra comique' réper-
toire which I feel sure would even now attract the
British public provided they were translated decently
and elegantly put on the stage. Nor would it be
necessary to have a band of ninety performers, as the
music depends on the singers, who would consequently
have to be heard. At that time there would have
been little difficulty in establishing a lyric theatre
attractive to the public and remunerative to the
management. The opportunity was lost, and has
never been recovered. English people do not care for
'grand opera' in their own language, although a round
sum of money was made by Balfe's grand opera “The
Rose of Castille,' and others so designated. They
like what the French call, and for which we have no
equivalent name, 'opéra comique,' in which a great
portion of the drama is in spoken dialogue. It is said
that speaking dialogue fatigues the singing voice ; I
must say I have never found it the case. Hoel in
* Dinorah,' my first part, is long, both in music and
dialogue, and after two weeks' hard work at rehearsals
and studying at home, I played it for five weeks every
night, at the expiration of which, for a rest, I played
Di Luna in ‘Il Trovatore' on the succeeding Monday
night, and my voice was as fresh, or fresher, than
when I began the season. Of course in these days,
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when young people have not learned to use their
voices properly, any excuse is better than none for not
being able to get through more than three or four
nights a week, and for not studying elocution suffi-
ciently to be able to recite decently.
I resolved I would throw away neither money nor
health longer on what was surely a chimera, and
decided to devote the rest of my career to the concert
platform ; but what I proposed was otherwise disposed,
for I had yet to undergo a theatrical ordeal far more
trying than any I had hitherto passed through.
It grieved me deeply to abandon all my cherished
hopes and the object of my whole life's ambition—the
stage. I had one small solace, the oratorio, for in
those days there was a society where oratorios were
performed in a way worthy of the great composers who
wrote them. It was but a small solace, though—an
oratorio now and then as a set-off against a crowd of
miscellaneous concerts, where the 'Erl King,' or some
other fine song, would be ushered in by some imbecile
trash about two old fogies warming their toes and in-
dulging in sentimental balderdash, or about children
dropping asleep over their evening porridge and being
put to bed, with the great probability, unexpressed in
the ditty, that they would be victims to indigestion and
consequent nightmare. And worse than all, to know
that ninety-nine hundredths of those composing the
audience would christen such stuff poetry, and the
melancholy meandering of the exponent singing. And
it is to be classed along with incompetence, such as the
like exponents display, that one makes a life-study of
the art of expressing poetry in song.
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CHAPTER XXI.
Off to America—A Farewell Concert-A Voracious Charmer-Cure for
Sea-sickness-New York Pavement- The American Oyster-More
Laurels than Pence-Lunch at Nine p.m.—'Where is the Town ?-Oil
preferred to Music—Hearts of Oak'- Patriotic Toronto-A Waiting
Race for Supper.
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I WAS very glad when the opportunity occurred by
which I could get away from my old associations for a
time. I was offered an engagement to go with a con-
cert party to the United States on very fair terms.
The party was to consist of Miss Edith Wynne, Mr.
and Mrs. Patey, Mr. W. H. Cummings, and myself,
with Mr. Lindsay Sloper as accompanist and sole
pianist. It was my old love of the sea which presented
the greatest inducement to my leaving England. I
had long had a wish to cross the ocean, and here my
wish was to be gratified---my singing in America was
in comparison a matter of indifference. I certainly
looked forward to a friendly greeting, as I had met
with many pleasant Americans, professional and other-
wise, who all promised me a gratifying reception if I
should ever visit the States.
Our agent started to prepare the way some weeks
ahead of us. Before leaving I proposed to give a
farewell concert at Liverpool the night before we
sailed. The secretary of the Philharmonic Society
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threw cold water on the suggestion ; he was sure it
would be a failure. The consequence was, luckily for
me, that the society would not share with me, but
demanded thirty guineas for the hire of their hall. I
made the arrangements, engaged my fellow-travellers,
and put forth a popular attractive programme. A few
days before the day of the concert I wrote to the
secretary to ask him to reserve a box for my family.
His reply was that he would be able to reserve any
number, as there was plenty of room left. I felt some-
what surprised that the townsmen who professed to
take such pride in me should not honour me with a
crowd when I was about to say farewell for an indefinite
period. I was much more pleasantly surprised, when
I arrived at the hall for the concert, to find they had
responded so heartily that the hall was crowded in
every part, very little else, except the box I had had
reserved, being given away. The concert, as I have
said, was a popular one, the prices not on a high scale,
but the result was very satisfactory, being net £275.
The next time I gave a concert at the same hall, which
was during a tour I made after my return from Ame-
rica, they would not let me the room at any price
except a share of the proceeds.
To describe a voyage to America, made in 1871,
would be simply ludicrous now. It was, to a certain
extent, an undertaking even then ; now it is little more
than a run down to Greenwich by boat to eat white-
bait, except that occasionally the water is rougher. I
liked it so much, I should have preferred carrying out
my engagement on board ship. I am what is called a
good sailor, which means I am a stranger to sea-sick-
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ness, which all real sailors are not. I knew one who,
after each watch, threw himself on the floor of his
cabin and lay there like a log, sick as a dog. Still the
sea air affected me seriously ; I was nearly always
hungry; meal-times seemed as though they would
never come round, although there was not much space
between them breakfast at nine, lunch at twelve,
dinner at four, tea at half-past six, and supper at nine.
I was not an exception in this; I was amused and
astonished at the prowess some of my fellow-travellers
displayed, notably a very pretty little American lady,
my vis-à-vis at table. I expected that a cup of tea
and a little toast would be about as much as she would
undertake for breakfast, but I saw her the first morning
eat a good solid rump-steak, followed by a dish of ham
and eggs, topped up with sundry little frivolities, such
as jam, muffins, etc. At the dinner, when all sat down,
we were uncomfortably crowded, and I was glad when
a little rough weather thinned the benches. Mr. and
Mrs. Patey retired altogether for about three days;
Cummings, who complained of headache, at last went
in search of them; they had been very bad, and he
found Patey restoring his wasted form with devilled
ham and bottled porter—a novel remedy for sea-sick-
ness. I had not been used to the company of cock-
roaches in bed, but after a night or two on board I
became accustomed to them, and left them to amuse
themselves after their own fashion. The captain-
Theodore Cook—was a very quiet, gentlemanly man ;
many of the passengers complained of his want of
civility when they addressed him ; for my part, I often
wished I had the faculty of keeping my own counsel
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as he had, as it would have been better for me. If
people would only reflect on the responsibility a captain
of a large ship, with a valuable cargo and a large
number of passengers on board, has to bear, they
would not be so apt to find fault with his apparent
taciturnity. I found him an exceedingly pleasant man,
but I never addressed him when I saw he was occu-
pied; I left him to address me, and we got on very
well together.
