Mattia Battistini: King of Baritones and Baritone of Kings

Mattia Battistini King of Baritones and Baritone of Kings

Jacques Chuilon Translated by E. Thomas Glasow

The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Lanham, Maryland • Toronto • Plymouth, UK 2009

Disclaimer: This eBook does not include ancillary media that was packaged with the printed version of the book.

SCARECROW PRESS, INC. Published in the United States of America by Scarecrow Press, Inc. A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.scarecrowpress.com Estover Road Plymouth PL6 7PY United Kingdom Copyright © 2009 by Jacques Chuilon This book is a translation of the French work Battistini, le dernier divo, published in 1996. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chuilon, Jacques. [Battistini, le dernier divo. English] Mattia Battistini : king of baritones and baritone of kings / Jacques Chuilon ; translated by E. Thomas Glasow. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-8108-6144-2 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8108-6144-5 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-8108-6727-7 (ebook) ISBN-10: 0-8108-6727-3 (ebook) 1. Battistini, Mattia, 1856–1928. 2. Baritones (Singers)—Italy—Biography. I. Glasow, E. Thomas. II. Title. ML420.B19C4813 2009 782.1092—-dc22 [B] 2008048180

⬁™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Manufactured in the United States of America. Photos from the author’s private collection. All rights reserved.

Contents

CD Contents Foreword by Thomas Hampson Preface Acknowledgments Introduction

v vii ix xiii xv

1

1 1 11 13 17 20 24 30 34 40 45 49 57 57 61 68 85 105 118

2

Birth of an Artist, 1878–1893 A Promising Debut Early Years Meeting Expectations Colleague of Tamagno Overseas Progress A Rival? Return to London A Singer with Ideas The Black Cat and Other Anecdotes Falstaff Glory, 1893–1903 Russia The Press Chaliapin versus Battistini The Russian Operas From Mozart to Bel Canto Tamagno and Battistini in Verdi iii

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3

4

5

Contents

Italian, German, and French Roles The 1902 Recordings The Legend, 1903–1914 The Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Year Siesta in Spain Rome and London The Recordings, 1906–1913 Survival, 1914–1928 France The Recordings, 1921–1923 Closing Years The 1924 Recordings Recitals and Rumors Farewells Posthumous Tributes Posterity The Mysteries of Bel Canto The Last Vestiges of Bel Canto

Postscript by Liza Mrosovsky-Shaw Appendix: Mattia Battistini Chronology by Thomas G. Kaufman Discography Index About the Author

129 142 155 159 171 173 183 203 206 227 231 245 247 253 261 273 287 307 315 317 387 401 405

CD Contents

# Composer and Opera

Title

Year

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

“Finch’han dal vino” “Deh vieni alla finestra” “Là ci darem la mano” “Allor che tu coll’estro” “O tu bell’astro” “O sommo Carlo” “Eri tu” “Si può?” “Ah non mi ridestar” “Tre sbirri” (“Te Deum”) “O vin discazza la tristezza” “Bella è di sol vestita” “Errar sull’ampio mar” “Vien Leonora” and “Dei nemici” “Per me giunto” and “O Carlo ascolta” “Deh vieni alla finestra” “Le Soir” “Ideale “La Partida”

1902 1902 1902 1911 1911 1906 1906 1911 1911 1911 1911 1911 1912 1913 1913 1913 1911 1911 1924

Mozart, Don Giovanni Mozart, Don Giovanni Mozart, Don Giovanni Wagner, Tannhäuser Wagner, Tannhäuser Verdi, Ernani Verdi, Un ballo in maschera Leoncavallo, Pagliacci Massenet, Werther Puccini, Tosca Thomas, Amleto Donizetti, Maria di Rohan Nougues, Quo vadis? Donizetti, La favorita Verdi, Don Carlo Mozart, Don Giovanni Gounod Tosti Alvarez

Sound restoration by Jacques Chuilon

v

Foreword Thomas Hampson

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his ongoing project, originally in its French version, first came to my attention around the time I was preparing at the Metropolitan Opera to undertake the legendary baritone’s reworking of the title role in Massenet’s Werther. As I wanted to know every possible part of how that story came about, I was thrilled to learn that in Paris, Jacques Chuilon had already (for some fifteen years) been researching the exquisite and mythical Mattia Battistini, his art, and his legendary five-decade career. We know of course that Massenet wrote that rare version of his Werther with the unique vocal artistry of Battistini in mind. And although I have admired this artist since my earliest days of study from numerous available recordings, I say with all modesty that I had never considered my voice to bear a close resemblance to the “King of Baritones.” However, as fate, fortune, and grace would have it, I have been called upon throughout my own career to sing most of the same leading roles that Battistini sang so memorably, often in the same venues across Europe. The great master said it best himself: “My teaching is in my records.” This is a startling revelation in view of how, historically, the validity of recordings was equivocated, even among famous artists, not to mention the astounding willful ignorance of many teachers and students today about the legacy of recorded singing under some misguided notion of avoiding vocal imitation. The treasures to be found by curious and honest students of singing—regardless of which side of the footlights they occupy—in their study of master voices long since silent are many, profound, and quite frankly the reaffirming life’s blood of our own vocal culture. To that end, a biography of this detail of one of the greatest master singers is a guide of inestimable value. It is my most sincere hope that this vii

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wonderful book in its new English version will continue to inspire an even wider audience and future generations of singers, and that Jacques’ thoughtful, provocative, and very personal insights into the art of singing will allow us to listen with new ears to a truly great singer who was in his own time—the time of Verdi and grand opera as we think of it, for fifty years—unanimously considered the best living example of the bel canto style.

Preface to the English Translation

With this volume published by Scarecrow Press, the great Battistini (who was

legendary, among other things, for his dread of sea travel!) has finally arrived on the shores of North America, and indeed on every continent around the world. The English translation was a generous gift offered to me by Historic Singers Trust, London (please visit www.historicmasters.org), at the urging of the late Richard Bebb, who was the first to have the idea that this book must be available to all in the English language. His love of rare vocal beauty led him to collect the best of the best, and of course Battistini was a reference point. Incidentally, Bebb is the collector I mention without naming in the introduction regarding his question to Gregory Reinhart, “What can a bass learn from listening to Mattia Battistini?” In addition to the arguments I put forth there and in the following chapters, the illustrious names of Wagnerians Alexander Kipnis and Ludwig Weber, who heard the baritone many seasons in Vienna, are among other low-voiced admirers inspired by the King of Baritones. So how did a Frenchman become a passionate defender of this legendary Italian singer? Early in the 1980s, I was already an avid record collector, with a special curiosity for voices from the past. Since the day I discovered a thirtythree revolutions per minute (rpm) album of arias by Mattia Battistini, “the Glory of Italy,” also known as King of Baritones, I have considered Battistini to be the finest recorded example of a lost art of singing. I now consider him even a provocative example to us in our never-ending search for a better world and in our attempt to obtain musical perfection. But many more questions, and my personal sense of the injustice of indifference to such an irreplaceable artist’s memory, compelled my research from Paris to Russia, Spain, America, and especially Italy to search for the missing pieces in a complex and intriguing puzzle. To me, the nagging question remained: How could this immense ix

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musical figure—considered from the beginning of his career as the purest incarnation of the bel canto technique; the most celebrated baritone of his day with a career of nearly fifty years, from the crossroads of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; who knew Wagner, Verdi, Mascagni, Puccini, Leoncavallo, Massenet, Thomas, and Saint-Saëns; who performed their music across Europe a generation before Caruso and Chaliapin; and who left us over one hundred recordings—how could Battistini be a name known only to the most privileged record collectors and perhaps to a small circle of the very finest singers, but not to the wider opera-loving public? For when Battistini’s name is brought up among even the most cultivated music lovers, or when one flips through an article in any number of recent publications, one can hear these common misconceptions: “Yes, what a glorious singer, but he was a poor actor or he had a small voice or the bel canto style is too mannered for today’s taste or he sang only noble roles and disdained comic roles or he was actually a tenor”! Motivated more than ever to try to make right this perceived wrong, I decided to write a book that would draw from my now vast research, my knowledge of singing, and my important collection of photographs and original recordings from the period and that would help to erase some of the commonplace errors or clichés that are repeated in print regularly regarding this legendary singer. Finally, it was the original publication of this work in French by the courageous Alain Martinet in Paris in 1996 that crowned my fifteen years of research. A word about the recordings, a subject that is largely developed inside the book. In the late 1980s, I was already a passionate lover of Battistini’s art and tried to convince a large number of CD publishers in various countries to edit the very first Battistini collection, since only thirty-three rpm records (reprints) and of course the original seventy-eights were to be found. As with my book project, my attempts were met with considerable resistance. A well-known editor of CD compilations in Italy even refused the project on the grounds that Battistini is “too well-known”! In the end, Nimbus Records made a lovely album, and they kindly asked me to contribute the record liner notes and gather my best 78s with other collectors to loan them for the project. Although, predictably, entire shelves of Battistini solo CDs were soon stocked around the world by countless editors, today they too are now collector’s items since fewer and fewer new CD releases are dedicated to great singers of the past. It would not be an overstatement to say that my more than twenty-five years of experience teaching voice ranges of all types have been inspired by the recorded legacy of Battistini. In the same way, I believe my own educated ear has helped to transfer the maximum of musical information from the original 78s and relay it as best permitted by today’s technology. My work every

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day with opera singers helps me to recognize the sound that I so often find washed out by commonly heard commercial methods of restoration or, worse, by attempts to preserve the charming “antique” quality of these primitive documents. Therefore, a selection of transfers from my personal collection of 78s is provided for the first time in the enclosed CD. Furthermore, on the occasion of this publication, my transfers of fifty significant operatic titles to celebrate fifty years of Battistini’s career have been posted in MP3 format online at www.chuilon.com. I feel I was guided by the hand of Battistini during this entire adventure, a hand that led me to some of my most important discoveries and warmest human contacts. Besides uncovering a miraculously preserved collection of over one hundred stunning stage costumes belonging to Battistini (a great number of which I managed with Gregory Reinhart to bring to Paris for a stunning exhibit at the Opéra-Comique—perhaps one day to America, and maybe Japan or China) and an unexpected wealth of hidden press clippings in dusty libraries, perhaps my most remarkable surprise occurred the day a young British pianist appeared to accompany my singing class in Paris. She saw a manuscript on my desk and said, “I think I might be related to Battistini.” Given the artist’s childless marriage with no known descendants, I hinted that the pianist must perhaps be thinking of Ettore Bastianini, a most common confusion. By chance and against all odds, however, it was revealed to me that day that Mattia Battistini has indeed several direct and living descendants. After many letters, phone calls, and trips to London, the result is that the King of Baritones’ own granddaughter has proudly accepted an invitation to contribute an informative postscript to this volume. To conclude, I sincerely hope that this book will allow generations of readers and careful listeners to see the wealth of the art of Mattia Battistini, and to perhaps also be guided by his hand to their own great discoveries.

Acknowledgments

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ince the publication in Paris of Battistini, le dernier divo, Thomas Hampson has performed around the world the baritone version of Massenet’s Werther, specially reworked by the composer with Mattia Battistini in mind. Mr. Hampson has been a faithful champion to me in the long effort to make this book happen. I thank him for his shared compassion concerning the relative neglect into which the name of Battistini has fallen, despite the occasional footnotes that refer to Battistini as one of the greatest singers of all time. Another person, among the many who helped produce this book, deserves my special gratitude: Tito Cheli, who spared no effort to facilitate my research by opening the doors of the Provincia di Rieti. Over a period of many years, we visited the archives, the former estate and resting place of Battistini in Contigliano, and the personal collection of the baritone’s stage costumes that are miraculously preserved in Colle Baccaro. I thank the mayor who helped me organize a successful exhibition of Battistini’s important costumes in the foyer of the Opéra-Comique in Paris in 1996. My sound transfers were amplified in the splendid foyer of the theater that afternoon, where Battistini’s voice resonated years before. Among the speakers was Liza Mrosovsky-Shaw, granddaughter of the great baritone, who has graciously contributed the postscript to this edition. E. Thomas Glasow is the translator. We became close friends in Paris in 1982, while he was working on his doctorate, and afterwards when he returned to Rochester, NY. His care in researching, editing, and finding le mot juste were always evident in his reviews in Opera News and Opera Quarterly, where he was editor until his death in 2004. It was sad indeed to struggle with last-minute editorial changes without his precious advice and knowledge, and love of singing. xiii

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Acknowledgments

Finally, this translation is dedicated to Annick Martinet, editor and friend, who is remembered and missed for her enthusiastic and cheerful work; and to Gregory Reinhart, who helped me in every step of this project from the day we first discovered the King of Baritones.

Introduction

Not so long ago it was common practice to make fun of golden-age singers

by saying that they liked to upstage their colleagues while assuming flattering poses, hand on heart, in front of the footlights. These extravagant, capricious creatures supposedly ignored composers’ wishes by indulging in languid rubatos, syrupy portamenti (insufferable to the well-trained ear), and interminably held notes whose utter irrelevance to the drama defied common sense. At least that’s the image we set in contrast to today’s most respected opera singers, who humbly efface their own individuality in deference to the stage director. The same attitude used to hold true for judging certain styles of music. Indeed, until only recently Rossini’s serious operas were generally regarded as mutations, vain and contemptible impediments to the march of progress. And it seemed certain that baroque opera would never return to favor, because it lacked the dramatic credibility our more sophisticated modern audiences demand. All these so-called truths have since gone up in smoke, for our own era’s distinguishing characteristic seems to be the exploration and reevaluation of all the music of Western civilization, starting from square one. Such pursuit is even having an effect on other artistic realms, as we thrill to the “discovery” of artists like Van Gogh, Matisse, the Caravaggios, Rodin, and Palladio. Monteverdi, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, Berlioz, Mahler, and countless other composers have been restored to life. Alongside Pavarotti, Caruso no longer strikes us as ludicrous, and the warbling coloratura is back in style in spite of Maria Callas and her dramatically charged interpretations. Have we risen above our short-sightedness, and shall we finally be able to regard our entire cultural heritage on equal footing and put to rest the old quarrel of ancient versus modern? Before responding confidently in the affirmative, it would be well to xv

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ask ourselves if we haven’t actually set in motion an inevitable process whereby the miraculous finds of today will be reburied so that others may be uncovered. Prejudice all too easily turns into common acceptance. Ever-greater advances in sound reproduction in addition to an everincreasing fidelity to composers’ intentions influenced how the record companies market their products, until a radical change in the industry gave them pause. The advent of the compact disc boosted declining sales, but instead of engendering new recordings, the industry soon defied all expectations by reissuing no end of old recordings that hardly showcase the technological improvements we were led to expect. This sort of advance, trumpeted by the major record labels as comparable to that of a laundry detergent that washes clothes whiter, gave rise to a wave of apathy among consumers, as though they instinctively sensed the latent contradiction between a heightened technology and an impeccably sanitized one. Prior to this renaissance, 78s had certainly been reissued on LPs, but never as relentlessly as they would be on CDs. The modern era, while claiming to liberate the artist from the yoke of patronization, is no stranger to the syndrome of the poète maudit, the artist who is misunderstood in his lifetime and hailed as brilliant after death, covering his contemporaries with posthumous shame. Many artists have reasoned that a misunderstanding of their work is proof of genius; to shock an audience would therefore seem to be the surest method of achieving fame. This is the principle that keeps record companies solvent and the consumer enthralled. Overall, one might characterize the main tendency of so-called modern art (i.e., since 1900) as savage, crude, and austere, and it is widely feared that the art of the future will smack of the same substance. But would that be correct? What if, to our surprise, the art of tomorrow were to take another direction altogether? In the field of opera, people often refer to the cold virtuosity of the singers of the past, to the mechanical techniques of sopranos before Callas. Even in the eighteenth-century Pier Francesco Tosi, in his treatise on singing, felt that the singers of his day indulged in too much virtuosity and lacked the touching simplicity of an earlier time.1 Indeed, what is modern today will be old-fashioned tomorrow, and modernization does not always mean simplification or streamlining. To revise a famous slogan of modernism (“Less is more”): some eras are predisposed to the unadorned, while others revel in the ornate. Those who listen to old records and then invariably declare, “One couldn’t get away with singing like that any more!” (as though to save themselves the trouble of articulating what “that” is) should realize that they are inadvertently putting themselves into the same pigeonhole to which they relegate their ancestors and that, by taking such an attitude, they in turn should expect their own descendants to decry what they most admire about modern singing. Furthermore, an era as attuned to “early music” as ours ought not to