The voyage seemed very short, and I felt quite sad
at leaving the ship; however, there was a new place
to see, new people to know, so my spirits gradually
rose. Near the quay we mounted on a machine which
seemed a cross between a break for exercising horses
and a circus-van, and away we sped, over hill and
over dale (literally, for the pavement of New York
was then, and is still, a series of ridges and valleys), to
our hotel. I found my dormitory high up in the air ;
hot and cold water laid on, though the hot never came
when it was bidden. One great comfort there was, a
comfort which with very little exception I have found
wherever I have been in the United States and Canada,
a really comfortable bed. As a particular favour we
had our meals in private; they were very well served,
with plenty and great variety. I cannot say much in
praise of the wine-cellar; its contents, as far as I
became acquainted with them, were of a very in-
different order. In the exuberance of my spirits once,
after a morning concert, I ordered a bottle of what was
described as port, vintage 1834, but it turned out to be
cherry brandy. Soon after our arrival I was invited
along with the other male members of our company to
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a guest-night at the Lotus Club, where we met with
a most cordial reception. A stout elderly member
accosted me during the evening, asking me if I
remembered meeting him in London-at Alboni's
house, or apartments somewhere in Regent's Park.
I replied I did not. 'Perhaps,' said he, you will
be able to recollect the occasion when I remind you
we dined there, and before dinner you sang the duet
from “ Semiramide” with Alboni ; it was in the year
1857.' I replied he must be mistaken, as I never
dined with Alboni. I never sang the duet from
Semiramide' with her, and in the year 1857 I was
living in Milan. He insisted he was right, and that
I had forgotten all about it, so I left him to enjoy the
fruits of his imagination. I had often heard of the
celebrated American oyster which half a dozen people
had tried to swallow without success, and was anxious
to learn if the story were founded on fact. Cummings
conducted me to a cellar in Broadway, where, upon
his order, a waiter produced two plates, on which were
half a dozen objects, about the size and shape of the
sole of an ordinary lady's shoe, on each of which lay
what appeared to me to be a very bilious tongue,
accompanied by smaller plates containing shredded
white cabbage raw. I did not admire the look of the
repast, but I never discard food on account of looks.
I took up an oyster, and tried to get it into my mouth,
but it was of no use; I tried to ram it in with the
butt-end of the fork, but all to no purpose, and I had
to drop it; and, to the great indignation of the waiter,
paid and left the oysters for him to dispose of as he
might like best. I presume those oysters are eaten,
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One
acrOSS
came
but I cannot imagine by whom ; I have rarely seen
a mouth capable of the necessary expansion. I
soon found out that there were plenty of delicious
oysters in the States within the compass of ordinary
jaws.
According to my usual plan, I wandered all over
the city from the Battery to Central Park, and from
one river across to the other, and soon became
acquainted with all the ins and outs thereof. I saw
plenty to admire, except it was all so new, and only
one thing displeased me really—the incessant noise.
We have noise, plenty and to spare, in the city of
London, or in any of our great towns in Great Britain,
but nothing to compare with the din in New York.
These little things I mention first, being my first
impressions of the place, but I had not lost sight of
the important object of my visit. My strolling
propensities having been remarked, one paper published
a statement to the effect that Mr. Santley took a great
deal of exercise, and that he walked from the Battery
to Central Park every morning before breakfast.
Another got hold of a remark I made in jest at table,
and informed its readers that “Santley says squash
pie is the best thing to sing on he knows! I was
asked once if I would like to live in New York. I
incautiously (referring to the intolerable din) replied I
would prefer a lodging in the Strand, London, with
an income of £100 per annum, to the best house in
Fifth Avenue with £10,000 a year ; this was also
published, so I thought it was high time to study to
keep my own counsel. I had an early interview with
our manager on the prospects of the campaign, and I
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was bound to confess to myself they looked like failure.
business should not be so good at first. For my part,
I was satisfied it would not improve ; if people want
to hear or see anything, they turn out, spite of weather
or bad times; an epidemic is about the only thing I
know of which will prevent the public from seeking
amusement. We were supposed to give Ballad
Concerts, but though the American public liked ballads,
they were not accustomed to concerts made up of that
commodity. Perhaps had the trumpets been blown,
and the various and varied beauties of our programme
been explained in glowing colours, we might have
made a sensation. Individually, we were all received
with enthusiasm ; it was only rarely we had not to sing
a double programme. Our audiences were extremely
enthusiastic, but not sufficiently numerous to cover
the great expense of such a company. At Boston we
met with the same amount of enthusiasm, which we
were led to suppose would not be the case, owing to
the rivalry between that city and New York ; our
audiences were also more numerous. For the
oratorios— Elijah,' • St. Paul,''The Messiah,' Judas
Maccabæus,' etc.—we had splendid houses, and I was
exceedingly pleased to note that the attention of the
audience was not fixed, as it invariably is in England,
on those few pieces which have become stock encores,
no matter how they are sung or murdered. Especially
in · Elijah'I felt the audience following the prophet
throughout as the principal object of their attention.
The first night we sang in New York the great fire
broke out in Chicago, which reduced a great part of
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that city to ashes. It was intended that after New
York, Boston, and the neighbouring towns of import-
tance, we should turn westward to Chicago, Pittsburg,
St. Louis, etc., etc., but our manager for some un-
accountable reason changed our route. He contended
that Chicago, the principal musical centre westward,
being in such a plight, it would be useless to give a
concert there, and without the seal of Chicago it would
worse than useless to attempt anything in the other
Western cities. I opposed him to the best of my
ability. I had never been over the ground, certainly,
but his notion was absurd on the face of it, that
because Chicago was suffering from a calamity, no
other city of the West would welcome us. I went so
far as to make him an offer. I would go the tour of
the principal Western cities (to be named), and if any
loss occurred, I would forego my salary for the time
and pay my own expenses. He refused my offer, and
took up a tour which had been dropped by Ole Bull,
the violinist, in consequence of his serious illness;
instead of appearing in places of importance we were
thus for three weeks dragging about in small towns
where music such as we performed was no attraction.
Amongst the rest we went to Canandaigua. I do not
know what it is now, but at that time it barely con-
tained 4,000 inhabitants. We arrived at dusk one
evening after a long day's travelling, very tired and
very hungry. We were shown our rooms; then I
asked if we could have some supper, as we had not
had a decent meal the whole day. “Guess you can't
have supper.' 'Good gracious! you can give us
something to eat, surely?' 'Waal, I guess lunch'll be
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ready at nine; there's ham and eggs and a good piece
of cold beef. “Call it what you like, lunch or supper,
only I never before heard of lunch at nine p.m., but
let us satisfy our craving stomachs,' said I. 'Waal, at
nine o'clock it'll be on the table.' As we had still
about three-quarters of an hour to wait, Cummings
and I turned out for a stroll. I was struck with the
stillness, and suggested that there were either very
few inhabitants, or they had been visited by a plague
and the major part of them were defunct; 'besides,'
I added, "I don't see where the town lies. “Oh!'
said Cummings, it lies off to the right here. We
came to a cross street; I looked to the right, but could
not discern anything except a few houses scattered at
distant intervals, distinguishable by the lights in the
windows. I said, “There's no town there; nothing
but fields. “Oh!' said he, 'I was mistaken; I re-
member now, it lies on the other side. We turned to
go back to the hotel, and took the other side of the
way. I peered up each street, but there was no
vestige of town to be discovered. Not likely, as
Canandaigua consisted of one street. But it was not
the worst place by any means that we visited ; even
there we had upwards of five hundred dollars in the
room—an exceedingly good return for such a small
place. We visited coal cities, oil cities, and timber
cities; but none of them seemed to care for concerts.
Before this wretched tour we had been to Phila-
delphia, Baltimore, and Washington. Of all the cities.
I visited during my stay in the States, Baltimore
was to me the most sympathetic;. I can hardly tell
why, but it struck me as soon as I landed there. We
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had a very indifferent house, but the small number
present were most enthusiastic. The morning after
the concert, our manager sent to me to go to his room,
as there was an influential gentleman there desirous of
making my personal acquaintance. I descended and
was presented. We had a pleasant conversation re-
specting my impressions of and my reception in
America, which introduced the subject of our concert
the night before. He expressed great regret we had
not been favoured with a larger audience; but,' said
he, our people have not sufficient appreciation of art
to be attracted by singing such as yours. Now, if by
some means you could arrange a story of how you
were found in a cradle of bulrushes by the President's
daughter away up the river as she went out bathing,
like Moses was by Pharaoh's daughter, all Baltimore
would turn out to see you. I was often requested to
sing · Hail, Columbia'; I said I had no objection, pro-
vided they would permit me to sing 'Hearts of Oak'
after it. A propos of Hearts of Oak,' I did sing the
song once in New York at a party given by a gentleman
in his apartment at Delmonico's. We had enjoyed
a very jolly evening. Towards midnight two new
guests arrived rather the worse for wear. They had
been at a dinner at the Brooklyn Club, to which the
officers of a Russian man-of-war lying in the harbour
had been invited, with the express intention of making
them all drunk and seeing them under the table ; but
the hosts had not calculated on the resisting power of
a Russian head, and the tables were turned; the guests
remained perfectly sober, whilst the hosts were all
more or less intoxicated. The two new arrivals were
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pretty far gone. The younger of the two pounced
upon me as soon as he saw me in the room ; he knew
me, as he had attended all of our concerts ; he pestered
my life out, and I could not get rid of his blandish-
ments until I had danced a waltz with him. I had
peace for a while, but at length, having disposed of
egg-nog and sundry other beverages, the tormenting
spirit again moved him, and he insisted on my singing
a song; this I flatly refused, until our host, to put him
to silence, begged me to comply with any little thing
that would give me no trouble, apologizing at the
same time for the rude behaviour of my tormentor.
* Very well,' said I, “I will sing a song ; it shall be
“ Hearts of Oak," and the windows must be thrown
open that the passers-by may have a treat too.' !
went through the performance to the satisfaction of
my host and his guests, and especially of my in-
ebriated friend, who swore me eternal friendship.
Soon after Christmas we paid a visit to Buffalo,
where we gave two concerts, fairly well attended. A
fire broke out on the second night; the weather was
so cold that the water froze on the firemen's jackets,
close as they were to the fire. We crossed over to
Toronto, in Canada, and remained on our way a day at
Niagara, to see the Falls. Contrary to what I had
been told, the first glimpse I had of them made
a great impression on me. I think it must have
been seeing them first in the depth of winter. I have
since seen them in the height of summer, but there is
no comparison; the scenery surrounding them is of a
poor description, to which the snow and ice lend a false
picturesqueness. The thermometer was down I know
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not where, but I did not suffer from the cold, the air
being so dry and brisk; the only inconvenience that I
had to bear, and that was a slight one, was carrying
an icicle on the tip of each moustache all day. At
Toronto we had a packed room, and a most enthu-
siastic public. Our programme had been arranged to
suit, as well as we could, the American taste ; it con-
tained sundry Italian and French pieces. A gentleman
waited on me just before, we dined to ask if it might
not be possible to change it, as the public were anxious
to hear as many of our English songs as possible. I
promised we would do so, but at that hour it would
not be possible to print a new programme. The
audience appeared to grow frantic, and the applause
was deafening. We had to repeat each piece or sing
something else in place of it, and when we concluded
with God save the Queen,' they almost tore the
place down. On our return journey by Rochester and
Syracuse to Boston, we were detained somewhat by a
heavy snowstorm ; but by dint of using the locomotive
as a battering-ram we did not stick fast. When we
arrived at Boston the snow was so deep we had to
drive to the Parker House in sledges. Two hours
after, when we had dined and turned out to cross over
to the Museum, the snow had almost disappeared,
and the streets were nearly knee-deep in slush and
water, so quick are the changes from extreme cold to
a mild temperature.
Our concert tour ended at Boston, in the month of
February. Miss Wynne, Mr. Cummings and Mr.
and Mrs. Patey returned almost immediately to Eng-
land. I remained in Boston for about a fortnight after
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my friends had left. I was present one evening at a
dinner given by the Harvard Musical Society, when
my health was proposed in most poetic terms by
James T. Fields, and responded to most enthusiasti-
cally by the assembled guests. I heard some excellent
speeches, and was particularly pleased to notice that
none of the speakers fell back on that senseless mock
modesty so common in England, which takes the
form of stating that any other person in the room, or
anyhow a great number of them, would be much
more fit to propose or second the toast in hand. I
have regretted since that I did not accept an invita-
tion from James T. Fields to an evening at home'
to hear Emerson read his last book ; I felt fatigued
and dispirited after so much uncomfortable travelling,
and the disappointment of our efforts not being
attended with financial success. I had no share in
that part, as I was paid a stipulated sum, but perhaps
I felt more for my employers than I should have done
for myself had the loss been my own.
During this stay in Boston I met with the only
instance of inhospitality which occurred to me in the
United States. I should not probably remember it,
but I received on all sides such hearty hospitality that
this instance shows out like a dark shadow in a sunny
landscape. It is comical, or I would not relate it. A
certain theatrical manager, who with his wife used to
favour us with his company at supper at the Parker
House after our concerts, was constantly imploring us
to go and have dinner with him, without naming the
glad day. At last he settled on Christmas Day. We
had to sing the Messiah’ in the evening at seven
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o'clock, so dinner was fixed for three sharp. I would
not go, as I never go visiting when I have work to do
in public. All the others except Sloper accepted.
They went and waited, but there were no signs of
dinner ; about five tea was handed round and muffins,
I believe-capital preparations for singing. The end
was they had to sing the 'Messiah'on empty stomachs.
After they had departed for England, Sloper and I
were bound to atone for our absence from the festive
board on Christmas Day; we arranged to sup with
them one Sunday, as being the one day on which the
manager could enjoy an evening with his friends.