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reject the singers who were contemporaries of the great composers, who inspired their music, who performed—and frequently premiered—their works. Today, can we honestly claim to have a better understanding of early music and how to perform it than those who were alive when it was composed? What evidence is there? On what grounds can such complacent arrogance be based? Might our definition of stylish performance practice simply be the embodiment of current (which is to say, ephemeral) taste? Obviously, today one can no longer compose like a Bach or paint like a Braque, but that does not mean that such artists’ technique is no longer of value to us. Nostalgia and scorn are two mirrors that reflect different false notions of the past, either positive or negative. The surest way to avoid misconceptions is to remain in frequent contact with the works themselves. When putting a record on the turntable or a CD on the tray, one is seldom inclined to philosophize on the role of the ostensibly neutral playback medium, which has no influence on one’s immediate impression of the music. As long as the Sistine Chapel ceiling remained dirty, it was concluded that Michelangelo did not know how to handle color. If it is far from easy in the visual arts to distinguish between what the painter did and how the ravages of time altered it, it is no less difficult in the musical realm for the untrained ear to distinguish between the audible shortcomings of a technology in its infancy and the sound of a lost aesthetic (though it is possible, through gradual experience, to learn to identify certain causes and effects). Listening to old recordings does not mean that one prefers pops and skips to the pristine clarity of the compact disc, just as going into raptures over the façade of a Gothic cathedral does not imply a fondness for dirty, dilapidated buildings—nor does an admiration of Greek sculpture imply a morbid curiosity for amputated bodies. It involves a search for all there is to discover in an art form, even in a deteriorating one. Missing pieces must be mentally reconstructed while one attempts to scrape off the barnacles, so to speak, in order to recover the original splendor. It is a healthy exercise, closely related to the creative act itself. One should not be afraid of reading too much into things or of overestimating an artist’s genius. Shouldn’t what we glean from artists’ work be used to develop our minds and inspire us? One of the most highly prized qualities we look for in today’s performers, above and beyond the desire to communicate a composer’s work, is an ability to disappear behind the music with self-restraint, objectivity, and distancing. One of the criteria by which we judge performers of the past, from our perspective, is their capacity for heralding the future, for being one step short of modern. That revelation is like balm for our ego. But the notion of modernity is also subject to modifications and setbacks. An era is defined by a style, the source from which a composer of the period draws in order to

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fashion his own voice and which earmarks a whole generation. But listeners in subsequent generations, while embracing the second-rate remnants of the past as models of inspiration, scoff at worthier examples that allegedly constitute the height of bad taste. For instance, the 1903 recording of the aria “Vi ravviso” (La sonnambula) by Pol Plançon (1851–1914) is, to my ears, more suited to Bellini’s music than the one made twenty-four years later by Feodor Chaliapin (1873–1938). Plançon phrases without affectation, and his voice flows naturally. For the sake of argument, one might point out that because Plançon belonged to an earlier generation of singers (that of Battistini, in fact), it is no surprise for us to hear in his voice the bel canto style that no longer existed twenty years later. Yet, because the bel canto approach suits the repertoire Plançon sang, it is interesting that we should be so impressed by its rightness, whereas the new style of Chaliapin proves uncomfortable and marks a step backward in the understanding of this music. To argue that my favorable impression of Plançon is linked to current fashion, which might soon reverse itself, does not prove me wrong; on the contrary, it merely refutes the theory that performance practices improve inevitably over the course of time. It is not easy to assimilate an aesthetic approach, no matter how readily accessible, and even quite recent artistic developments can easily escape a whole generation of listeners who, without realizing, become out of touch with them. Recently, the compact disc industry has unearthed many singers of the past—some worthy, some not—but Mattia Battistini oddly remains in the shadows, even though his career was marked by one triumph after another. Why such neglect? Is he being made to pay for some wrong committed in his lifetime? In any case, the oversight does not appear to be fortuitous. For example, among the featured singers in the EMI collection entitled Les introuvables du chant wagnérien, Battistini is conspicuously absent—despite the fact that he is one of the few artists from the seventy-eight rpm era who actually met Richard Wagner and was even appreciated by him. Likewise, in Les introuvables du chant mozartien there is no trace of Battistini’s famous Don Giovanni “Serenade” (reportedly encored four times on occasion), nor of his celebrated “Champagne Aria,” represented in this anthology (as in so many others) by the recording by Francesco D’Andrade (1859–1921), a singer criticized by Reynaldo Hahn and Bernard Shaw.2 D’Andrade’s career surely never approached the level of Battistini’s, and other artists featured on the EMI set acquire a certain posthumous glory above anything experienced in their lifetimes. We could cite other anthologies and books that avoid Battistini, where one can learn, from reading indexes and lists, of the fine reputations enjoyed by the shades of Bathori, Battaille, Batteux, Battishill, and Baudelaire. Hence, it is not surprising that, even among music lovers, Battistini’s name is confused with that of another baritone, Ettore Bastianini (1922–1967), although the two

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artists differed greatly. Battistini possessed a clear voice and a technique that allowed him to pursue a career on the highest level for fifty years, while the darker-voiced Bastianini sang for less than sixteen—a difference that ought to hold some weight in a comparison of their reputations. However, Bastianini is closer to our time, Battistini already distant. From that perspective, the halfcentury longevity of the latter means nothing alongside the decade-and-a-half career of the former. Of course, the brevity of Bastianini’s career was not due to a forced retirement but to his premature death, from cancer of the vocal cords. Even if it would be unjust to blame his unfortunate end on an abuse of the vocal organ, one cannot help but doubt that the voice would have lasted much longer, given his rather crude emission. This assessment gains credence when one considers that, in Bastianini’s day, artists were told repeatedly that it was better to sing for ten years like a lion than for twenty like a lamb, which the recklessly impatient interpreted as a guarantee of true merit. Battistini symbolizes the nineteenth century, until recently derided, whereas Bastianini in his narcissistic prime represents the twentieth. As that young, handsome leading baritone’s premature death contributed in no small way to his glory, or more precisely to the memory we have of it, one has to ask oneself whether Battistini’s longevity didn’t work against him. But, then, one may well wonder what the public is more interested in: art, or martyrdom? And, since the prematurely tragic fate signals an offshoot of the artiste maudit, one wonders why so much emphasis is placed on the fall, on the unfinished career . . . We are delighted, of course, that connoisseurs have preserved examples of the vocal art of the past in order to make them available to a wider public on disc, but how can these same documents be contaminated, so to speak, by such dissuasive commentary as one reads in many of the accompanying liner notes? The assertion by some commentators that Battistini was a mediocre actor is untrue, as we shall see when examining frequently overlapping testimony during the course of this book. Authors of such comments are misinformed, allowing themselves to fall into the trap of believing that a beautiful voice implies poor acting, just as a pretty face is commonly associated with a lack of intelligence. Battistini’s exiled status most likely stems from the fact that the public now thinks of him as embarrassingly old-fashioned, hardly inspiring the respect of connoisseurs, who, moreover, seem to want to keep him off-limits for themselves (there is something intimidating about the cold praise in encyclopedia entries devoted to him). Who among us could identify with Battistini, the grand, cultivated aristocrat showered with honors and ovations? A man described as the champion of a vocal technique now inevitably considered exasperatingly demanding, of a style that is outdated at best, hardly attracts the admiration of the critic who, after being indoctrinated on the evolution of art, likes to hunt down errors of judgment committed by his naive predecessors

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while assigning himself the role of solemn upholder of the avant-garde (especially that of bygone days). But artistic evolution, as generally viewed, is not based on solid principles. It is easy to demonstrate how certain trends that are for a time regarded as modern (like Wagnerism or musique concrète) soon fade, and how artists considered among the most “advanced” of their day have often acknowledged indebtedness to the work of distant forerunners. Witness the influence of Poussin on Cézanne, of the medieval Pérotin on Varèse; Delacroix envied Rubens, Debussy exclaimed, “Vive Rameau!” For such artists, it is not a question of copying models but of finding a springboard for one’s own creativity; it involves the need to find oneself, far from the well-known works whose overexposure no longer inspires a sense of continuity (even though they might acquire that capacity later on). It is a matter of willful provocation, of shaking off familiar habits, of searching for a filiation beyond the immediate (hence, superficial) past. It could be, too, that the artist, as well as the art lover, takes pleasure in correcting (or defying) the sins of his parents, and that he devotes himself more willingly to the neglected artists of the past who did not fully realize their promise than to those, like Battistini, who seem to have reached fulfillment through fame. Certainly, Caruso and Chaliapin, who reign supreme among the beloved singers of yesteryear, enjoyed tremendous celebrity during their lifetimes; however, their careers contained elements of misfortune, whereas Battistini’s did not. Caruso, independent of his art, captures our interest and sympathy because he represents the child of the masses who encountered resistance before his greatness was recognized and then died, struck down in his prime, before he could fully enjoy his triumph. Chaliapin offers another version of the colorful tale: raised from the soil and representing the common man, unashamed of his Pantagruelian appetite, inoffensive because of his ludicrousness, a bit larger-than-life in the recital hall (an overly sophisticated environment for most of us), he tilled the soil between the Russian Revolution and Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. Caruso and Chaliapin, not only historically closer to our own time but also highly colorful personalities in themselves, embody the image of the artist the public of today wants to believe in: someone on the fringe who refuses to compromise, brimming with a spirit that no one wants to see tainted by the banality of daily life. Everyone believes he knows Caruso, the exuberant, good-natured, pudgy, pasta-eating Italian with a voice warm as sunshine; everyone can visualize Chaliapin, the hairy Slav haunted by wild and unfathomable legends, with the voice of a basso profundo (which in actuality he was not). Of course, our point is not the artistry of these men but the more or less distorted image one has of their lives; in this light, art is no longer an end, but

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the means by which an individual can commune with celebrities. Unfortunately, this misconception occurs all too frequently. Some people need to be told that Mozart was the rascal portrayed in the film Amadeus so that they can season the heavy formality of the music with a bit of spice. Yet if fresh research were ultimately to reveal a Mozart who was taciturn, misanthropic, financially well-off, and (why not?) opportunistic, then his music would have to be made to suit these new converts. What many find attractive in the new Mozart is irreverence and mischievousness (with which everyone identifies), the consequence of which was poverty. The Romantics pictured him as a delicate, divine poet; future eras would view him from other perspectives. Battistini seems have to suffered in the public eye only from having achieved too much success: his entire career unfolded under the aegis of triumph and longevity; when he retired at seventy-two due to health problems, he left a plethora of recordings and photos, in contrast to the deplorable absence of any recorded documents by such great artists as, say, Adolphe Nourrit or Maria Malibran. Yet, because we are so used to certain ancient masterpieces surviving only in fragments, it is not all that common for great art to go unrecognized when, for once, it comes down to us virtually intact, like the Hermes of Praxiteles, found in such magnificent condition and on the site where it was erected. No copy of the statue ever attained the same level of quality, and yet many never bother to view the original! Likewise, Battistini, who inspired so many enthusiastic reviews, is within our grasp, yet he leaves us perplexed. We have mentioned the periodic rediscovery of the Matisses and the Mahlers, though there is a point to be emphasized here: during all their years of neglect Vermeer’s The Astronomer and Girl Weighing Pearls were no less admirable than they are acknowledged to be today. Battistini is accessible to whoever wishes to avail himself of listening to him. Perhaps the only thing needed to awake wider public interest is the publication of a standard biography, though it would require some effort to create a reader-friendly Battistini. A biography often serves as a guide for music lovers by deepening their appreciation for the artist, but it should never divert one’s attention from his artistry with fictional meanderings. Relating the life story of a singer involves dangerous pitfalls, not only because a whole segment of the public seeks explanation for fame in the romanticized events of a life, but above all because praising a singer’s art for its perfection amounts to raising the singer onto a lofty pedestal. Readers are suspicious of anybody who demands extraordinary reasoning powers to be comprehended; they are more comfortable reading about a person who has experienced setbacks and suffering, because the more human image is less intimidating. Most of the information about the life of Mattia Battistini repeated herein comes from two books. The first, entitled Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico, by

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Gino Fracassini, was published in 1914, during the artist’s lifetime, after he had reached the zenith of his fame. It is less a biographical narrative than a summary of his career, roles, and successes. It appears that Battistini may have shown the author some reviews from Russia or elsewhere that he wished to see mentioned rather than reveal the details of his private life; letting a third party do the talking would have been the singer’s way of maintaining impartiality and allowing the book to focus all-importantly on his art. The second book, Mattia Battistini, il re dei baritoni, appeared in 1949, twenty-one years after the singer’s death. Six years after it was published, its author, Francesco Palmegiani, bequeathed his personal copy of the Fracassini book to the Rieti public library. The sources that Palmegiani had consulted included, among others, a book entitled Le voci d’oro by Arturo Lancelotti (1942), which, in a chapter devoted to a discussion of the greatest singers, includes a section on Battistini. It is not difficult to see the limitations of the Fracassini book, published not only while its subject was still alive but probably also with his blessing. It offers a portrait of the artist, of the public figure. But as we will see time and time again below, the omissions of the book are imposed more by modesty than by pride. Fracassini’s aim was not to enhance an already firmly established renown but to react to it, whereas three and a half decades later Palmegiani would have to reaffirm—even rekindle—its timelessness. His field of specialty being the history of his region (Rieti and its environs), it was natural for Palmegiani to devote a book to one of the area’s most celebrated citizens. In it, besides the usual embellishment of facts and the tone of nostalgia for the good old days, today’s reader will also notice a number of gaps that need filling in. In Fracassini’s day, certain events were common knowledge, the people discussed still alive and well known; hence it was not necessary, for example, to list credentials for the baritone Antonio Cotogni (1831–1918) in order for a comparison to make its full impact, but more than a generation later the facts had been forgotten and the truth had been tinged with legend. All the scattered pieces of the glory that Palmegiani tries confusingly to reassemble evoke a bygone time and feelings long forgotten. He would have been tempted to color certain outmoded elements with his own point of view, while emphasizing others; Palmegiani was not far enough removed from the events he reports not to be influenced by the taste of his own time, inevitably in opposition to that which came immediately before. But his care in citing specific dates and people in history in order to give his text an air of authenticity tends to encase Battistini in an old-fashioned, protective frame, within the confines of which past customs appear more artificial than refined and only arouse an urge to break free of them. The ideal performer in one’s grandparents’ or great-grandparents’ time invariably personifies the excesses that a new era has cleansed itself of. At the very most, he is given credit for preparing the en-

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lightening times we now enjoy, which amounts to saying that he is not considered on the level of today’s stars. Elsa Boscardini’s 1994 book Mattia Battistini, il favorito di Pietroburgo, limited to the Russian years, draws largely from the two earlier books. It has not yet been cited in new books on music in general or on Battistini in particular. When depicted in a biography, artists usually come across in sharply defined images. Battistini’s life story is not particularly marked by unusual events or humorous anecdotes (despite a few rather characteristic ones). What makes this artist’s life interesting and important is its liberating and exultant aspects; it is radically different, because it demolishes the stereotype of the artist doomed to self-destruction. The life of Battistini offers a case so extraordinary that it is likely to make one question the currently fashionable preconception of the artist as plaything of fate. From it one can learn what it is like to lead a life wholly dedicated to that aspect of humanity that justifies all the curiosity about the man that persists to this day: his art. Indeed, it is his art that attracts our attention and inspires our respect. For Battistini, art was not just one element among so many others but the pivot, the ultimate goal of existence. The reason he gave up a normal life (though is it truly a sacrifice when it produces such results?) is partially preserved for us on discs. Moreover, and fortunately for this author, the era of Battistini was rich in the amount of detailed press reviews of performances, though it should immediately be added that no other singer inspired as many long descriptions and analyses. My coverage of his extraordinary career draws from a multitude of substantive articles, though without taking everything in print about him at face value (some comparative criticism yields interesting results); the unanimity of praise in the reviews will serve as my basis for ruffling a few preconceptions. When extracting a single adjective or sentence from the context of an eyewitness report, one runs the risk of betraying both the writer’s thought and the artist’s image. Therefore, I have deliberately chosen to leave intact lengthy extracts of contemporary texts used to describe events, the better to reevaluate not only Battistini’s position in relation to his colleagues but also the aesthetic context of the writer’s appreciation. Being able to read entire texts, rather than résumés or brief citations, allows one to form one’s own opinion. Certain comments that occasionally stray away from the main topic give readers a better chance to weigh the credibility of a text by revealing the extent to which writers sometimes get carried away by their own enthusiasm or severity. Hence I beg readers’ indulgence and invite them to make good use of the approach of this book, by the end of which one should know a bit more about the past by reappraising (if necessary) the criteria that habitually influence one’s thinking without one’s even dreaming of questioning them.