We dined pretty early, and arrived at our host's house
towards seven; we regaled ourselves with our own
cigars for an hour or more, when our host suggested
perhaps we were growing thirsty. I acknowledged the
soft impeachment, and confessed I should like a drink.
I was then offered a pitcher of iced water (it was still
winter), which I unceremoniously declined. After a
great deal of searching, a square Hollands bottle was
fished out, with just enough to supply Sloper and me
with a glass apiece. Another hour of smoke ex-
hausted my patience, and I made a movement to
retire. Then came the tug-of-war; I should not
leave the house until I had supped; the more I
insisted upon going the more they insisted on my
staying. I suspected it was all put on, so I thought
I would enjoy a joke at their expense, and I suddenly
changed my mind and said I would stay ; I winked at
Sloper, and he, too, suddenly determined he would let
our hosts have their own way. Then dismay seized
them; they were taken in their own net, and there
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was no withdrawing. They scuffled in and out of the
room, bringing in table-cloth, knives and forks, etc.,
to arrange the table. I remonstrated, and said they
need not hurry, but let the servant do all. Servant !"
said the hostess, 'why, she's in bed long ago. I
chuckled and commenced to enjoy the fun in good
earnest. A cold roast fowl nicely browned appeared,
together with a tart and sundry other fixings ; also a
bottle of claret, which was carefully deposited on the
sideboard. We sat down ; our victim, with a flourish
of his knife, and trying to put on a jovial air, began,
* Now, Charlie, will you take a bit of chicken?"
Rather,' said I. "What part?' said he. 'A wing,'
said I, and a nice thick cut of the breast. Sloper
followed suit, and we very ungallantly left the legs for
our hosts. “And what would you like to drink, my
boy? Said I, “I see a bottle of claret there, that'll
do. I never remember such an obstinate cork as the
one which stuck in the neck of that bottle. To end
the story, we demolished the greater part of the
chicken, finished the bottle of claret between us (I
mean Sloper and I, for our friends stuck to iced water),
made a large hole in the tart, and when we had, as
far as lay in our power, completed the desolation of
the larder, we stuck cigars in our mouths, thanked our
hosts for a delightful entertainment, and bidding them
a hearty farewell, returned to the Parker House,
chuckling over the gruesome countenances we had left
behind. We were never invited again!
CHAPTER XXII.
1
Success with ‘Zampa'- Italian Opera Season in New York“A Prim
Songstress, Realism and the “High C'-- A ‘Real Good Time?
Return Voyage-Music hath Charms'- My Peaks of the Mountain
Range-Mario and John Parry.
1
I HAD made an engagement with Mr. Carl Rosa to
join his company, which was to open in March, at
the Academy, in New York, with his wife Madame
Parepa, Adelaide Phillips, and Wachtel, the German
tenor, for Italian opera. As I did not feel inclined to
remain all the intervening time idle, I made a stipula-
tion that I should be engaged for his English opera
tour, and joined them at New York, where I played
* Zampa' and · Fra Diavolo.' “Zampa' was a great
success, here and in each town we played it; it always
brought a crowded house, and my favourite, Baltimore,
made up for her neglect during the concert tour, and
packed the house three nights in a week to see me
play · Zampa.' At Philadelphia I played Valentine in
* Faust,' for Mrs. Jenny Van Zandt's benefit, and it
was a bumper. We were to play · Zampa’ in Newark,
New Jersey, one night during our stay in New York ;
being a short journey, I went across after dinner. I
was busy making up in my dressing-room, when the
call-boy came to ask if I had a score of the opera with
me. I had not ; neither had anyone else. On inquiry
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why a score was in such request, I learned that every-
thing necessary had been sent on, except the band
parts. There were those of other operas, · Trovatore,'
'Bohemian Girl,' and I don't know what else, but
* Zampa' had been carefully excluded. The worst
part of the difficulty was, the same thing had occurred
at the last visit of Rosa's company to Newark. The
announcement that we should be obliged to substitute
something else for · Zampa' was received with a storm
of disapprobation, which did not entirely subside
throughout the evening. I sang my scene from the
second act of "Il Trovatore' in Italian, including
'Il balen,' the chorus joining in in English ; also ‘The
heart bowed down, and some other piece which I
do not recollect. If I remember rightly I did not
change my dress, but played Di Luna, Arnheim, and
whatever the other was, disguised as Zampa.
The Italian season in New York began about the
middle of March, and ended on the 30th of April. We
played “Il Trovatore,' •Rigoletto,' * Lucrezia Borgia,'
• Martha,' 'Gli Ugonotti, ‘Don Giovanni,' and
* Guglielmo Tell.' In 'Gli Ugonotti' I was once
more associated with my old comrade, Carl Formes,
whose Marcel even then was better than any I ever
heard. His voice was too much worn to last out the
whole opera, but his representation of the rough old
soldier was as perfect as ever. He only played at one
performance; a chorus singer (!!) was substituted for
him after, who had a voice which he could not use,
so the opera was literally played without Marcel-a
building without a foundation! However, he was
cheap, so it did not matter about the fabric toţtering:
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I had the pleasure of singing in the same season with
my other old friend, Giorgio Ronconi, for the only
time, in ‘Don Giovanni,' in which he played Leporello.
The house was crammed, but my attention was all
centred in Ronconi; I did not care a button what the
audience thought, all my endeavour was to satisfy
him. William Tell' I had never played before, and
I had only a short time to learn it in, and very few
rehearsals ; the tenor declined to attend the orchestral
rehearsal, to my annoyance, as he was a wretched bad
actor, and I did not know what he might be capable
of doing or leaving undone; and accordingly, at the
performance, he led me a pretty dance; I found him
anywhere but where he ought to have been. A very
clever girl played Jemmy, but she was very prim. In
my scene with her at the rehearsal I begged her to
go through the action as I wished it done at the per-
formance; and finding her a trifle formal, to tease
her, I introduced more embracing than was absolutely
necessary. At the end she remarked she liked the
part very much, but it seemed to her there was a
superabundance of hugging in it. I advanced the
claim of a loving father, sending his beloved child on
such a perilous errand, with such fervour that she
offered no further objection and resigned herself to
her fate. I was not a little disturbed in the meeting of
the cantons, when one strolled on singing in Gernian
and another in Italian ; it was realistic, but it served
to confuse me, as I had not had time to learn the part
as thoroughly as I would have wished. I had always
heard wonderful accounts of the high C' which our
Arnold gave in the last air. I listened for it, for I
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confess to a weakness for high C's when they are
given out as Tamberlik used, but no high C came.
and at the subsequent performance, or performances,
the air was omitted.
In some of the operas I had a charming companion
in Adelaide Phillips, an exceedingly good singer
(although then her voice was on the wane) and an
excellent actress. Madame Parepa played in all the
operas; in Il Trovatore,' Rigoletto,' and · William
Tell,' she appeared to great advantage, but in the
more tragic operas she was less successful, her
histrionic abilities being of a very moderate calibre.
I did not enjoy the season at all; the weather was
bitterly cold, the theatre comfortless; the company
contained few congenial spirits, and the crowded houses
which flocked to every performance appeared to me to
be attracted more by the advertisement of the Great
Star Combination 'than by the artistic merit of the
company. The receipts were enormous—of course,
I have only the crowds I saw and the report of the
manager to judge by—and on the last night they
reached the sum of 11,000 dollars. That may or
may not be, but the house was so crammed the people
stood in the parterre packed like sardines, and the
stage was so crowded with those who could not find
room in the auditorium that we had scarcely room to
pass on or off the stage. Spite of the failure of the
concert tour and certain drawbacks connected with my
operatic engagement, I had a 'real good time' in the
States, and felt some regret at leaving their hospitable
shores. At the same time, I was longing to get back
to England and enjoy a little peace and quietness
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on the ist of May, the day after our last performance,
by the Cuba, Captain Moodie, a real jovial sailor, and
a gentleman. On board we had Christine Nilsson
and one member of her company, Charles Lyall ;
Carl Rosa and his wife, and sundry members of our
company. A crowd of friends came on board to bid
us farewell, most of whom accompanied us in two rival
steam tugs, one on either quarter, each provided with
a brass band, whose horrible din served to drown the
parting grief of the more tender-hearted. Giorgio
Ronconi was among the number; it was the last time
we met, for although he lived until the beginning of
the year 1890, he never came again to England, and
our paths in life lay wide apart. He went for a tour
to South America, and afterwards settled in Madrid
as a teacher of singing. We had a very pleasant
the officers' mess-room each evening, where we supped,
smoked, drank grog, and told tales and sang songs.
The greater part of the saloon passengers used to
crowd round outside and cheer lustily when we gave
them something which excited their admiration. As
we were approaching Queenstown, I saw a sight to me
exquisitely beautiful, one that perhaps I may never
see again. We passed an outward-bound steamer of
the same line as ours (the Cunard) as the sun was
about setting in a perfectly cloudless sky. Just as
three-fourths of its disc were visible above the horizon,
the ship we had seen pass appeared broad-side as
though painted on it, every line clearly defined. We
arrived at Liverpool on the rith of May, and as we
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went up the Mersey, I could not help contrasting the
splendid docks and quays with the wretched wharves
which disfigured, and still disfigure, the shores of the
Hudson at New York.
The season in New York was the last of my connec-
tion with Italian opera. I really intended it should be
the end of my connection with any opera. The stage
T
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siasm and love for it had not abated, but I could not
fight almost single-handed against the lack of earnest-
ness, except for pecuniary gain, which I encountered,
turn which way I might, and I resolved to quit it.
I have often been asked, when I have been speaking
of those artists I look upon as the high peaks which
overtop a mountain range, if I did not think the
enthusiasm and unfledged impressions of youth had
not influenced my opinions. I do not think so,
because in later years an intimate connection with
them both as friend and comrade (except in two
instances, those of Staudigl and Luigi Lablache) only
served to confirm my youthful impressions. My
peaks are Viardot Garcia, Jenny Lind, Miolan-
Carvalho, Alboni, Mario, Giorgio Ronconi, Luigi
Lablache, Sims Reeves, and Staudigl. I have sung
with all except Lablache and Staudigl ; with the first
three ladies only in concerts, with Alboni, Mario,
Reeves, and Ronconi, both in the concert room and
theatre. Of these the Everest and Aconcagua were
Ronconi and Viardot, vocally and histrionically ;
neither of them possessing charm of voice or personal
appearance, both the charm of genius, which overtops
all other Mario was handsome, and the best pro-
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portioned man I ever knew; he was a genius, but
more limited than the other two ; Viardot and Ronconi
were thoroughly at home both in tragedy and comedy
-Donna Anna or Papagena, Iago or Papageno-
always great. Mario was great in ‘Les Huguenots,'
· Le Prophète,'' I Puritani,' 'Un ballo in maschera,
and in numerous operas; but he was a failure in
‘Othello,' and 'Don Giovanni,' and I, personally, never
thought his Faust a good performance for him. He
was dreadfully lazy, and a very slow study. Viardot
used to say of him that he began to have some notion
what his part in an opera was about, when everybody
else concerned was soaked with theirs. I had the
pleasure and advantage of his intimate acquaintance
for some years before he retired from the stage.
When we were together on operatic tours, we generally
lived together in the same hotel, and always occupied
the same dressing-room in the theatre, where he
smoked incessantly, leaving his cigar in his dresser's
hands as he went on the stage, and taking it up
immediately as he came off.
I tried all in my power to induce him to rise at a
decent hour—it was generally mid-day or later before
he left his bedroom—but I only succeeded on one
occasion. I had been relating to him the beauty of
the scenery about Bolton Abbey and of the ruins
of the Abbey itself; he was much interested, and
expressed a desire to visit them ; but then came the
question of starting in time. We were in Hull, and
had to return to Leeds to take a train to Skipton,
from which we were to take a carriage to the Abbey.
The train started about half-past eight a.m. What
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was to be done? Calling was useless, so it was
arranged I should pull him out of bed. When I found
him peacefully slumbering, remorse seized me for a
moment, and I felt inclined to leave him to his repose
and make the expedition alone; then I thought per-
haps he might feel disappointed if I left him, so I
pulled down the bed-clothes and literally hauled him
out. I must admit, he was much more good-natured
than I should have been myself. I went into the
station, took the tickets, and stood watching the clock
until the finger pointed to two minutes before starting
time. I told the guard of my anxiety about my friend,
and as he knew me he promised to delay the train
two minutes. I had given up all hope, when I
descried Mario, hat in hand, rushing frantically
towards the ticket-office. I rushed after him, seized
him by the collar, and did not let go until I landed
him safely in a carriage. In a few moments he was
fast asleep, so I left him in peace until we arrived at
Leeds; we went across to the other train, and just
as that was about to depart I missed him. Half
asleep when he left the train from Hull, he had left
his hat behind him, so again I had to ask the indul-
gence of the guard. We ultimately arrived all safe
and sound at the Abbey, and when we returned to
Leeds in the evening he told me he had never enjoyed
a day so much in his life. But I should not have
gone,' said he, 'if you had not pulled me out of bed.'