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Reality is not built like a novel, so this biography of an artist will not adhere so strictly to chronology as to ignore other topics that turn up along the way. The reader will notice the book’s format evolve, more or less throughout our tracing of the career, according to the type of issues raised.

* * * An avid English collector of seventy-eight rpm records whose unabashedly provocative opinions reveal a deep love of beautiful singing once posed this question to a friend: “What can a bass learn from listening to Battistini?” The question is valid, and the fact that Battistini is often criticized, rightly or wrongly, for a weakness in his low notes in no way undermines the list of his superior qualities offered in response: an even emission of sound whose firmness does not compromise flexibility; an easy ascent to a shimmering top (because high notes are always a feat, for basses as well as for sopranos); a strong, floating legato; nobility and intelligence of incisive, personal phrasing; the secret of that all-too-elusive sense of rubato, practically a lost art; and a sense of the grandiose, the sublime, and the sheer joy of singing. Clearly, the art of Battistini remains relevant not because it resembles or prefigures today’s standard of singing but because it serves to raise and enrich that standard, because it abounds in energy, heightens the demands a singer makes on himself, and offers satisfaction. Of course, there is a danger that those who begin to appreciate Battistini risk becoming less tolerant of other baritones—but is the fear of that possibility any reason to ignore a great artist? At a time when questions of vocal technique and interpretative style are more crucial than ever, at a time when we seem more willing to listen to recordings of the past—not for nostalgia (as pointless a reason as for making fun of them), but in order to derive some benefit from them—Battistini, perhaps more than any other singer, has a great deal to teach us, for he occupies a privileged position. As an inheritor of the bel canto tradition (which implies a knowledge of style as much as the functional aspects permitting certain technical feats), he served Wagner, Verdi, and Massenet while they were still alive as well as the verismo and Russian composers. We today who wish to evoke the correct style for any given work cannot ignore this aspect of his art, for, miraculously, he made recordings that set the masses cheering and filled composers with delight. Surely we are not obliged to copy his approach, though it would behoove us to apply our conceptions of “style” and “composers’ intentions” to a less rigid standard. Perhaps these thorny subjects explain why Battistini is so often regarded as taboo. The vocal technique he demonstrates cannot fail to astonish those used to post-war singing, whether it be the ease of his vocalism (unmatched by anyone who succeeded him) or the brilliance of his high notes, not to mention his vocal longevity (a subject dealt with in the last chapter in

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this book). One further reason for the interest in Battistini is that his recordings, captured when he was at the summit of his art, are technically quite good for the period, whereas other great golden-age artists left only a few such documents, usually of poor quality and made after they had gone into retirement.

NOTES 1. Pier Francesco Tosi, Opinioni de’ cantori antichi e moderni (Bologna, 1723). 2. Reynaldo Hahn, Thèmes variés (Paris: J. B. Janin, 1946), 34ff.; Bernard Shaw, “Good Old Don Giovanni,” The Star, June 14, 1889, in Shaw’s Music: The Complete Musical Criticism in Three Volumes, vol. 1, 1876–1890, ed. Dan H. Laurence (London: The Bodley Head, 1981), 666.

•

1•

Birth of an Artist, 1878–1893

A PROMISING DEBUT

In an interview in the 7 March 1888 issue of Mondo Artistico di Milano, Battistini himself recalled the events leading up to his debut in Rome.

The star of the [favorita] performance was the celebrated Galletti. I was utterly enchanted by the singing of that passionate Leonora. Since two Alfonsos had already declared themselves indisposed, the theater was shut down. Then I had the bold notion to sing with La Galletti. I went into the impresario’s office and firmly stated, “You need a baritone for La favorita; if you want me to sing, I’m prepared.” Jacovacci was stupefied. I didn’t bat an eye, and he sent for Luigi Mancinelli. A wave of hesitation passed over me, but I immediately pulled myself together. Mancinelli listened to me and said simply, but with determination, “Let’s go!” We went to see La Galletti, and she, too, liked me. That very evening, donning the costume of my predecessors, I walked on stage and had the kind of success I hadn’t even dreamt of. . . . Afterwards, thank God, there were other successes. But how hard I had to work! And as I progressed, I felt the weight of more and more responsibilities; when you presume to become someone, the realization causes even more anguish . . .1

Ten years later, in another interview, Battistini admitted: I made my stage debut in an unexpected manner, not to my liking and under rather unusual conditions. In 1880 we had an Italian opera house that I frequented daily and whose director knew me well. One of the productions slated was La favorita. Both baritones of the company fell ill, preventing the show from going on. The clever director, knowing that I already knew the

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Chapter 1 role [of Alfonso], begged me to make my debut. That unexpected event succeeded very well, and after leaving the university, I devoted myself to the stage, a decision that to this day I have never regretted . . .2

In Gino Fracassini’s version of the event, the Teatro Argentina threatened to cancel because of the baritone’s indisposition; fortunately, the conductor Mancinelli recalled hearing a young beginner who might be suitable. Flattered though stunned by the proposal, the young baritone, who had never stepped on a stage before, decided to take the chance. However, when he found himself alongside La Galletti, his courage began to falter. Fortunately, Galletti, staring wide-eyed, encouraged him, and it seemed as if he grew wings. La Galletti told him that he would sing that very evening with her in La favorita and that he should immediately try on his costume for alterations. The performance excited the public. During the curtain calls the young debutant neglected to come back out, so La Galletti graciously called him, saying, “This applause is for you!” The man who just enacted the role of king with such majesty then advanced timidly, like a bashful lover, to accept his first public ovation. In 1922, while in London for two recitals, Battistini gave a reporter this version of the event: When I was sixteen or seventeen years old I knew a number of ballads; I hummed all the opera arias, and at private parties I sang duets with all the young ladies who had any pretension to a voice. This brought me a number of little drawing-room successes, which encouraged me, and I ventured, tacitly supported by my mother, to sing at one or two charity concerts. At that time all Rome was under the spell of Galetti [sic], who every evening made all hearts beat at the sound of her miraculous voice. “La Favorita” was her specialty. I knew the whole score by heart, and if I had an ideal, it was to sing Don Alfonso with Galetti. That was how matters stood, when one morning the maestro, who had heard me sing several times, came up to me and asked, suddenly: “Do you know the whole of Don Alfonso’s part!” “Yes, almost,” I answered. “Why?” “The baritone who takes the part of Alfonso has been taken ill, and they don’t want to alter the announcements, because ‘La Favorita’ always brings them such a full house. Come and see Galetti.” We hurried to Galetti’s house, and, such is the assurance of extreme youth, I did not feel altogether frightened. When the maestro had told her all about me, she spoke kindly to me, asked me questions about my musical preparation, and asked me to sing the grand aria of Alfonso. “Will you sing with me this evening?” she asked, when I had finished.

“May I?”

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3

“Yes, yes, I have not the slightest doubt. But there is no time to lose. Quickly, quickly!” she added, addressing herself to the maestro. “Take him to the costumier at the theatre, and get him fitted up with some costume.” The evening came, and I appeared, a little “gauche,” a little nervous, in my palace gardens at Aranuez. At the first notes my fear disappeared and gave way to inspiration. I think that never since have I sung “La Favorita” so well. It was as though I were singing the hymn of my very youth. I was moved, very excited and happy, and my emotion soon took possession of the house. After the second act my success was assured—after the third there was enthusiasm. Not being initiated into the customs of the stage, I could not grasp that it was I who was calling forth this tempestuous applause. Galetti came towards me and said smilingly: “But you must take off your hat—salute the audience—it is you that they are acclaiming.”3

Francesco Palmegiani names Boccacci, former shoemaker turned impresario of the Teatro Argentina, as the one who had the bright idea of using Battistini (whom he had already heard sing); he probably asked him to substitute at the last minute. His meeting with Mancinelli must have followed, as well as the announcement to the audience concerning the indisposition of the baritone slated for the performance, and the wager was made. Mancinelli was probably less than convinced at first, ultimately deferring to La Galletti. The rest of Palmegiani’s narrative parallels Fracassini, with the addition (as in Lancelotti) of the following statement from the star mezzo: “I expected an apprentice and I find myself, on the contrary, in the presence of a consummate artist.” During the curtain calls, Persichini comes to embrace his pupil. Lancelotti includes the Galletti statement, although in his version Battistini takes the extra bow on his own initiative. Palmegiani might well have noticed the name Boccacci in the obituary by Lancelotti in the 9 November 1928 issue of La Stampa, or in a similar article in La Nazione of the same date. There Boccacci is also described as an exshoemaker and frustrated singer. In both of these sources, the two baritones are booed by the audience, and Battistini “with the blissful nonchalance of youth” presents himself to Mancinelli and receives the same compliment of confirmed artist from La Galletti. Despite the consistency of the details, the reader cannot help suspecting that the remarks originally written in the third person were changed to first person in order to make the account more immediate. Indeed, further on Battistini adopts a conversational tone when reproducing the contents of a letter he actually wrote in 1922 for Lyrica and Le Monde Musicale. Certainly the information remains valuable, but, thus transcribed, certain phrases sound stilted or arrogant—quite unlike Battistini the man.

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To find out more, one needs to delve beyond these biographies. In the summer of 1878, Countess Zelli-Garnier had asked Persichini to organize a concert by his best pupils for the inauguration of her new apartments in the Palazzo Pericoli (Piazza Colonna). The Rigoletto di Roma of 15 June 1878 names the singers enlisted for the occasion: soprano Casilde Mercantini (called Clotilde in another paper), tenor Giulio Cataldi, and baritones Carlo Giustiniani and Mattia Battistini. The program consisted of arias from Robert le diable (Mercantini), Aida (Cataldi), and Un ballo in maschera (Giustiniani). Battistini sang “O Lisbona” from Donizetti’s Don Sebastiano. The soprano and tenor returned in a duet from Un ballo in maschera, and the two baritones performed a duet from I pescatori by Menzocchi. The concert ended with all four singers in the quartet from Mercadante’s Giuramento. It was a big success, earning praise for Professor Persichini of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia. On 15 and 18 July 1878, in the church of San Agostino in Bagnoregio, Battistini sang with another baritone, Padre Giovanni del Papa. On 15 August of the same year, in the Rieti cathedral, Battistini gave a notable performance of “O salutaris Hostias!” under the direction of the composer Luigi Stame.4 The Gazzetta Artistica di Roma of 29 September 1878 contains information about some concerts in Chiaravalle where Battistini shone in the Gloria by Mustafà, as well as in a repeat of “O Lisbona,” to which he added “Eri tu” from Un ballo in maschera and “Io t’amerò” by Campana. At a third concert he sang another “O Lisbona,” Valentin’s aria from Faust, and a duet from La forza del destino. This established the great success of the young man, who was already being compared favorably to Francesco Graziani (1828–1901) and Cotogni. In early September, after taking a trip to Milan with his teacher Persichini (on the invitation of the director of the Gazzetta Artistica di Roma, Signor Barbaro), Battistini encountered several impresarios. Rosani from the Teatro San Carlo in Naples wanted to open the season with the young baritone and the tenor Ortisi in Gomes’s Il Guarany, but his proposal came too late; two hours earlier, Battistini had just signed a contract to sing in Malta and London in late 1878 and early 1879. Two whole months prior to November, then, the young man was already busy making plans for his stage debut. Although the names Jacovacci, Boccacci, and Mancinelli mean little to us now, in their day they were anything but unknowns. Vincenzo Jacovacci (1811–1881) was a famous opera impresario who directed the Teatro Argentina on several occasions, the last time in 1857. In 1878, he had moved to the Teatro Apollo, Teatro Argentina’s rival house. He directed the Teatro Costanzi when it opened on 27 November 1880, before Boccacci took over in 1881. In September 1880, Jacovacci called on Battistini to assist in some acoustical trial runs for the barely finished auditorium, which implies that he had confidence in him (he knew the baritone from having engaged him to sing

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at the Apollo the previous winter). Although Jacovacci had been dead for seven years when Battistini referred to him in print in 1888, he was obviously not forgotten. Was it merely a case of confusing two names that resembled each other, or did Battistini actually think that fondly of Jacovacci? Was he acknowledging that fondness, or did he think that readers would be more impressed by his reference to a celebrated figure, any bending of the truth being inconsequential? In any case, it could not have been Jacovacci who first engaged him, because it was not he but Boccacci and Fanfani who headed Teatro Argentina when Battistini stepped on the stage for the first time. Luigi Mancinelli (1848–1921) composed a few operas but is most remembered as one of the more charismatic conductors prior to Toscanini’s rise to fame. On the threshold of a great career when Battistini made his debut, he was at the height of his glory in 1914 when Fracassini attributed to him the happy idea of engaging the future King of Baritones. Was this a tribute from the biographer or from Battistini, for a conductor under whom he subsequently sang quite often? But in 1949, after the Toscanini revolution, and despite Fracassini, Palmegiani turned Mancinelli into a Pontius Pilate and chose to reinstate the name of the actual manager of Teatro Argentina, Boccacci (the name Jacovacci apparently being no longer in the running). Remarkably, the first two versions Battistini gives of the event differ. They might be more credible if they reflected the aristocratic modesty observed by all his close acquaintances, which prevented him from revealing a side of himself that best expressed his personality. But what side is that? In what guise does he suppose not to flatter himself in front of his interviewer? In that of a young man at once rash and timid, fascinated by Galletti and then by the public; in the confusion of adolescence; or in the persona of the student who rises to the head of his class, makes a good impression, and gets the big break of his career, though not undeservedly? The 1898 version shows a very clear desire to simplify, as though to avoid boring the reader with too many details. Indeed, it is conceivable that after twenty years he had tired of reiterating the story of his debut, as though the event in itself justified and explained his extraordinary career, as though that miracle alone had launched his stardom. Battistini does not identify the impresario by name, and he even fudges the date: 1880, given more for context than for information. Yet for 1922, what a wealth of detail! The story seems to have acquired a classic form, smoothed out for easy telling and understanding. Memory tends neatly to embellish the truth, making it difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. The memory of Galletti remains alive thanks only to the anecdote about her La favorita with Battistini (unlike Steane and Stinchelli, we shall refrain from asking ourselves how such a complete unknown could have sung in those days of yore). No doubt history has been unkind to her, for Isabella Galletti-Gianoli,