When we were not engaged in the evening we used
to settle ourselves after dinner for a good smoke and
chat; the former we plied so vigorously that we were
literally among the clouds. One evening our topic of
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conversation fell on the wonderful conquests some of
our comrades, according to their own accounts, were
constantly making. He told me that with one excep-
tion, all the conquests he had ever been cognisant of
had been old women ; as he said, it was somewhat
strange, he having always been a very attractive
man. One instance he related to me. Whilst he was
still studying preparatory to his début at the Paris
Opera, he had received several notes from an un-
known correspondent of the fair sex ; at last, with a
billet doux, came a truffled turkey from Chabot's. This
seemed more to the purpose ; so Mario invited some
friends to dispose of it at supper. A few days after
another note arrived, inviting him to a rendezvous in
some church, at eight a.m., on a certain day. Mario
did not relish rising so early, but as he was curious to
see what his correspondent was like, he stretched a
point, or several, I should rather say, and repaired to the
church at the appointed time. He could not discern
anybody answering to the description of a passionate
admirer, and was on the point of leaving, Mass being
over, when in the porch he was accosted by an elderly
female, who, after inquiring his name, begged him to
wait a moment, as her mistress desired a few moments'
conversation with him. He politely remained ; at
length the lady appeared, a charmer of upwards of
seventy years of age; he could not help laughing at
himself, spite of the adventure having deprived him
of three or four hours? sleep; but the turkey troubled
his conscience. He had no money to spare at that
time, and restitution must be made, so he exacted a
contribution from some of those who had assisted at
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the banquet, and a truffled turkey was returned to the
lady with compliments.
Two anecdotes which he related to me, being
decidedly characteristic, will, I think, be interesting to
my readers, and cannot offend any of his relations still
living. He was driving up from Fulham to the theatre
one evening, when a costermonger got in the way of
his carriage with his cart and donkey, which were
upset and the vegetables strewed all about. An alter-
cation ensued between the coachman and the coster-
monger ; Mario put his head out of the window and,
giving his name and address, said he would be re-
sponsible for any damage. On arriving at the theatre,
he told Lumley what had happened, and asked him to
settle the matter for ten pounds. Lumley insisted it
was too much, and refused to give the coster more
than five pounds. Some angry correspondence
followed, which ended in the coster bringing an
action against Mario for damages. At the trial a
number of witnesses, who were not present at the
catastrophe, swore to the coachman being in fault ;
Mario lost the case, and was mulcted in a heavy sum
for damages and costs. He left immediately after for
the Continent, and did not return to London for some
time, when, amongst other documents which had not
been forwarded, he found a bill of £ 2 50 for costs and
damages, with the addition of £200 for contempt of
court, he having neglected to settle the amount on the
proper day.
When he lived at Clapham, he had a friend who
took charge of the house during his absence. The
friend noticed that the gardener, without permission,
21
322
OLY
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
7
disposed of the fruit and vegetables grown on the
premises. Being determined to act as a faithful
steward, he remonstrated with the gardener, though
to no purpose, for the fruit and vegetables were still
unlawfully disposed of. On Mario's return, his friend
made such a fuss that, to satisfy him, he gave him
permission to bring the man up to justice. He was
summoned before the police-court; Mario had to turn
out at some (to him) very early hour ; the case came
on, when it was found that the gardener was a left-
handed relation of Mario's landlord, and after a con-
sultation between the lawyers it was agreed to stop
the action. Mario thought there would be no further
trouble and he would get off with a small account from
his solicitor. His surprise was great when he found
that after his early rising, and, as he thought, pardon-
ing a malefactor, he had to pay costs on both sides,
which amounted to about £400.
Of Madames Miolan-Carvalho and Alboni I have
already spoken. They were as different personally
and artistically as two human beings could possibly be ;
yet they had one trait in common : at rehearsal I
remarked that both of them employed their unoccupied
time in knitting stockings.
A great artist who had a line of his own I cannot
refrain from mentioning ; he was one of my earliest
adorations—I heard him first when I was about thirteen
or fourteen years of age — John Parry! He was
unique ! inimitable! I had the great pleasure of know-
ing him personally and numbering him among my
friends for some years before he died, and I had once
the felicity of appearing at a performance with him.
LS
0
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
323
We both went on in 'The School for Scandal,' at
Buckstone's benefit, at Drury Lane some years ago ; I
sang the song "Here's to the maiden,' which he ac-
companied on an old piano. I dressed in the same
room with Charles Mathews and Parry; I laughed
so much at Parry's flashes of wit that I had to beg
of him for mercy's sake to be quiet, or I should not
have a scrap of voice left to sing the song.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Retrospect and Prospect--The Half-Amateur -- Academies and Students
-A Musical Lord Mayor-A National School and a National
Theatre- A Lesson from Abroad.
Y
TA
I
red
111
1
ST
In concluding this portion of my memoirs, there are
many points connected with my art which the public
might expect me to discuss, but the fact of my being
still in the active pursuit of my profession prevents
me. There is one, however, which I should like to
offer to the notice of those who are interested—the
enormous increase in the number of students of music,
and the limited opportunities for making their talents
available when their studies are completed; and I
would propose two questions for their consideration :
How many of these students possess the necessary
natural qualifications to justify them in adopting music
as a profession? And what opportunities have those
who make music a profession of exercising it ?
It may be said that most of them study with the
sole object of becoming better acquainted with music,
in order to enjoy its performance more thoroughly. I
do not believe it, and I feel no diffidence about saying
So, when I see the abundance of half-amateur element
which has crept into the profession in the course of
the last few years. Ambition to shine in public as
Се
7
1
"1
UTI
II
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
34
325
YI
performers, in the majority of cases, overrules their
ostensible intention ; and defended from criticism under
the cloak of the amateur, they appear in public
performances where they do not advance the cause
of art, and where they often deprive young deserving
professionals. of engagements on which they are
dependent for their livelihood.
In the year 1860 the Royal Academy of Music was
the only institution of the kind in London, if not in
England. Since then have been established the
Royal College of Music, Trinity College, and the
Guildhall School of Music, besides a host of other
academies, schools, or conservatories in the suburbs
of London and in the provinces. In 1860 there were
seventy students in the Royal Academy of Music.
At the present time, taking all the academies together,
I think I am within the mark when I estimate the
number of musical students in Great Britain at 10,000,
and there is very little increase in the opportunities
for making their talents available when their studies
are completed.
In a prospectus issued by the promoters of the
Royal College of Music, one of the reasons assigned
for its institution was the probability of its leading to
the establishment of a national opera. The college
has been in existence ten years, and the probability
remains just as improbable as ever! A few years
ago, the then Lord Mayor convened a meeting at the
Mansion House to discuss the question of establishing
a national opera. Two men, Sims Reeves and myself,
with our experience, could have been of great service
in such a discussion ; we were neither of us invited
1
_
1
326
TTN
ILY
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY
to attend the meeting. I never heard anything
about the proceedings, but I believe they ended in-
smoke!
If people will insist upon spending money in the study
of an art for which they do not possess the necessary
qualifications, and find schools ready to receive them,
nobody has a right to interfere either with the students
or with the schools ; but if the nation desires to have
a conservatory, where those possessing natural artistic
qualifications can be educated, the nation must be
prepared to endow an institution with sufficient means
to maintain and educate the students free of cost, and
to pay efficient masters such emolument as will enable
them to devote their chief attention to those students.