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born Filomena Rustichelli (1825–1901), actually had a brilliant career. For her Verdi wrote the role of Amneris, which she unfortunately was unable to sing at Aida’s Cairo premiere in 1871. She was a famous Leonora. That Battistini aspired to sing with her reveals considerable ambition on his part, which everyone around him certainly must have noticed. Whether he took the initiative or was solicited is unclear (and why couldn’t he recall?). Can he be taken at his word? Only two out of six versions of the story describe Battistini presenting himself to the theater administrators; Lancelotti’s (the second) probably retells Battistini’s first version, which is perhaps only a summary. It is more likely that Battistini manifested a desire to sing the role of Alfonso on an earlier occasion and that Mancinelli, Boccacci, or Fanfani remembered. Thus, he could say that he had proposed himself for the role. It is all the more conceivable, then, that during such a crisis at Teatro Argentina, a meeting concerning him could have taken place in the manager’s office and that Mancinelli would have had good things to say, whether or not it was the conductor (or the impresario) who ultimately made the proposal to the young singer. In any case, Battistini seems to have determined to make his entry into the world of professional singing without delay. Fracassini mentions only one baritone, not two; whichever the case, the detail hardly alters the effect of the anecdote. Palmegiani cites two, adding that they were both booed (as do Lancelotti and the article in La Stampa). That there were indeed two baritones can be confirmed; their names were Palou and Vanden. But were they both booed? Battistini (perhaps out of discretion) says they were indisposed, and Fracassini echoes him on this point. Why else would Vanden have let Battistini substitute for him? Several newspaper articles mention his “generosity” in allowing Battistini to cover himself with glory, but they don’t offer much information about Palou. Moreover, less than ten days after withdrawing, Vanden successfully sang the role of Masaniello in Gomes’s Salvator Rosa, replacing none other than Palou. Neither he nor the management could have been unaware of this when he reprised the role of Alfonso. Could it be that he agreed to replace Palou, indisposed or booed (or perhaps indisposed because of the booing), while realizing that he could not postpone his debut indefinitely? Perhaps a deadline had even been set and the management knew he would not be singing every performance. Obviously, if Palou had a cold reception but his replacement had satisfied the public, the theater could not risk the consequences of reemploying the singer who displeased. The difficulty of finding a sure bet would have delayed the final casting until the last minute. Battistini had just had a brilliant success in his first public appearances, his name was on the lips of all connoisseurs, and his presence would have fanned curiosity and reflected favorably on the administration first showcasing the new talent. In case of a fiasco, the public would appreciate the risks

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involved and forgive the management for having tried . . . one hopes, at least. Yet it became too complicated to explain the entire sequence of events to the press and to later biographers; that is, that one baritone had been booed, and that because his replacement was available for only a few performances it became a matter of utmost urgency to find a successor. So when did the event occur? Palmegiani conjectures 11 December 1878, whereas Lancelotti situates it a month earlier, 11 November. The December date, so often cited in reference books and on record jackets, is incorrect. It must at some point have been confused with the projected date of Battistini’s farewell to the stage in the same role, on 11 December 1928. Newspaper reviews dated 10 November 1878 indicate that the debut took place on a Saturday: hence Saturday, 9 November 1878. The 10 November issue of the Gazzetta Artistica di Roma, which kept close tabs on its protégé, even announced that Battistini would be singing at Teatro Argentina until 10 December (in fact, his success was so great that an additional performance of La favorita had to be scheduled for 11 December). The press had been alerted about a debut not to be missed, so it is likely that the singer arranged for the additional performance. Credence can also be given to an article that reports Battistini went on stage after only one orchestral rehearsal (probably the eve of the performance); thus, Galletti’s question to him would have been, “Do you want to sing with me tomorrow?” But this in no way slights his courageousness. What effect did the debutant have on the press, before he became crowned with glory? The Marquis of Arcaïs, an influential critic who in 1890 was on the jury that awarded the Sanzogno competition prize to Cavalleria rusticana, had this to say: La Favorita at the Argentina has had its third performance. The patrons of this “café au lait” theater change kings like a South American republic changes presidents. The first Alfonso, Signor Palou, had abdicated to Signor Vanden. The latter was living in peace and harmony with his subjects when suddenly there appeared a new pretender to the throne. The young Roman, manifesting the desire to savor the sweetness of power, found an obliging predecessor, truly a rare bird, and allowed him to take his place for a few evenings. In other words, Sgr. Vanden paid an acknowledged favor to Sgr. Battistini by handing him a role in which he had been applauded, thus making his debut easier. All the more fortunately for the newcomer, his friends (of which he seems to have many, to his credit) and particularly his colleagues in the Filarmonica wanted to be present at his coronation address—a speech set to music by no less than Donizetti himself, rich in elegant, moving, melodious phrases. It seems superfluous to report that Sgr. Battistini had a triumph. No other artist of any quality whatsoever has had such a reception in Rome, at

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Chapter 1 least insofar as operagoers in this city can determine: neither Galletti, nor Patti, nor Donadio, nor Cotogni was ever applauded so warmly and at such length. The public certainly had the commendable intention of encouraging the first steps of one of its fellow citizens toward the difficult career of a singer, but the danger of this noisy demonstration is that Sgr. Battistini, yesterday evening after the performance, might have believed himself to be already an established singer, an artist of the first caliber. Some newspapers have even declared that he is worthy to sing in the leading opera houses. I myself, who am always kind toward debutants and try to help them go forward in the difficult art to which they devote themselves, currently believe that it would be a disservice to Sgr. Battistini not to warn him about the exaggerations that might lead him astray and fill his mind with harmful illusions. First, we have to point out that Sgr. Battistini is indeed a debutant of great promise, though nonetheless a debutant, and that he still has a long road to travel before reaching his goal, even if last night’s success might cause him to think he has already attained the height of success. Therefore, he must persevere more than ever in his studies to realize the hopes that can be objectively placed on his future. The voice of the new baritone is beautiful and pleasing, even though so far it possesses neither great volume nor great range. But Sgr. Battistini is very young and his voice can still grow and extend itself in the upper register, which yesterday sounded a little pinched, probably due to nerves. The mezza voce is delicious. The adagio of the second-act aria, the famous romance in act 3, and especially the duet with Signora Galletti were all sung by the baritone in the most exquisite fashion, a fior di labbro. In my opinion, Sgr. Battistini should not embark immediately on roles that require stamina; if he attempts them, he runs the risk of ruining his voice before long. For a while, he must stick to a repertory that demands grace and sweetness. In the meantime, if he is careful to combine with the practice of his profession never-ending study and, above all, daily exercises in vocal emission, I am certain that he will quickly acquire strength and that, a few years hence, he will be able to adapt just as well to the dramatic repertory. As for the rest, Battistini’s training has been in good hands, and he demonstrates a natural acting ability, although for a debutant naturalness and ease are always relative. The debutant of the Teatro Argentina shows that he understands what he is singing, and does not stand motionless on stage. He is mindful to blend acting with singing. Of course, the way he acts and moves on stage is not always artistically irreproachable, but at every moment one senses in him the makings of not only a good singer, but also a good actor. In its enthusiasm, the public also wanted to acknowledge maestro Persichini, with whom the young baritone studies. And that was only fitting, for, as I said, Battistini sings well and true, manifesting qualities that come from solid training. Therefore, we have an artist who, if he does not let the enormous praise go to his head, will do honor to the Roman school.5

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The marquis’s mention of Giuseppe Palou having to “abdicate” tends to confirm the notion that the baritone had been forced by public disapprobation to withdraw. His review is as much a warning to the younger singer as it is a summary of caveats for the rest of the press and the public. To us it sounds prophetic, because Battistini, through relentless study, became worthy of his success beyond all expectations; because he became the foremost baritone of his time; and because he proved himself capable of tackling dangerous dramatic repertory without taxing his vocal equipment. Yet the reviewer does not flaunt his reputation as much as it may seem at first glance; and one wonders if it wasn’t the artist who provided the critic with the convenient opportunity to prove himself a competent and beneficent authority, severe but fair, able to avoid the pitfalls of fashion, facility, and false values. If the young prodigy had not lived up to his promise, the critic would have been in the clear for having warned him. In that case, the review and its author would be forgotten along with the singer. So, indeed, it was the singer’s fame that assured the critic’s reputation, and not vice versa. But, to return to the topic, such an oracle encompasses all possibilities, from a great future to failure and disappointment (one may ultimately wonder if the writer’s clairvoyance came from a crystal ball or from tea leaves). The marquis seems to display as much nonchalance and irony in his introduction as in his analysis. Is he being condescending toward the young singer, or is he adopting a literary attitude in order to entertain his readers? Even if the latter case is more likely, the subject in question might still hold it against him. Nevertheless, the length of the article devoted entirely to a young debutant speaks in its author’s favor for its farsightedness and good intentions, even if the admitted objective remains a deliberate toning-down of the praise allotted to the newcomer. However, one should not take the critic’s reservations too literally; they have to be judged in relation to the superlatives granted to the singer. They can be better assessed in light of some other press notices of the event. It might as well be stated right away, Battistini emerged triumphant from this ordeal. He has a splendid voice, handled with an irreproachable skill and an artistic intuition that augur a brilliant career for him. Last night the whole audience in the Argentina realized Battistini’s exceptional artistic quality and applauded him loudly, unanimously, warmly. Some even said that Battistini begins where others leave off.6

* * * He is twenty-three, a brown-haired, tall, slender, handsome young man. He possesses the qualities essential for an opera singer. His voice is high, at times strong and at times touching. He sings gracefully and phrases particularly well. For a debutant, he conducts himself on stage like a seasoned

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Chapter 1 performer. He was applauded after his act 2 aria and had to repeat the duet with Leonora, which had been done to perfection. The audience called back all the artists for numerous bows at the end of that act and also after the act 3 terzetto [“A tanto amor,” recorded in 1906 and again in 1924], when they received a wealth of applause. Battistini has made a more than brilliant debut and continued to rise beyond all expectation; we expect to see him soon in the greatest opera houses in the world. After all this, it only remains for us to address our compliments to maestro-Cavaliere Persichini, who knew how to develop the natural gifts of his young pupil to such perfection.7

* * * The debut of Signor Battistini at the Argentina, which had been announced for Saturday in the most flattering terms, has confirmed our expectations. On both Saturday and Sunday evenings our fellow citizen and new artist achieved a grand triumph, nothing less than deserved. His perfectly true voice is always very pleasing, especially at mid-range. He displays such a mastery of florid singing that one could not ask for more. Thanks are due maestro Persichini, who knew how to guide a pupil so richly endowed by nature. Several pieces in La Favorita were encored on the first evening and also on the second; the audience could not stop cheering and calling the young debutant back for bows. Signora Galletti, the tenor Rossetti, and the bass Pinto contributed admirably to the performance of Donizetti’s immortal masterpiece, but it must be emphasized that Battistini had a great deal of ease and straightforwardness, as much in the handling of his voice as in his stage deportment, to such an extent that at first glance he could be taken for an experienced artist. That already makes three singers of importance that Rome has successfully produced in less than two years. The Roman style is this time demonstrated in all its splendor. We know that on Saturday night a serenade was given in honor of the artist and his teacher; yesterday during the day [Battistini] was literally besieged with visitors and congratulations. As for us, we must praise the Marquis R. Barbaro, director of the Gazzetta Artistica di Roma, for having opened through his eminent recommendation the doors of the leading opera houses in Malta and London to Battistini.8

* * * The voice of Battistini is . . . an extraordinary thing. Extremely mellifluous and wide-ranged, with a pleasing and penetrating timbre that infiltrates the deepest fibers of the soul, it stirs the senses and transports you . . . upwards to the azure sky.9

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Journalists described his voice as “pleasing, homogenous, extended”10 and “voluminous and pleasing, with perfect intonation.”11 One reporter noted that he ascended easily to high A-natural, and another that he was “destined to be a worthy successor to Cotogni, with whom he has the character and the vocal timbre in common.”12 All these concordant opinions make the Marquis of Arcaïs sound severe indeed, despite the latter’s good intentions. If the voice went up to high A, it could not be called “limited.” Perhaps the critic missed the performance in which Battistini added the note; perhaps, in reaction to the audience’s warm reception, the singer’s nervousness had disappeared by the third performance. Or perhaps the marquis meant to issue reservations in those areas where he felt Battistini received and would continue to receive the most approbation: his range and his strength. Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that the voice heard by the early critics had not yet reached maturity.

EARLY YEARS November 9, 1878 was indeed the day of the artist’s birth—or the day of his artistic baptism. Yet how could a young man achieve such a triumph overnight? Where did he come from, and how could he make such an auspicious debut? Many great singers have modest roots, but Mattia Battistini was a distinct exception. He was born in Rome on 27 February 1856, on the Via Giulia (in the Palazzo Rempicci, located on the Piazza Santa Maria in Aquiro, a few steps from the Pantheon).13 According to Fracassini and Lancelotti, his mother’s name was Elena Tommassi (spelled “Tommasi” by Palmegiani). But even the earliest biographical articles on the young singer contain discrepancies with regard to these basic facts. For example, his mother’s name also appears in print as Elvira Tommassi (La Rivista Settimanale, 13 December 1882) and Elvira Tommasini (Lo Sevegliarino Messaggero Artistica, 16 December 1882). Each of these newspapers place Mattia Battistini’s birth date in the month of November, whereas the Illustración Española y Americana of 15 January 1883 gives it as 27 February and prints his mother’s name as Elena Tomassi, the same spelling Battistini himself used. His mother’s family descended from Roman nobility. The facts seem to be quite clear concerning his father, a highly skilled physician, director of the Hospitale dello Spirito Santo, and colonel in the Pope’s guardia civica; he became a knight of the French Legion of Honor for his treatment of wounded French soldiers.

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At fourteen Mattia embarked on his studies in philosophy at the Bandinelli Jesuit School. He was liked by his teachers, though one day when he was being reprimanded (undeservedly, in his eyes), he angrily flung some billiard balls at the director and ran away. The youth’s feistiness reemerges thereafter, despite the reserved image later painted of him. His father apparently had strong enough connections to prevent any long-term embarrassment to the family, and young Mattia was enrolled in the Istituto dell’Apollinare near the Vatican. At age seventeen he volunteered for military service and, upon his return, began studying either law or medicine (sources disagree). It is likely that he was at least given a choice between the two, and unlikely that he would have embarked on courses in both disciplines simultaneously. Since his brother Attilio decided to devote himself to medicine, Mattia probably chose law. An anecdote supports this reasonable conjecture: One summer, the teenager visited the home of the attorney Palmegiani (grandfather of the biographer), not to study the mysteries of jurisprudence, as he may have let on, but to practice his singing, accompanied at the keyboard by Palmegiani’s daughter Giulia, a gifted pianist. The charade could not have gone undiscovered for long. The patriarch’s anger was terrible. Young Mattia, sensing that his future depended on his firm resolve, reacted by fleeing. The affair took on the nature of a scandal, much to Palmegiani’s chagrin, but the professor agreed to offer his pupil another chance if he atoned for his mistake by returning to the path of righteousness. The names of many voice professors have been linked to Battistini: for example, Alessandro Orsini, Augusto Rotoli, Eugenio Terziani, and Venceslao Persichini. Probably not all of them were linked to him. The addition of the great baritone Cotogni to the list, as found in The Levik Memoirs,14 makes one wonder how many lessons and what degree of coaching in a role qualifies someone to be regarded as a singer’s teacher. As a contemporary press notice reveals: “After the performance [of Don Giovanni, Battistini] was called back more than twenty times. At one of his curtain calls, Mr. Battistini appeared with Mr. Cotogni, who traveled to Warsaw from St. Petersburg, where he is a professor at the Conservatory. Although Mr. Battistini is not the pupil of Mr. Cotogni, he profited nonetheless from his advice.”15 Does the above citation confirm or refute Levik? Cotogni knew Persichini; he had sung in his opera L’amante sessagenario and, soon after Battistini’s debut, had needed no coaxing to praise him publicly and to predict a bright future for him,16 and then to write him a letter of recommendation for Portugal, calling him “a particularly rare singer, an artist of superior worth, and a perfect gentleman [who] will make, in Lisbon as in every other city, a fortune for our friend Valdès.”17 A famous anecdote speaks of Cotogni preparing Battistini for the role of Don Giovanni only later, in 1894. In any case, even though Battistini agreed

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to credit Terziani with having played a part in his formation, he acknowledged Persichini (1827–1897) as his true teacher at the time of his debut, preserving a pair of precious photographs and receiving a song (“Il bacio”) that Persichini had composed especially for him and personally dedicated “al mio affezionato allievo Mattia Battistini.”

MEETING EXPECTATIONS Audiences usually resist analyzing the forces at work behind great artists because they like to believe them spontaneous; any premeditation would seem to preclude naturalness! Nevertheless, the repertory of fourteen operas that Battistini knew by heart at age twenty-two, as revealed in La Gazzetta Artistica di Roma of 2 November 1878, merits close examination: Aida, Un ballo in maschera, Don Carlo, Don Sebastiano, La favorita, La forza del destino, Giovanna di Guzman (intermediate Italian title for I vespri siciliani), Jone (Petrella), Lucia di Lammermoor, Luisa Miller, Maria di Rohan, Rigoletto, Ruy Blas (Marchetti), and La traviata. This is not just the repertory of a gifted young singer on the brink of his career, nor that of an idol blessed by the gods. Battistini would have the opportunity to sing all these operas (with the possible exception of Jone), and they include the very first roles he performed on stage. How often are singers so fortunate? In the autumn of 1878, contrary to what his biographers imagine, Battistini was no idler waiting around for his first big break but a well-prepared artist who had resolved to enter into the profession whenever an opportunity presented itself and who had already devised a plan of action, established contacts, and had auditions. Hence, after his appearance in La favorita, Battistini went ahead with a role in Il trovatore (opening on 24 November), repeating his triumph and confirming that his brilliance in La favorita was no accidental stroke of luck. The debut of the young Battistini could not have been more splendid. I cannot recall any other artist, whatever his merits, who has earned a warmer reception; his success takes on full significance when one considers the company of artists that Battistini was up against. With his beautiful, flexible, harmonious, clear, and true voice; his fine manner of phrasing and articulation; and his excellent technique, particularly his lovely mezza voce, Battistini made a vivid impression on the large crowd and was applauded like only a celebrity can be today. His singing was full of grace in his entrance aria (not one of the easiest) and subsequent duet with the soprano, and even better in the famous romance in act 2 [“Il balen”], encored

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Chapter 1 immediately on the insistence of the audience. Besides the qualities that have already caused him to be well spoken of, Battistini has a masterful stage presence, singularly surprising to an audience expecting to see a debutant. Yet a single orchestral rehearsal sufficed for this debutant to maintain the praiseworthiness of his role; not even seasoned artists can claim to be able to do that easily. After cheering the brave young artist, the Argentina audience then wanted to pay tribute to his teacher, the cavaliere Persichini, professor of voice at our Liceo . . .18

This review summarizes how Battistini was regarded at the end of 1878. Rarely has a debut incited such unanimity of praise by both the public and the critics. Indeed, the ability to inspire widespread advocacy is one of the prerequisites for superstardom, and Battistini possessed it throughout his life. Since the Gazzetta Artistica had already announced on 10 November that Battistini would be appearing at Teatro Argentina until 10 December (a period encompassing both productions), it is quite possible that Battistini had been engaged for Il trovatore even before La favorita, thus lending credence to the hypothesis that he may have auditioned for the Verdi opera, then shown interest in La favorita, and been recruited for the latter as a last resort. Battistini’s next operatic engagement was not long in coming. In late January 1879, he appeared in La forza del destino in Ferrara. The Don Carlo is the baritone Mattia Battistini, a brand-new artist already full of intelligence, voice, and emotion. In a word, a fine specimen of a baritone for whom one need not be a fortune-teller to predict a swift and brilliant career ahead. He delighted the audience in his three great duets with the tenor. He was applauded for preventing the inn-scene narrative from sounding hackneyed, for avoiding the usual histrionics in the third-act flowing andante “Urna fatale” and for performing the cabaletta without fudging it. The genuine approval that Battistini has just obtained from our theater’s discriminating and knowledgeable patrons splendidly confirms the success of his recent initiation in Rome.19

Interestingly, fidelity to the score was not a performer’s principle goal for this reporter, for his remarks imply that an interpretation can be more satisfying than the music, or at least that a way to improve on the conventional approach to some music must be found. The “histrionics” and “fudging” that the reporter objects to (and that Battistini was able to avoid) tend to evoke the sort of sensationalism on which the future verismo school would pride itself. In February, Battistini supplemented his performances in Rigoletto with various concert appearances. In March, reviews of La forza del destino described him as “young, with great vocal and dramatic endowments that pave his path to the opera house with splendor and promise”20 and declared that he had “all

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the means for becoming a great artist: a beautiful voice, a tenor-like upper extension, and good vocal schooling.”21 In April, performances in Marchetti’s Ruy Blas ensued. Among the cast was the tenor Ludovico Giraud (1846–1882), whose son Fiorello would create Canio in Pagliacci. Giraud, who had been replaced by Lestellier in the Forza del destino production after falling ill at the dress rehearsal, was now back; if not all the critics were well disposed toward him (“Giraud has some strong notes but, frankly, cannot sing very well”), they felt otherwise about Battistini, “an artist of merit [with] a beautiful voice, good vocal method, fitting and proper as an actor.”22 Indeed, the press continued to predict a brilliant career for “the young, sympathetic Roman baritone with the strong voice and impressive bearing.”23 In May at the Teatro Maruccino in Chieti, Battistini appeared in Gomes’s Il Guarany under the baton of Marino Mancinelli (1842–1894), the elder brother of Luigi. The young baritone attracted favorable notice for his performance of “Senza tetto,” an excerpt that he would commit to disc in his final recording session forty-five years later. In May, Persiani’s L’assedio di Cesarea was a triumph, causing Battistini and Mancinelli to be drawn their separate ways by their admirers. And during the summer Battistini sang the Count de Nevers in Les Huguenots and Hoël in Dinorah at the Teatro Morlacchi in Perugia. Despite his success (“a strong, immensely attractive, perfectly true voice—an artist in every sense of the word”),24 fans began to wish they could hear him in larger roles. Battistini encountered this frustration frequently during his career and tried to compensate for it with encores or interpolations, as we shall see. Before leaving Perugia, Battistini was accorded the honor of a gala recital (10 September). One of his selections was a song by Rotoli titled “Mia sposa sarà la mia bandiera,” which the composer accompanied (and which Battistini would record in 1911). Back at the Apollo in Rome for Les Huguenots, Battistini encountered Roberto Stagno (1840–1897), a tenor famous for his versatility and wideranging repertory (he created Mascagni’s Turiddu and sang Rossini’s Almaviva and Verdi’s Otello in the same season). For the production of Lucia di Lammermoor in February 1880 Battistini received critical praise when he replaced the baritone Roudil in the role of Enrico. From beginning to end, Battistini was unanimously applauded. The act 1 aria “Cruda funesta smania” was twice encored and provoked such enthusiasm. . . . In the sextet his beautiful and powerful voice rose above not only the orchestra but the entire ensemble . . . and it was for him that an encore of the stretta was insisted on, with bravos and benes directed at him. And to think that [the impresario Vincenzo] Jacovacci has kept this treasure of a singer inactive until now! What a Riccardo he would have been

16

Chapter 1 in I puritani [mounted earlier in the season]! . . . His beautiful, fresh, agile voice; his perfect technique (which he owes in essence to the excellent cavaliere Persichini); his noble and well-judged gestures; and his youthful allure are qualities that he possesses in abundance and that place him at the very top of the artistic echelon.25

The unpredictable hand of fate was about to grant the Neapolitan reporter’s wish. I puritani is returning to favor, thanks to the presence of the baritone Battistini, who, after very little rehearsal, has remarkably incarnated an important role previously filled by Roudil. This was a case of youthful audacity crowned by the happiest result. The youngster revealed such artistry on this occasion that his future may henceforth be regarded as assured. After Roudil’s departure, he held down the fort single-handedly, bearing a responsibility that many seasoned artists would not accept lightly. Slated to sing soon in two important roles in operas that are entirely new for him— Lohengrin and maestro Libani’s Sardanapale—it was risky for him to take over at a moment’s notice. The young man deserves credit for his boldness, always an indication of exceptional intelligence, and I wager that even with only two rehearsals he will acquit himself in them with honors, as in Puritani and Lucia. . . . In other respects, this [I puritani] was a poor choice, because the other performers proved unequal to the simplest requirements; they merely served as slaves pulling the triumphal chariot of the excellent Battistini, who achieved a magnificent success, thereby saving the show.26

Was it the success of La favorita that had encouraged Battistini to repeat his exploit? Sardanapale, Lohengrin, and I puritani had not been among those works the young artist had prepared beforehand. It is significant that, already in 1880, there were complaints about the difficulty of casting the operas of Bellini and Donizetti. Fortunately for us, Battistini recorded “Ah, per sempre” and its cabaletta, “Bel sogno beato,” thus preserving for posterity an aural representation of what the critics esteemed so highly. During the rehearsals for Lohengrin (with Stagno in the title role), Wagner came to Rome to make certain that his work would be faithfully represented. Battistini, in the modest role of the Herald (Ruffo’s debut role), so impressed Wagner that he commanded the baritone to prepare Telramund immediately for the opening. The delighted Wagner’s prediction about the singer’s future was even more encouraging than any thus far; for Battistini he foresaw not just a glorious career, but the attainment of the highest rank among baritones. The composer had him study Wolfram and the Dutchman

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and warmly praised Mancinelli’s conducting, which leads one to suspect that Wagner was not as averse to Italian style as is customarily claimed. Of the Lohengrin performance, one critic wrote: “The baritone Battistini sang stupendously; what is more, he portrayed the thankless role of Telramund with truthfulness. This young artist is marching rapidly down the difficult pathway of Art. Quite frankly, he is already the revelation of the season, having sung every performance with success.”27 Another reporter offered the following: congratulations to the excellent Battistini for his remarkable success in [Lohengrin]. This intelligent, conscientious artist was able to draw the most wonderful effects from the gratifying part of Telramund. Battistini had to endure tough comparisons with the singer who had filled the role very capably before him, but everyone could appreciate the extent to which Battistini surpassed all expectations. He lifted himself to the highest artistic level, and his worthiness did not go unnoticed by the public, who applauded him sincerely and demanded an encore of his duet with Ortrud.28

The baritone who had been singing Telramund before Battistini took over the part (and who goes unnamed by the reviewer) was Giuseppe Kaschmann (1847–1925), about whom we shall have something to say later on. Battistini was only twenty-four, and his operatic engagements were already proceeding at a pace that today might seem mind-boggling. But, while the level of success he achieved with the public and the press was quite particular to him, his age and the number of productions for which he was hired constituted the norm for any gifted singer of the period. L’Africana at the Teatro Alighieri in Ravenna in May 1880 was followed in June by Aida at the Teatro Sociale in Trento. Again, the brevity of the role of Amonasro was regretted.

COLLEAGUE OF TAMAGNO In November 1880, in L’Africana at the Teatro Pagliano in Florence, Battistini found himself singing alongside the famed Francesco Tamagno (1850–1905), with whom he would share the stage frequently thereafter. Although the tenor had been singing for a decade and the power of his voice was well acknowledged, the glory he would earn as the creator of Verdi’s Otello was still seven years in the future. The review in the Vedetta of 4 November reveals that “Tamagno was not in very good voice . . . though he did have some fine moments. Battistini, after much applause, had to encore the act 4 aria that he sings

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with feeling and passion.” The reporter for the Nazione (5 November) appreciated “the tenor’s beautiful and powerful high notes” but devoted more space to complimenting Battistini’s rendering of Nelusko’s arias “Figlia de’ regi” and “Averla tanto amata” (both recorded in 1912), adding, “He has quite a sturdy, well-focused voice with an extended range. He possesses a perfect technique. His expression is sensitive and effective. He has intelligence and the soul of an artist.” By virtue of Battistini’s successful debut, the Vedetta of 7 November wittily urged the Pagliano’s impresario to add the baritone’s name to the list of artists described as “famous” on the playbill. The Gazzetta di Firenze (8 November) likewise declared that he deserved such billing, based on the enthusiastic approbation of the public. A press report of a week later confirms the effect of this public outcry. The performance was rather good, though it could have been excellent if Tamagno, whom they insist on calling the king of tenors, had lived up to one’s expectations, for which he was paid 1600 lire per performance. On the other hand, Battistini, hired for much less, was applauded for his merits and asked to encore his aria, sung in the finest manner. The impresario Marzi, noticing the warm reception given the young singer, announced the following day that the enthusiastic applause had earned him the right to be called “famous,” and he displayed his name printed on the playbill in letters as large as Angeri’s and Tamagno’s. I am delighted that justice has been thus rendered to the public and to the incontestable merits of the henceforth famous baritone Battistini. Due to Tamagno’s mediocre showing, Marzi was forced to sell the tickets at half price and no longer at 3 lire, as for the premiere. The other artists held their own quite honorably, with special praise to Mlle Giulia Varesi in the role of Inès.29

It would require too much space to cite all the reports praising the young baritone, but the following excerpts tell the story: “He is young, has a powerful voice, and gets . . . beneath the skin of his character. . . . His acting is admirable, and he sings in a manner that clearly demonstrates his solid training; he invested his role with enough brilliance and passion to make the most apathetic spectator sit up at attention.”30 “He has a dulcet, attractive voice that responds to his artistic genius. The phrase a fior di labbro flows sweetly, clearly, spontaneously, delicately, yet he is equally capable of singing thunderous notes and phrases effortlessly and without exaggeration.”31 Apparently, Tamagno failed to steal the limelight from Battistini, and his clarion tones did not overpower the voice of his younger colleague. One should probably resist naming his amazing precocity as a factor in the younger singer’s success, since a twenty-four-year-old singer of 1880 was probably more mature than most twenty-four-year-old singers of today, with careers in

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those days often beginning very early. Still, the difference in the two men’s ages could be significant; it provides a comparison that puts them on the same scale, allowing one to suppose that the thirty-year-old tenor’s six more years’ experience ought to have played in his favor. Some have presumed that the intensity and brilliance of Tamagno’s voice produced the same effect as the volume and sonority of Battistini’s. Later on, however, we shall have occasion to compare the press notices of these two artists in Russia. Battistini’s next assignment was that of Don Carlo in Ernani, a role in which he remained unsurpassed throughout his career (and whose main solos he recorded twenty-six years later). Since Ernani and L’Africana were not among the fourteen operas prepared for his debut, he had to learn them on very short notice. That he achieved no less success thereby is confirmed by this press notice: “Battistini assumed the difficult role of Carlo with well-paced vigor, singing that was now energetic, now delicately expressive, and always perfectly on pitch. He was honored by the audience with frequent and vociferous ovations and obliged to repeat the third-act scene and aria amid deafening applause.”32 Did he encore “O de’ verd’anni miei” or “O sommo Carlo”—or both? (Years later he would make recordings of both.) Battistini’s versatility, his ability to perform well-defined, varied parts, is emphasized in the press reports from the last month of 1880, when he was already referred to as the public’s “spoiled child” and “a great artist”; others declared he had “fanaticized the public” and was “the public’s idol, the most distinguished ornament of Florentine society . . . treated with all the respect that his extraordinary artistic talent and gentlemanly qualities deserve.”33 The latter notice, announcing the engagement of a young baritone named Angelini for the following season, felt obliged to include that the singer was also “the pupil of the distinguished maestro Persichini and, consequently, trained in the school that has brought some famous artists to the stage, including Battistini.”34 What twenty-fouryear-old baritone could dream for more? But he already faced the challenge of having never to disappoint his public, who from that point on would expect to hear performances that were nothing less than extraordinary! Battistini alludes to this responsibility in his description of his debut in the Mondo Artistico interview of 7 March 1888 cited earlier. In Turin, his performance in the premiere of Giovanni Bottesini’s La regina di Nepal in December 1880 gave Battistini the opportunity to meet the great bass Francesco Navarrini (1855–1923), famous as much for the range and power of his voice as for his height (reportedly two meters). Battistini shared the stage with him again in January 1881, in Rigoletto, and, two months later, in Lucia.