Only those students must be admitted who, after a
rigorous examination, are found to possess the neces-
sary qualifications. Moreover, every student must
submit to further examinations at the expiration of six
months, and again after twelve months' study, in order
to verify the result of the first examination, and
determine whether the progress made be sufficient to
justify the student being permitted to continue his or
her studies.
Again, the nation must provide a home for those
she has educated; there must be a national theatre
in each of the principal cities in Great Britain, where
opera, oratorio, or concerts can be given.
This may all read like a wild dream ; it is nothing
of the kind, and can be done if there is the will. The
money wasted on teaching Board and other school
children nothing, would amply suffice to accomplish all
I have suggested.
7
!
REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES TT
327
SANTLEY
Owers
In Germany and France it is done, and in one
country, if not in both, the artists, after a term of
service, are entitled to a pension on retiring from
the theatre to which they have been attached, the
enjoyment of which does not preclude them from
exercising their art in their own country or. elsewhere
as long as they feel inclined, or their powers permit
them.
If these things can be achieved in other countries,
surely in rich England they are possible.
In conclusion, I beg to say I am not actuated by
any personal considerations. I speak on behalf of
my young professional sisters and brothers, for whom,
under the existing conditions of musical education and
performances, I see little else than disappointment.
ns
111c
LI
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
37 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND,
LONDON,
October, 1892.
A SELECTION FROM
MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S LIST.
New and Forthcoming Works.
T
1
STUDENT AND SINGER:
THE REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES SANTLEY.
With a photogravure portrait of the Author as a young man, and two other
portraits in operatic costume.
Demy 8vo.·, cloth, 16s.
"Mr. Charles Santley, the famous singer, has been writing his Reminiscences,
which will be published in the autumn by Mr. Edward Arnold. For many years
Mr. Santley was as prominent on the operatic stage as he is to-day in oratorio or
concert-room ; and his book is full of anecdotes of the Dii Majores whose names
are a household word in 'the profession.' His account of his own training, his
early difficulties and mature triumphs will be no less welcome to the general than
to the musical public."--The Academy, announcing the book on July 30.
ENGLAND IN EGYPT.
By ALFRED MILNER,
Late Under-Secretary of Finance in Egypt.
Demy 8vo., 16s.
This important work deals with the period of the British occupation in Egypt,
describing the causes by which it was rendered necessary, and the difficulties that
have been successively faced and overcome. As a work of reference the book will
prove invaluable to all who are concerned with the affairs of Egypt; while as a
2
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
history of one of the most remarkable enterprises ever undertaken by this country
abroad, it presents a record of events rarely paralleled, and full of deep interest to
all patriotic Englishmen.
OUTLINE OF CONTENTS.
The Land of Paradox. The Fellah as Soldier. The Egyptian View of the
Restoring Order.
| The Race against Bank- Future.
The Veiled Protectorate. ruptcy.
| The French View.
International Fetters. The Struggle for Water. The Other Powers.
The Years of Gloom, Experiments in Justice. The Teaching of Expe-
The Break in the Clouds. 'Odds and Ends of Reform. | rience
THE MEMORIES OF DEAN HOLE.
With a photogravure portrait of the Author, and several original illustrations from
sketches by Leech and Thackeray.
Demy 8vo, cloth, 16s.
The Dean of Rochester has arranged his " Memories" under alphabetical chapters :
thus, he takes in order Archers, Artists, Authors, Cricketers, Ecclesiastics,
Gamblers, Gardeners, Hunters and Shooters, Oxonians, Preachers, and
Working Men. Many have been his friends in all these divisions, and the book
is full of anecdotes and good stories.
EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE.
" These Memories are the holiday task of an old boy, who desires, and hopes that he
deserves, to rest, but is too fond of work to be quite idle. And though he cannot aspire to
combine with his own relaxation any signal service to his fellow men, he ventures to hope
that from the varied experience of a long and happy life, among all sorts and conditions of
men, he may conimunicate information which will be interesting and suggestions which may
be useful."
ECHOES OF OLD COUNTY LIFE.
Being Recollections of Sport, Society, Politics and Farming in the good Old Times.
By J. K. FOWLER (RUSTICUS),
Formerly of the White Hart Hotel and the Prebendal Farms, Aylesbury.
With a photogravure portrait of the Author and other illustrations.
Large imperial, cloth, ios. 6d.
** It is also intended to issue a large paper edition limited to two hundred copies
only. Price 21s. net. Subscribers' names will be entered and the orders
executed as received until the edition is exhausted.
The book is dedicated by permission to the Right Hon. Sir Harry Verney, Bart.,
and contains many curious and hitherto unpublished anecdotes related by Mr.
Fowler, from personal knowledge, of a large number of eminent sportsmen, politi.
cians, and public men, including Lord Beaconsfield, Count D'Orsay, Lord West-
bury, the Rothschilds, Bishop Wilberforce, etc. There are also numerous
reminiscences of the last days of coaching and posting and the early days of railways,
and of country life and manners, and agriculture in the middle of the century.
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
TT
THE BATTLES OF FREDERICK
THE GREAT.
Abstracted from Carlyle's Biography, and Edited by
CYRIL RANSOME, M.A.,
Professor of History at the Yorkshire College.
With numerous illustrations reproduced from the German Imperial State Edition of
Frederick's Works by special permission of the Director-General of the Royal
Museum of Berlin, the original battle-plans from Carlyle's Biography, and a map.
Square 8vo., cloth, 5s.
The “History of Frederick the Great," in some ways the grandest monument
of Carlyle's genius, has hitherto only been accessible in its complete form, filling ten
volumes. Professor Ransome's Extracts have been made by special arrangement
with the publishers (Messrs. Chapman and Hall), in the belief that, both as affording
brilliant examples of Carlyle's style, and as intensely interesting from a historical
L
The illustrations by Menzel are not those familiar to readers of Kügler's
“ History of Frederick," but were drawn for the Imperial German State Edition of
Frederick the Great's Works, never before accessible to the public, and specially
reproduced for this book by permission of the Director-General of the Königlichen
Museen at Berlin.
OMARAH'S HISTORY OF YAMAN.
The Arabic Text, Edited, with a Translation,
By HENRY CASSELS KAY,
Member of the Royal Asiatic Society.
Demy 8vo., cloth, 17. 6d. net.
“Mr. Kay is to be heartily congratulated on the completion of a work of true scholarship
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in the front rank of Oriental historical scholarship. As a learned commentary on an obscure
and difficult text, it is a monument of industry and thoroughness. The notes throw a flood of
light upon one of the least known periods of Mohammedan history."-Saturday Review.
THE MORAL INSTRUCTION OF
CHILDREN.
By FELIX ADLER,
President of the Ethical Society of New York.
Crown 8vo., cloth, 6s.
This is a new volume in the International Education Series. A List of the Series
can be had on application.
4
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
The Children's Favourite Series.
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.simple language to please young readers. Handsomely bound, and designed to
form an attractive and entertaining Series of gift-books for presents and prizes.
PRICE TWO SHILLINGS EACH.
DEEDS OF GOLD.
A book of heroic and patriotic deeds, tending to inspire a love of courage, bravery,
and devotion.
MY BOOK OF FABLES.
Chosen chiefly from the famous old Fables of Æsop and others dear to children of
all generations.
MY STORY-BOOK OF ANIMALS.
Anecdotes and tales about animals, from the familiar pets of the house to the beasts
of the forest.
RHYMES FOR YOU AND ME.
Short verses and rhymes, which everybody loves, and which are the first to be
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*** Other Volumes of the Series are in course of preparation.
EACH VOLUME CONTAINS ABOUT THIRTY ILLUSTRATIONS.
PRICE TWO SHILLINGS.
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A LITTLE TOUR IN IRELAND. By AN OXONIAN.
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bound, gilt top, ros. 6d.
The " Oxonian" who accompanied John Leech in his famous “ Little Tour in
Ireland," and who wrote the account which was illustrated by Leech in his happiest
and most successful manner, was the present Dean of Rochester. The book has
been out of print for over thirty years, for, although the first edition was exhausted
in a few weeks after publication, no other was issued, the second being withdrawn,
owing to a question as to the copyright.
"A welcome contribution to the revival of Leech literature. Mr. Hole, the 'Oxonian'
of those days, was blessed with buoyant spirits, and even then had a delightful taste for
couleur de roses'; his narrative is full of fun, observation, kindliness, remarkable and un-
usual comprehension of the people of Ireland, and sympathy with them. Leech's illustrations
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“A book to buy, to read, and to treasure jealously."-Westmor and Gazette.
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
1
A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN AND THE GARDENER.
By the Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS HOLE, Dean of Rochester, Author of “A
Book About Roses," etc. With steel plate frontispiece by JOHN LEECH.
Crown 8vo., 6s.
CONTENTS: The Joy of a Garden-The Gardener's Dream-The Six of Spades
--My First Fight in the Wars of the Roses—Some Cornish Gardens - Spring Gar-
dens-Spring Garden at Belvoir—Alpine Gardens—The Carnation--A Wall of
Flowers-Types of Gardeners-Love among the Tea Roses ; etc.
"No less charming and useful than the Author's 'Book About Roses.'"--Daily
Telegraph.
“A dainty book, . . . a profusion of jokes and good stories, with a vein of serious thought
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-World.
“Dean Hole has contrived to make his book both amusing and of real practical utility."
-Morning Post.
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learning in the literary art, clerical knowledge of the nature of men and strong love of flowers,
that is already. familiar to this author's readers."-Scotsman.
A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. By the Very Rev. S. REYNOLDS
HOLE, Dean of Rochester. Twelfth Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d.
ANIMAL SKETCHES. A Popular Book of Natural History.
By Professor C. LLOYD MORGAN, F.G.S., Principal of University College,
Bristol, Author of “Animal Life and Intelligence," " The Springs of Conduct,"
etc. With nearly sixty illustrations by W. MONKHOUSE ROWE. Large crown
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CONTENTS :
The King of Beasts. | Seals and Sea Lions. Thornies and Tinkers.
Bruin the Bear.
Awuk the Walrus.
Eels and Elvers.
Long-Nose, Long-Neck, Flittermice.
The Oyster.
and Stumpy.
Master Impertinence. The Honey Bee.
Cousin Sarah.
Snakes.
Spiders.
Sally's Poor Relations. The Ostrich.
Crayfishes.
Horns and Antlers. Dwarf Lions.
The Mermaid.
Froggies.
"One of the most simply delightful books about Natural History that has come under our
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and that its influence will be altogether wholesome and good.”-Nature.
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deal, are worthy of the text."--Leeds Mercury.
“A very charming book."--Daily Chronicle.
“Every boy with a taste for natural history ought to be presented with a copy.”—Lady's
Pictorial.
“A charming book about animals."-Saturday Review.
6
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
MEN OF MIGHT. Studies of Great Characters. By A. C.
BENSON, M.A., and H. F. W. TATHAM, M.A., Assistant Masters at Eton
College. Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.
CONTENTS :
Socrates.
Carlo Borromeo.
Dr. Arnold.
Mahomet.
Fénelon.
Livingstone.
St. Bernard.
John Wesley.
General Gordon.
Savonarola.
George Washington, Father Damien.
Michael Angelo.
Henry Martyn.
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audience. Studiously simple, yet never puerile, the 'Studies' are nicely calculated to satisfy
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EDUCATION FROM A NATIONAL STANDPOINT. Trans-
lated from the French of ALFRED FOUILLÉE, by W. J. GREENSTREET, M.A.,
Head Master of the Marling School, Stroud. Forming a Volume in “The
International Education Series." Crown 8vo, cloth, 75. 6d.
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“This volume comes to us in a particularly charming dress, which we hope may entice
readers to one of the most delicate, most original, and most noticeable books of the season. ...
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-Review of Reviews.
"In short analytical stories of this kind Mrs. Clifford has come to take a unique position
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BAREROCK; or, The Island of Pearls. By HENRY NASH.
With numerous full page and other Illustrations by LANCELOT SPEED. Large
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us to 'Barerock,' the new story of adventure by Henry Nash."-Sheffield Telegraph.
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ever been boys."-Saturday Review.
"A captivating story of adventures by sea and land."-Daily News.
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
7
FRIENDS OF THE OLDEN TIME. By ALICE GARDNER,
Lecturer in History at Newnham College, Cambridge. Illustrated. Square
8vo., 25. 6d.
“A capital little book for children, whose interest in history it is desired to stimulate by
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ander, form the subject of Miss Gardner's animated recitals, which possess all the charm of
simplicity and clearness that should belong to stories told to children."-Saturday Revietu.
WORKS FOR THE LIBRARY,
MY MISSION TO ABYSSINIA. By Sir GERALD H. PORTAL,
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DARK DAYS IN CHILE: An Account of the Revolution
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With 15 full-page illustrations. Deny 8vo., IOS.
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versity Faculty of Political Science in Columbia College, U.S.A. In two
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ANIMAL LIFE AND INTELLIGENCE. By C. LLOYD MORGAN,
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8
A Selection from Mr. Edward Arnold's List.
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appointed Publisher to the Secretary of State for India in Council, has now on
sale the above publications at 37, Bedford Street, Strand, and is prepared to
supply full information concerning them on application.
INDIAN GOVERNMENT MAPS. Any of the Maps in this
magnificent series can now be obtained at the shortest notice froin Mr. EDWARD
ARNOLD), Publisher to the India Office.
LONDON:
EDWARD ARNOLD, 37, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
Publisher to the India Office.

UNIVERSITY OF 6,1!CHIGA
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