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OVERSEAS For the European professional singer at the turn of the century, touring to South America was the expected thing to do. Battistini was no exception to the rule. He went not alone but with a troupe that was prepared to perform several operas in different cities. They were not what one refers to today as a “touring company,” in which no one singer stands out above the rest. On the contrary, each soloist was encouraged to shine individually, for the success of the tour depended on it. Everyone knew how brilliant Battistini had been as Alfonso in La favorita, so he was given the opportunity to repeat the role in Buenos Aires in the spring of 1881, after Ruy Blas. Battistini sang to perfection the exquisite third-act aria “A tanto amor” and was just as excellent in the scene in which [Alfonso] is insulted by Fernando. His voice is fresh, sonorous, attractive, and at times powerful; it is one of the finest voices ever heard in our theater. Such was the judgment of the audience, who honored the eminent singer with sincere and repeated demonstrations of satisfaction.35

* * * The baritone Battistini has the full approval of our public and deserved it. His singing in La favorita was of the most sophisticated kind. He possesses the chiaroscuro that is so difficult for a baritone voice to achieve and sings expressively and strikingly. Without a doubt, L’Africana will demonstrate his strength and bravura just as Favorita displayed his style and sophistication.36

* * * Battistini is bound to become the darling of the season: he is elegant, young, and sings with sophistication and feeling. His “A tanto amor” in Favorita revealed him to be an artist to his fingertips. Today his Nélusko [L’Africana] reached heights that reminded me of Faure. In the aria, and especially in “Averla tanto amata,” he was truly admirable, as the audience showed him by calling him back four times.37

It would not be the first time that Battistini inspired comparisons with JeanBaptiste Faure (1830–1914), the creator of Hamlet, Rodrigue in the French Don Carlos, and Nélusko. Contrary to popular belief, Faure was not Gounod’s first Méphistophélès; Balanqué created the part, at the Théâtre Lyrique in 1859. Faure had to alter a few notes (raising a few low ones and adding a few higher ones) in order to adapt it to his voice when it was first sung at the Académie Impériale de Musique ten years later. Faure was considered by some

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to be a tenor.38 This ambiguous vocal identity could be regarded as evidence of the singer’s astounding facility, combining force and sheen in the high register. The same observation was made and would continue to be made about Battistini, and we should take a moment here to test its validity. When an artist makes his debut, or at least when the general public gains awareness of him, he is often categorized and compared to well-known models. Later on, if he becomes famous, he in turn becomes a model, and his fans find the early comparisons amusing. The “new” Fischer-Dieskaus, Ferriers, or Callases seldom rise to the level of the exemplars, though some do transcend them—for example, Gigli, who is in every way as satisfying a tenor as Caruso. In any case, it is not surprising to find an 1881 critique comparing Battistini’s Valentin to that of the famous Verdian baritone Francesco Graziani (1828–1901) and the great Italian tragedian Tommaso Salvini (1829–1915). The reviewer felt that Battistini’s performance of the aria “Dio possente” (recorded in 1902 and 1911) was so fine that it makes the description “alla Battistini” synonymous with “alla Graziani.” Battistini, with his excellent method, distinctive nuances, and sweet and supple voice achieved the very epitome of baritonal perfection and will remain a standard of comparison. The death scene was worthy of Salvini, especially considering the difficulty of singing in an uncomfortable position. The audience broke into an intense and spontaneous wave of applause, and the curtain had to be raised several times to allow the great artist to return for a bow in answer to the electrified public’s loud ovation. Bravo Battistini!39

Those who think opera singers of the past were unconcerned about acting may find it enlightening to read apparent evidence to the contrary in the above review. At the end of the nineteenth century the interdependence of spoken drama and opera reached a high point and many famous plays were adapted to the lyric stage (Othello, Hamlet, Le Cid, Tosca, Pelléas et Mélisande, etc.), with the music tailored to the flow of the drama. When asked who taught him the art of acting, Battistini replied: “Nobody, but I made Ernesto Rossi and Tommaso Salvini my models. . . . I try to achieve naturalism, but a beautiful kind of naturalism.”40 Indeed, as evidence of Battistini’s conscious effort to be dramatically convincing on stage, Fracassini cites the anecdote about an enthralled Salvini, who is supposed to have rushed to Battistini’s dressing room after a performance of Ambroise Thomas’s Hamlet and exclaimed, “You stole my art!”41 Salvini’s compliment seems all the more significant when applied to the great Shakespearean hero, the highest peak to which an actor could aspire. But in reality, Salvini uttered those words after seeing Battistini not in Hamlet but in a Florentine production of Maria di

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Rohan. Fracassini should have remembered the facts, for after the second performance he himself reported the incident in a 27 January 1910 review he wrote for La Vedetta Artistica; he cites this review in his book, strangely misdating it 13 February. The mysterious date discrepancy is probably unimportant, but the change of opera was not inadvertent and can be easily explained when one realizes how unfashionable Maria di Rohan had become by then: no one could have attached the least importance to the acting in such an archaic work. The operatic Hamlet, on the other hand, remained a prestigious dramatic role for another generation of baritones after Battistini (even despite the waning popularity of Thomas’s music). The libretto of Maria di Rohan was also based on a spoken play, Lockroy’s Un duel sous le Cardinal de Richelieu, and it is possible that Salvini, who came from a family of actors, knew of it or had even performed in it. Although the Donizetti opera has fallen into neglect in our time, its old romantic style is coming back into favor, while the character of Hamlet has lost some of its attraction. Therefore, reassigning Salvini’s remark to the opera that inspired it in no way diminishes the value of the compliment. Palmegiani mentions the same anecdote, adding Ermete Novelli (1827–1896), Ermete Zacconi (1857–1948), and Flavio Andò (1851–1915) to the list of actors. But he puts it, awkwardly, into the mouth of Battistini himself, whereas most other sources render it in the third person; thus the confusion between Hamlet and Maria di Rohan is made to come directly from the singer. Given the pride Battistini had in his incarnation of Donizetti’s Duc de Chevreuse, it is highly unlikely that he would have committed such an error. Returning to the year 1881, the Argentinean Mondo Artistico of 27 September contains a report (dated 14 August) that lists the previous season’s repertory of the Italian singers in Buenos Aires: of a total of forty-one performances of opera, fifteen were of works by Meyerbeer (L’Africana, Gli Ugonotti, Roberto), twelve of Verdi (Un ballo in maschera, Rigoletto, Il trovatore, La forza del destino), seven of Boito (Mefistofele), six of Donizetti (Lucrezia Borgia, Poliuto), and one of Marchetti (Ruy Blas). The report seems to have left out a few: Ernani, Aida, and Faust, for example. The company then moved to Rio de Janeiro, where it performed Poliuto, followed by L’Africana, Aida, and Lucia di Lammermoor. Nowadays there is no such thing as a traveling opera company engaged by opera houses to present a season of different works. The drawbacks of this system were widely criticized, especially the frequent necessity of assigning singers roles that might not be suitable for them. This doesn’t imply that our modern system is ideal, because there are still many factors that can result in miscasting. The old rou-

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tine was not all bad: it allowed audiences to hear a different opera night after night; and during the course of a tour the singers had a better opportunity to break in a role and perfect their performance by doing it over and over. In early March 1882, Battistini’s appearance in Il Guarany “pleased enormously. Impossible to describe how artfully he sings the Brindisi ‘Senza tetto,’ with such an attractive voice. We look forward to Battistini’s Hamlet, which will certainly be a real triumph.”42 Another critic found the baritone’s performance in Gomes’s opera “particularly brilliant, and truly with [a cast like] Borghi-Mamo, Tamagno, Battistini, Castelmary, and Visconti, it could hardly have been otherwise. Battistini was incomparable. Impossible to imagine a more perfect swashbuckler, in every respect.”43 And yet another reviewer noticed that Battistini made the “thankless” role of Gonzalès sound fresh, adding that “he has become even better since last year, and his limpid voice, beautiful singing, and mezza voce earned repeated applause. His impeccable costume attracted inspection through ‘oculos, monoculos, and binoclos’ and his acting was always excellent.”44 Fracassini says very little about Battistini’s South American trip (which lasted a bit over a year, including two summer seasons), while Palmegiani mistakenly puts the baritone’s arrival on the continent in 1889, the date of his second trip, even though he mentions Tamagno (present only during the first visit). The myth of a Battistini who never wanted to cross the Atlantic more than once has often obscured the fact that he went a second time to South America. This, one of the most widely known misconceptions about Battistini, is probably repeated only because it fits the popular image of an extravagant and capricious person. As for Battistini’s reasons for deciding not to cross the ocean a third time, we shall examine them below, in our discussion of his second South American tour. When after his first tour he returned to Rome in mid-December 1882, Battistini learned of the death of his mother. We don’t know how he reacted. We only know that he was obliged to go immediately to Spain for his debut in Madrid, in the inevitable La favorita (a success, as usual), followed by Il barbiere di Siviglia, Rigoletto, and L’Africana. The Spanish correspondent for an Italian paper reported on the 2 January 1883 performance of the latter, citing the “splendid voice” of Elena Theodorini (as Selika) and the “angelic” singing of the tenor Angelo Masini (Vasco da Gama). Battistini sang Nélusko “with great mastery and was truly a savage, not dolled-up with feathers à la européenne. His voice is powerful, especially on high notes, and he knows how to give the right nuance to music that would otherwise sound monotonous and lacking in fire.”45

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PROGRESS In May of 1883, Battistini went to Covent Garden to appear in I puritani, Il trovatore, La favorita, La traviata, and Lohengrin. Among his vocal colleagues were the acclaimed Emma Albani (1847–1930), Marcella Sembrich, and Adelina Patti and her French tenor, husband Ernesto Nicolini, as well as the illustrious bass Edouard de Reszke. While most biographers emphasize that Battistini’s London debut was not a great success, this should not lead one to conclude that he sang poorly, but that the public preferred the reigning (formidable) stars to him. At least it can legitimately be said that the London public, prone to favor the most famous artists of the moment, did not prove to be particularly farsighted in this case. It is certain that, compared to the warm ovations Battistini had received in Madrid, the reception Londoners gave him must have seemed like a cold shower. He seldom referred to it thereafter, other than to recount the following anecdote: after receiving an emergency call to replace the baritone in a Traviata at the last minute, he rushed backstage and saw Patti, who warned him that their duet would be transposed down a tone. “I was in despair,” Battistini recalled in an interview decades later, “but what could I do? And then, just before the cadenza, when the notes must ring out, my voice naturally rose, and Patti took my hand and I stopped, thus avoiding a disaster. Naturally I was furious, but I made amends in the romanza.”46 It may seem curious that Patti would have transposed certain passages in La traviata, but it should be taken into consideration that the standard pitch then in use at Covent Garden was a quarter-tone above what it is today, an important difference for a singer. A Germont père of twenty-seven may seem a bit young to us now, but it was not so unusual back then, when many a young baritone found it a congenial role; if verisimilitude required physical maturity, Verdi’s vocal writing here demands the limpid, flowing line of a young voice. To favor the musical requirements over the drama may be regarded as a sign of an aesthetic then still acceptable; today it strikes many of us as perverse, but isn’t the essence of opera unreal to begin with? On 9 July, a gala concert occurred in the presence of the queen and the Prince and Princess of Wales. After the main program, Albani sang “Sovvenir dei miei prim’anni” from Hérold’s Le pré aux clercs; Ravelli “Celeste Aida”; Patti “Kathleen Mavoureen” by Crouch (which she later recorded); Tremelli “Voce di donna” from La Gioconda; Edouard de Reszke “Vi ravviso” from La sonnambula; and Battistini an aria from La favorita. (It is unclear from the reported incipit “O mia Leonora” whether it was “A tanto amor” or “Vien Leonora” that he actually sang; it might be a line in the recitative before the cabaletta “Dei nemici,” though Battistini would never have performed that

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section on its own. At any rate, one sees that he took part in a prestigious concert during the same season he is supposed to have had an unexceptional debut.) That autumn, in Madrid, before performing in Poliuto Battistini did a Barbiere di Siviglia in late October. One paper remarked that he “has developed vocally, sings with greater virtuosity, has a better command of acting” and that “his beautiful baritone voice reveals a wide range, robustness, and clarity. The public applauded him enthusiastically after the cavatina in act 1 and [thereafter]. . . .”47 Another also noted that “at the end of the season Signor Battistini has greatly enlarged his voice. His notes, principally in the middle register, are fuller and more resonant,”48 an opinion shared by another critic, who wrote that, although he already “was an excellent Figaro” the previous season, he “has made remarkable progress; he has improved principally on the vocal level, increasing his volume and enhancing his smooth tone.”49 Thus, all the reports are unanimous on his progress, and they continued to be so. And yet, by then hadn’t Battistini received enough favorable reviews to satisfy the perfectionist in him? His progress might be viewed as the beginning of a response to the Marquis of Arcaïs’s 1878 article in the Opinione di Roma. He sang another Traviata followed by La favorita, Martha (his first Plunkett), and Rigoletto. For the Ernani of January 1884 Battistini had his armor as Carlo V modeled after that of a Titian portrait in the Museo del Prado. Press notices often attributed the armor design to the more famous and beloved Velasquez, more Spanish than Titian! Once again, Battistini’s singing was compared to that of the famous tenor Angelo Masini. Battistini is the bass-clef version of Masini. He belongs to the same school in his style of singing, ease of vocal production, expressive phrasing and shading, elegance of diction, and in the way he always seeks to inflect his voice with dramatic effect, never in a trivial or incoherent fashion. He sang the duet in act 2 [of Ernani] better—much better—than Sembrich and received a genuine and deserved ovation after the aria he sang, as only he among baritones can.50

The same sentiments are echoed two years later in a review that called Battistini “an artist of great merit who, as such, knows how to appreciate the merits of those who touch his life; the few times he has sung with Angelo Masini, he has made the virtues of that celebrated artist his own, in particular, the manner of using the notes and the words in coloratura, the manner of vocal emission, of stretching the note at forte, etc. The public does not tire of applauding him and demanding encores.”51 A review of the Elisir d’amore in early February 1884 evokes another famous name: “After Tamburini (1800–1876) I confess never to have seen such

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a sergent fanfaron as Battistini, nor a singer who handles his voice and interprets the music that is given to him with such perfection.”52 After Cotogni, Graziani, and Faure, Masini and Tamburini are now added to a list that is far from finished. Does this mean that Battistini resembled each of those singers, who, among themselves, had hardly anything in common? Probably not, but when a review evokes great artists for the values they represent, it shows us Battistini in the bel canto tradition, upholding a standard of perfection, of the beautiful. Such concepts do not arise in and of themselves; certain aesthetic trends smother them. More specifically, an entire wave of modernism will arise through their condemnation, and it will be amusing to see certain fundamental principles advocated by their staunchest adversaries, whose popularity is built on the negation of those principles. It is often claimed that Battistini first ran across the score of Maria di Rohan in a library in Madrid. (The source of the anecdote is perhaps an article published in the 21 November 1928 issue of the magazine Les Débats.) Sensing that he could do the music justice, he allegedly convinced the director of the Teatro Real to revive Donizetti’s forgotten work. Although plausible, the story is not true, since Maria di Rohan was already in the young baritone’s repertoire by 1878. However, it is true that Battistini sang the role of the Duc de Chevreuse for the first time in Madrid. Press notices (in the Gaceta uficial de Madrid, El Correo, and others) this time compare him to Ronconi. One critic admired the “Ronconian fermatas”53 with which he enhanced the aria “Ah, non avea più lagrime” (from Maria di Rudenz), which he inserted, à la Ronconi, in Maria di Rohan, and which he recorded in 1921. Hypothetically, it is possible that Battistini discovered the Maria di Rudenz aria in the score of Maria di Rohan in Madrid and, realizing the good use Ronconi had made of it and tempted to do likewise, decided to insert it himself into the opera on this occasion. The Madrid public saw its idol again in the Ricci Brothers’ Crispino e la comare and in Gaspar Villate’s Baldassare before Battistini returned to Italy. Florence fêted him with a production of his new war horse, Maria di Rohan. The periodical La Vedetta no longer hesitated to hail him as il Dio dei baritoni, while another waxed ecstatic. A tout seigneur tout honneur, thus we begin with Battistini, who in the guise of the Duc [de Chevreuse] was a miracle of elegance and sans gêne. It is possible to attain the perfection with which he imbued the Adagio, but not to surpass it. He is an amazing singer whose voice, by means of a distinctive placement, can pass from a delicate sigh to a fortissimo without interruption and with a clarity that is something marvelous. The mind and the heart serve him faithfully, and during moments when vocal and dramatic perils accumulate, he rises firmly to unusual heights and maintains himself there

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as long as necessary. A great actor and singer, especially throughout the last act, unsurpassed in the adagio “Bella e di sol vestita” [recorded in 1911] which he had to encore with the cabaletta “Si, si fra poco” [“Voce fatal di morte,” recorded in 1921]. At that moment he seemed like a wounded lion, wild with rage and grief, giving the true measure of an artist. Needless to say, the incomparable artist was applauded à tout rompre.54

In October 1885, he was in Rome for Ernani. A general silence accompanied the first note emitted by the eminent artist; his voice is of such a sweetness, a tenderness, that, from the recitative “a fior di labbro” he achieved all the fresh effects he desired and gives the public beauties that previously passed, and even still pass, unnoticed. It must not be thought that Battistini’s voice, because it is melodious and sweet, is not strong, forceful, and vibrant at times. His means are rich enough for climactic moments never to be lacking in a sustained, thunderous high note to impress the listener in the last row of the balcony. Concerning the strength of his dramatic acting, of the fine, conscientious interpretation that Battistini gives of the character he performs, I need not elaborate; his great intelligence and the detailed study that he applies to his characterizations are by now commonly known in the theatrical world. As a dramatic actor, he rivals Maggi, Pasta, Emanuel, Salvini. . . .55

Again we find the affirmation that Battistini produced not merely an outstanding musical interpretation but also an equally intense, perfectly effective dramatic performance. This observation will continue to be made time and time again, and it should be carefully considered, for it constitutes a fundamental aspect of the Battistini phenomenon. His qualities were perceived to be on such a giant scale that in praising certain ones others tended to be underestimated. In November, Battistini made his debut in the role of Renato in Un ballo in maschera at the Teatro Costanzi. The Roman press called it “a new and splendid triumph to add to those he has obtained in the principal opera houses of the world during his still young career. . . . Coming on stage after very few rehearsals, he could not have sung or acted better. Battistini is a model baritone with an ability to renew the miracle of the great singers, who for many years ensured the prestige of the Art, which consists of moving the listener, through his warm, persuasive voice, his Italianism, and his phrasing, more unique than rare. One of the qualities that best points up the intelligence of this celebrated artist is his ability to invest the character with music and to convey the composer’s intentions. No one will ever sing with more feeling the beautiful aria “Eri tu” [recorded in 1906], wherein he passes with amazingly true art from tenderness and sweet melancholy to a burst of passion and despair.”56 It was during this run of performances that the Capitan Fracassa found a new title of glory for Battistini: Il re nato dei baritoni.

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Another reporter reviewed the not-yet-thirty-year-old singer more reservedly: “Always aware of how his character appears on stage, and an excellent actor, he is, it must be said, the only truly modern artist among those just described. As a singer he can still commit a few breaches of good taste, which he will gradually learn to avoid, but with his superb voice, confidence on stage, and intelligence, he rises head and shoulders above these somewhat vulgar, rococo trappings [ce milieu un peu vulgaire et rococo]. His is an artist in every sense of the word.”57 In spite of the reservations, this review is among the most favorable ones, though it is most surprising to read “the only truly modern artist” when today Battistini represents, on the contrary, the epitome of the old-fashioned, golden-age singer. We should point out, too, that when this review was penned verismo was not yet born. The word rococo as a synonym for shabby is rather quaint now that the style is back in favor. One notices that Battistini could seem to appear at once the heir of tradition and the herald of modernity. In Naples on 24 March 1886, Battistini returned to La favorita with Teresa De Giuli-Borsi, Anton, and Navarrini. The press singled out the baritone as one of the main elements of the Teatro San Carlo production’s success. The baritone Battistini . . . here eclipsed the reputations of lesser baritones. Need we say that he tarnished in particular that of Kaschmann, who had made an unforgettable impression on the San Carlo. One must look back to a former age to find points of comparison. From his first entrance on stage, [Battistini’s] noble bearing and stunning looks were instantly engaging. With the first note his triumph was already sealed, and every note thereafter was applauded and every number encored whenever possible. But the excitement was such during the largo of his aria and the cantabile of the trio “A tanto amor” that no one could resist demanding a repetition of both pieces. Battistini is a terrific partner in an opera. He performs so well that his role seems to be the most important one in the opera even though that is not the case. He is among those rare singers who deeply understand what they sing. How wonderfully he tempered the apparent sweetness of the line in “A tanto amor” with such a delicate touch of sarcasm! Who but he could carry off such an effect? The audience gave him a standing ovation. One will never hear this admirable Donizettian page sung better. Battistini has utter control over his beautiful, warm, rich voice; he never forces it, never resorts to trickery in order to hide a deficiency. And this treasure of a singer is complemented by a great artist in the strictest and truest sense of the word. In conclusion, it can’t be said enough that today’s public has no greater idol. Battistini will be able to remember this ovation as the greatest quarter-of-an-hour in his heretofore equally glorious artistic life.58

The reporter astutely observes how Battistini went beyond the boundaries of his role. Later in the same review he compares the tenor (Anton) to the great

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Spanish tenor Julian Gayarre and remarks how the Italian bass Francesco Navarrini “is admired for no other reason than his phenomenal voice,” a judgment echoed by the critic of another paper (“Navarrini, in spite of his sonorous voice, made little impression on us”).59 If we digress here, it is only to measure the expectations of the public against those of the critic, since today, thanks to a few recordings, Navarrini (the creator of Lodovico in Verdi’s Otello) is highly regarded.60 Another reviewer of the same Favorita observed that Battistini reminded him of no other baritone he had heard except Cotogni, “whom he emulates. His voice does not growl or pierce the ear ungratefully like the metallic tone of a trumpet; in all ranges it is naught but mellow, agile, nuanced, with ineffable expressivity and utterly engaging inflections. It is vibrant, ample, and expansive when conveying sweet, warm sentiments.”61 A review of Il barbiere di Siviglia calls Battistini’s Figaro “simply sublime” and mentions that he had to encore “Largo al factotum.”62 In August 1886, we find Battistini in Spain with his new bride, Dolores Figueroa y Solis, from a noble Spanish family. She had fallen in love after seeing him at the opera and with persistence successfully won his affection, despite the disapproval of her family. Nevertheless, their marriage was not delayed. They would have the son that Battistini desired more than anything, but he would have the misfortune to see him die in infancy, and the fragile health of his wife made future efforts to have children hopeless. His grief caused him to devote himself more to his career, while his young wife’s friends would tease her about his long absences from home: “Lola, aren’t you worried that your husband will ‘stray’ during his long trips?” “I’m confident,” she would say, “the only thing that interests him is his voice.” This anecdote was told to me personally by the late Marquis of Santo Floro, Augustin Figueroa, who knew the couple well. From then on Battistini would call his wife “my guardian angel,” which indicates the great affection he felt toward her, and, perhaps, also the end of their sexual relationship. The deep devotion that all the couple’s friends attribute to Battistini’s wife tends to support this opinion. The two continued to maintain a good, affectionate relationship, and although Dolores did not accompany her husband on all of his trips, she did join him often enough, particularly during his last years. At the Teatro Real in Madrid from late 1886 to early 1887 Battistini appeared in Dinorah, Aida, Guillaume Tell, Faust, Linda di Chamounix, and in Luisa Miller, which a Milanese reporter described as one of his most brilliant and distinguished triumphs. Not since the celebrated Coletti had we heard this role [of Miller] sung more powerfully and interpreted with such perfection. The aria and cabaletta earned him loud

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Chapter 1 applause and numerous curtain calls. The ovations were repeated after the duet and the finale. How he exploited his brilliant talents! How his strong voice and superb appearance shone in Verdi’s opera! Dramatic feeling, authority on stage, a voice that is sonorous, mellow, clearly emitted, always full and pure when crossing registers, such is the impression this man left on the stage where so many stars have shone. Battistini is one of those artists the Teatro Real will have difficulty replacing. Artistically, he is completely unrivaled. As an accomplished caballero, he is admired by all; respected by the public and by his colleagues, who know that he will never, even for his own profit, use weapons or base intrigue to damage others’ more or less legitimate reputations. Wherever he goes, Battistini will always be first-class, and we would say, without committing any indiscretion, that Milan, where he is so highly regarded, knows this artist’s worth.63

A RIVAL? While composing Otello, Giuseppe Verdi wrote to the artist Domenico Morelli, who was working on a painting inspired by Shakespeare’s tragedy. For the type figure of Iago . . . you would like a man of small stature with (you say) underdeveloped limbs, and, if I understand you, one of those wily, malignant characters; I would say pointed. Make him like that if that’s how you feel he should be. But if I were an actor and had to play Iago, I would rather have a long and thin figure, thin lips, small eyes set close to the nose like a monkey’s, a high, receding brow and very developed head; an absent “nonchalant” manner, indifferent to everything, incredulous, witty, lightheartedly speaking well and ill, seeming to be thinking of something other than what he is saying, in a way that if someone were to reproach him: “What you propose is scandalous!” he could reply: “Really? I didn’t think so. . . Let’s say no more about it!” Such a figure can deceive everyone, and even, up to a point, his wife. A small, malicious person arouses everyone’s suspicions and fools nobody. Amen.64

Verdi here defined the figure of Iago that he wanted for his opera and elsewhere expressed his fear that the singer’s voice might be too beautiful, thus conveying an inherently positive first impression that obscures the character. This fear of the pure beauty of a voice or interpretation that could distance the listener from the meaning of the music and the situation it paints stems fundamentally from Verdi, who, more than any other composer, disliked being divested of his work and having to deliver it to the performers and the public. His distrust of beautiful voices would appear to be an extension of this

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same state of mind, and, indeed, what he appreciated most in the voice of the baritone Victor Maurel was his sotto voce (letter of 10 February 1886 to Emanuele Muzio). A piano imposed on the timbre affects the word more than the floated roundness of the singing. Everything in the portrait of Iago that he traces differs from the image that he might have had of Battistini in the roles he had seen him perform. After Verdi saw Maurel create the role at La Scala in 1887, the young singer with the Apollonian timbre could not in his eyes have impersonated the malignant Iago. It has often been repeated that Verdi wrote the part for Maurel, although the composer clearly states otherwise in a letter to the singer: “I wish to clear up a misunderstanding. I don’t believe I ever promised to write the role of Iago for you. It is not my custom to make promises I cannot keep. But I may very well have told you that the role of Iago would be one that nobody would perform better than you. If I said that, I abide by it. But that is not a promise, it is simply a possibility if unforeseen circumstances do not prevent it.”65 There is no question about it: Verdi wrote a role, then looked for the ideal performer for what he conceived; even when the score was not entirely finished, he already had an idea of what he wanted. One of the reasons for this declaration of independence, consistent in Verdi and manifested under other circumstances, is simple to deduce: he did not want performers to have the right to ask him to make changes to suit their vocal abilities. This is not to deny that he sometimes consented to such changes. In the case of Maurel, there is a letter to Ricordi (15 December 1886), written after the role was rehearsed, in which Verdi admits his disappointment, specifically saying he did not think the role could be done as he would have liked, that he regretted having written the opera in such a manner. Nevertheless, Maurel had a genuine success in it at the premiere. But when the production came to London two years later, Bernard Shaw had another opinion. I have just paid my first visit to Otello at the Lyceum. The voices can all be beaten at Covent Garden: Tamagno’s shrill and nasal, Maurel’s woolly and tremulous, Signora Cattaneo’s shattered, wavering, stagy. . . . On the other hand, Maurel acts quite as well as a good provincial tragedian, mouthing and ranting a little, but often producing striking pictorial effects.66

Two years later Shaw found Maurel, although capable of repeating his success as Iago, tired out as to voice, dropping all the G’s, and unable to make the pianissimo nuances tell at anything softer than a tolerably vigorous mezzo forte. . . . His playing is as striking and picturesque as ever; but I have come to think that it requires a touch of realism here and there to relieve its somewhat mechanical

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Chapter 1 grace and effectiveness. The excessive descriptiveness which is the fault in his method, and even in his conception of the actor’s function, resulting in a tendency to be illustrative rather than impersonative, occasionally leads him to forget the natural consequences of the actions he represents on the stage. For instance, when Otello half throttles Iago, it is a little disillusioning to see the victim rise from a faultless attitude, and declaim Divina grazia, difendimi, with his throat in perfect order. Nothing is easier to produce than the voce soffocata; and there are not many operatic passages in which it is more appropriate than here. Apart from these matters of detail, the chief objection to Maurel’s Iago is that it is not Iago at all, but rather the Caesar Borgia of romance. As far as it is human, it is a portrait of a distinguished officer, one who would not be passed over for Cassio when he was expecting his step. I am aware that this view of him falls in with the current impression in artistic circles that Iago was a very fine fellow. But in circles wherein men have to take one another seriously, there will not be much difference of opinion as to the fact that Iago must have been an ingrained blackguard and consequently (if I may use a slightly Germanic adjective) obviously-to-everyone-but-himself-unpromotable person. A certain bluffness and frankness, with that habit of looking you straight in the face which is the surest sign of a born liar, male or female, appear to me indispensable to “honest Iago”; and it is the absence of these, with the statuesque attitudes, the lofty carriage of the head, and the delicate play of the hands and wrists, that makes the figure created by Maurel irreconcilable with my notion of the essentially vulgar ancient who sang comic songs to Cassio and drank him, so to speak, under the table. There is too much of Lucifer, the fallen angel, about it—and this, be it remarked, by no means through the fault of Verdi, who has in several places given a quite Shakespearean tone to the part by nuances which Maurel refuses to execute, a striking instance being the famous Ecco il leon at the end of the fourth [sic] act, when Iago spurns the insensible body of the prostrate Otello. Nobody, it seems to me, can escape the meaning of the descent to the rattling shake on the middle F which Verdi has written. It expresses to perfection the base envious exaltation of the ass’s kick at the helpless lion, and suggests nothing of the Satanic scorn with which Maurel, omitting the ugly shake, leaves the stage. His performance is to be admired rather as a powerfully executed fantasy of his own than as the Iago either of Verdi or Shakespeare. If his successors in the part try to imitate him, their wisdom will be even less than their originality.67

To say that Iago must credibly inspire the confidence of Otello, while all the time unveiling his true nature to the audience, brings up the question of insight, on which the spectator likes to pride himself and concede to the Moor of Venice. Whether one agrees with Shaw or not, his criticism reveals a profundity and refinement the likes of which are no longer encountered today.

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Let us not be misled by all the attention devoted to today’s operatic stagings and all the claims that stage direction of old involved little more than telling the singers where to stand. It is routinely repeated about certain singers of the recent past, famous for the dramatic power of their performances, that their vocal flaws, emphasized now that they can be heard only via recordings, disappeared in the theater. Conversely, it is assumed that singers whose recordings reveal vocal beauty must have appeared less than dramatic on stage. If the two recordings of “Era la notte” that Maurel made, in 1903 and 1905, are musically and vocally quite inferior to the version Battistini recorded in 1912, it should not be concluded that the King of Baritones did not know how to act the part of Iago; the reviews of his performances prove just the opposite. Nor should it be assumed that the creator of a role is necessarily its finest interpreter. To return to Shaw: Thus, at Covent Garden this season, a Monsieur F. d’Andrade made an indifferent De Nevers and a bad Don Giovanni, but displayed some smartness and intelligent interest in his business, and played with much natural expression and sincerity as Telramund in Lohengrin. He was at first acclaimed as a new histrionic genius. But after Maurel’s Iago, nothing more was said of d’Andrade. Maurel played like a man who had read Shakespeare and had conceived an Iago with which he was thoroughly preoccupied. Having repeated the impersonation for a long period without interruption or distraction, he was practised in identifying himself with it—had got into the skin of it, as the phrase goes. He had, too, emancipated himself from the prompter, and thus left himself nothing to think about but Iago. The result was that he made a considerable reputation as an actor by the ordinary standard, whereas formerly at Covent Garden, where he was expected to play Peter the Great, Valentine, Telramund, Hoel, and Don Juan within a fortnight, he was only an actor by courtesy, and by contrast with colleagues who were still more superficial than he. Now he is an actor on the same plane as Mr. Edwin Booth, and may claim to be one of the notable Iagos of his time. It is a strong exaggeration to speak of him as the best Iago on the stage; for he is demonstrative and pretentious to a degree that would hardly pass without a smile at the Lyceum on winter; and the raillery of the critic who described his Iago as “twopence colored” was not without point. But it was none the less a new departure of the most hopeful kind in operatic acting.68

Maurel is so often referred to as Verdi’s dream singer, and serves so frequently as the model of authenticity that disqualifies Battistini from any Verdian legitimacy, that we hope the reader will excuse our long digression offered as evidence in defense of our subject. As the Roman press announced, in a report of Battistini’s triumphant appearance in Don Carlo at the Teatro Apollo, Verdi agreed to Battistini assuming the role of Iago right after Maurel.

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Chapter 1 Battistini, who earned the highest honors of the evening, had a great success as both singer and actor. As the Marquis of Posa, he accomplished, if you’ll pardon the expression, a true creation. And one understands why he was the only singer, after Maurel, to whom the house of Ricordi and Verdi consented to give the role of Iago in Otello. In such a short time, what a brilliant career!69

At age thirty-one, Battistini could be proud of the honor of obtaining the right to create Iago in Lisbon two years later, and then in South America, proud to receive it only two months after Maurel’s success in the part. For the benefit of his next opera, Verdi would indicate his preference for the Roman baritone, a topic deferred to a later chapter.

RETURN TO LONDON In 1887, after four years’ absence, Battistini returned to London. It is often claimed that the British audiences once again gave him only a tepid reception, and that he was eclipsed by Jean de Reszke. But such a claim does not turn up in print until the obituary articles, as in the one published in the 9 November 1928 Daily Telegraph. It should be emphasized that Battistini and de Reszke appeared together in Lohengrin, with the tenor in the title role; it would be odd to consider the tenor as a rival to the baritone in this opera. In any case, an overview of the British press notices should put to rest the later tendency to underestimate the success Battistini had at the Drury Lane Theatre in 1887. It is true that the enthusiasm of some critics was in fact somewhat restrained: “Of the new vocalists engaged at Drury Lane, one of the most successful has been Signor Battistini, who has shown himself an excellent Rigoletto. But the finest baritone of the day is M. Maurel, who, besides being a perfect vocalist, possesses remarkable histrionic talent.”70 Nevertheless, this reaction hardly represented the majority of opinion. That the thirty-one-yearold Battistini was recognized as one of the most successful artists among stars like de Reszke, Lillian Nordica, Sigrid Arnoldson, Minnie Hauk, Fernando De Lucia, and Francesco Navarrini (all of whom were appearing on the same stage at the time) constitutes no mean praise, no matter how it was stated. Since Jean de Reszke appeared regularly in London until 1900, while Battistini did not return until 1905, it is not surprising that de Reszke should dominate the public’s retrospective memory of those years. Moreover, it should not be assumed that a lack of offers is what kept Battistini away from London for eighteen years. Other notices indicate the great admiration that he inspired, for example: “Signor Battistini made a superb Rigoletto. His voice has grown into

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a baritone of the purest quality, and both as singer and actor he is a far better artist than when he appeared at Covent Garden three or four years ago.”71 Or “Signor Battistini took the part of the jester; he has a very firm voice, well cultivated, and sings with the greatest ease and perfectly in tune; he also acts well, in fact as Rigoletto he was simply perfection.”72 Or the following: Of a far more colossal build than most singers, and with a voice of immense profundity and volume, Signor Battistini is the ideal of an operatic hero. Some more dignified and stately part than that of the jester Rigoletto would suit his capabilities well, but adapting himself to the rôle assigned him, he evinced the highest possible powers in the strange mixture of levity and pathos which belong to the character. His singing throughout was of the finest order, more particularly perhaps, in the duets at the end of the Second Act, which reach their climax in the magnificent “Si vendetta tremenda vendetta.” In the preceding part of the same act his scene with the courtiers illustrated the exceptional dynamic powers he possesses and evidently created a deep impression on the audience. He declaimed “Cortigiani, vil razza dannata” in the finest vein of tragic eloquence, while in the harrowing scenes which conclude the opera, his command of the various emotions in their true stage mimery was remarkable to witness.73

Such remarks completely contradict the image of an unnoticed singer, as does this: Rigoletto served, last evening, for the début of Miss Fanny Toresella, late of the San Carlo, Naples, and the re-appearance, after some years, of Mr. Battistini. These artists were respectively the Gilda and Rigoletto of the representation, about which as a whole it would be easy and truthful to say many pleasant things. The new prima donna indulges a good deal in the vibrato, which Continental amateurs esteem as a grace and their English brethren treat as a defect. But she is, nevertheless, an accomplished and intelligent artist, knowing her business thoroughly and able to acquit herself in it with distinction. The duet in the second act brought this lady and Mr. Battistini together under circumstances favourable to an estimate of their powers. It is not often rendered with more dramatic effect, and especially should praise be given to the baritone, whose Jester was a creation far more impressive than is usually seen.74

Surely if Battistini had subsequently returned to London for a few additional seasons, the rumor of the city’s indifference to him would never have arisen. Another topic of concern among English critics that one sees mentioned in the last quote may have a bearing on the subject: vibrato, noticed in the singing of foreign artists performing in London.

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Chapter 1 The performances, on the whole, have been good, save as to some of the new-comers. It is true that many of Mr. Harris’s Continental engagements are sadly afflicted with the tremolo, and this remark applies more or less to the light soprano, Mdlle. Toresella, to the dramatic soprano, Madame Kupfer Berger, to another dramatic soprano, Madame Borelli, who essayed Norma and Donna Anna with disastrous results, to the contralto Madame Fabbri, and to the young tenor Signor de Lucia. Mr. Harris is, I understand, bitterly disappointed as to several of his new artists, for the selection of some of whom, without hearing them himself, as a wise man should, he relied upon artists’ agents, who nobody but Mr. Harris would probably consider altogether unprejudiced judges of the abilities of their principals. But a great and legitimate success has been won by M. Jean de Reszké, formerly a baritone, but now a robust tenor, and also by the baritone Signor Battistini, and by such popular favourites as Mesdames Minnie Hauk and Nordica, MM. Maurel, Runcio, Pandolfini, and Del Puente.75

One detects in this critique a level of appreciation for Battistini that exceeds that which was felt for Maurel. Notice that it never occurs to any of these writers to accuse Battistini of an excess of vibrato (as we shall see particularly in the reviews he received on his return engagement in 1905). Indeed, the legend of a Battistini overshadowed by his colleagues has no basis in fact. During that summer of 1887, in Il barbiere di Siviglia: Mdlle. Arnoldson, as it turns out, has no need to shrink from the scrutiny of the most powerful glasses, and has nothing to fear from the sensitive ears of the severest musical critic. She is altogether a highly interesting young person. Still in the first freshness of her youth, she has the prettiness of an English girl, the chic of a Parisienne, and the voice of a bird. As the willful Rosina she secured for her rare gifts abundant recognition, and just as the tones of her pure soprano will ring in the ears of those who were fortunate enough to be present at her English début, so will the gratification afforded by her pretty little tricks, piquant features, and charmingly moulded figure linger pleasantly in their minds. As for her support, Signor Battistini, as Figaro, was generally excellent; M. Edouard de Reszke, as Basilio, magnificent; and Signor Ciampi, humorous as Bartolo; but Signor de Lucia, with his tremolo and not too tuneful voice, was sometimes a tiresome Count Almaviva.76

Arnoldson later became a frequent onstage colleague and close friend of Battistini’s. De Lucia was not to everyone’s taste, as the following press report also indicates. In point of individual excellence Monday’s performance of Il Barbiere was worthy to rank with that of Aida, given just a week previously. Signor De

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Lucia, as Almaviva, was not, perhaps, up to the level of his associates, but he did tolerable justice to the florid music of his part, which is saying something. In “Ecco ridente” it struck me that this pleasant young tenor attempted too much; he exaggerated the sentiment of the piece and his contrasts of tone-colour were so frequent as to be irritating. As usual he acted well, especially when embodying the tipsy Lindoro; the legs, however, were too stiff at the knees. Signor Battistini won his way still further into favour by a lively and effective delineation of Figaro. He sang splendidly from first to last and looked his character to the life—as, for that matter, did most of the principal personages in the opera. A welcome feature was the rentrée of M. Edouard de Reszke as Basilio. A genuine treat was it to hear once more this glorious basso cantante, with his magnificent organ, dignified, sonorous delivery, and faultless art. The audience did not seem to recognise M. de Reszke when he first entered, but his superb rendering of “La Calunnia” gave them opportunity for atoning for an apparent lack of warmth, and the chance was not missed.77

* * * Figaro, in the person of Signor Battistini, was highly praiseworthy; but, alas, that bugbear of our existence—the “tremolo”—united with other defects, rendered Signor De Lucia’s Almaviva an “earsore,” if we may say so. Basilio, played by M. De Reszke, was pleasing; but Signor Ciampi’s Bartolo was only negatively satisfactory, inasmuch as it had no flagrant faults.78

The nearest thing to praise for De Lucia came from the Standard’s critic, who felt that the tenor “sang the elaborate music of Almaviva with taste and fluency” but that “his voice is very slight.”79 These reviews lead us to pose a number of different questions. We would not have expected such a hostile reception for a singer considered by some to be a representative of the purest bel canto tradition. Might this disparity of appreciation stem from preconceived notions of a bel canto reserved for small, light voices, as opposed to the large, dark voices that we associate with the dramatic repertory, and ultimately prefer? In other words, is it not De Lucia’s limitations rather than his qualities that cause us to consider him a stylist? Five years later, Shaw had this to say of his performance in L’amico Fritz: “His thin strident forte is in tune and does not tremble beyond endurance; and his mezza voce, though monotonous and inexpressive, is pretty as prettiness goes in the artificial school. I cannot say that I like that school; but I must admit that its exponents have hitherto set a good example by minding their business and identifying themselves with their parts; and this, considering the lax discipline of the operatic stage at present, is a considerable merit.”80 Shaw saw De Lucia as a representative not so much of the purest bel canto tradition as of the

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“modern school.” Although he tolerated De Lucia’s tremolo, he held a strong opinion about the concept: “Would it be an impertinence on my part . . . to remark that tremolo and vibrato are not synonymous terms? There is not even the most distant relationship or resemblance between them. One is a defect of the gravest kind: the other is one of the most precious graces a dramatic singer can acquire—if it can be acquired at all. There is no difficulty in acquiring the tremolo.”81 Wherefore this obsession with the tremolo, considered a defect in England, even though “Continental amateurs” (as the critic of the Daily Telegraph admitted) would probably not regard it as such, or, at least, not criticize it as severely? Perhaps the deviation from the norm that a wide vibrato represents would be more offensive to people in a Victorian society than it would to someone raised in a Latin culture? This brings up another question: would this strong vibrato (or perhaps even tremolo) that so displeased the British critic seem normal to our modern ears? The question is a valid one: those singers of the past who today would certainly not be reproached for their vibrato or excessive tremolo—like Plançon or Melba—seem, in fact, in their recordings, not to have any at all. Some listeners complain of their “straight” tone and suppose that their clear voices had no resonance—an opinion that is clearly disproven by Melba’s only “live” recording (her farewell performance at Covent Garden). However, if on records some voices seem surprisingly lacking in vibrato, others appear highly susceptible to it, even if the recording process can be accused of either disguising or heightening the effect: diminishing the vibrato or exaggerating the tremolo. We often detect a kind of “bleat” in the forte tones of De Lucia, as well as Bonci, Lauri-Volpi, Magini-Coletti, Stracciari, Pasero, and others. The idea that singers deliberately add vibrato to the voice (like one adds salt and pepper to one’s potatoes) in order to add volume or disguise the break between registers is a myth that reveals a misunderstanding of the vocal mechanism. If an opera singer is unable to make his voice carry by emitting a straightforward tone, pushing it with extra vibrato won’t make a difference. This method, essentially a violinist’s technique, can harm the voice. Although commonly adopted by some popular singing stars with smallish voices, it is not advisable for the majority of opera singers. To amplify a straight tone, one must correct the way it is emitted, felt, and “projected.” In fact, the intensity of a straight tone has limits to its strength and relies little on the resonance of the pharynx and the mouth. When a better point of focus than the vocal cords is found, the voice will resonate more freely in a large space and fill out. In other words, opera singers do not try to make a straight tone vibrate. They try to avoid stiffness and tightness, to achieve greater suppleness—and that is how

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a natural vibrato evolves. Doubtless those for whom this kind of adjustment works feel more at ease and can sing louder without forcing. Thus, for them it is not a matter of adding “a little dose of vibrato.” Bad vibrato is obviously a different matter altogether. It arises from an improper balance of the elements producing the sound. It involves either a slow oscillation resulting from muscular slackness, sounding like a difficulty in holding the note, or a strong pressure generating a kind of shake. It is not our intention here to measure at what precise degree of the scale a natural, healthy vibrato becomes undesirable, nor even to distinguish it from a tremolo; such information can be easily found elsewhere. On the other hand, it is interesting to ponder whether an accentuated vibrato belongs to the new style of expression, with priority given to the stressing of certain accents at the expense of the line, while failing to devote proper attention to smooth phrasing and breathing. Another way of putting it would be to blame it on the classic syndrome of the singer who wants to sing loud—louder than he can, or louder than he knows how. As for the frequent claim that vibrato helps to smooth the breaks between registers, it is an utter myth with no basis in reality, no defendable argument. In the end, perhaps it would be better to avoid using the word vibrato and instead speak of vocal instability, because it is always difficult to say with assurance how much vibrato is desirable and at what point, beyond a (still difficult to determine) minimum, it becomes bad. This very fact casts suspicion on the presence of what seems to be an evil and misleads one into thinking that it may be rooted out with stricter coaching, when, we emphasize, such is not the case. Battistini would never be accused of an exaggerated vibrato, and during the 1905 season, one critic even found it necessary to point out that “his voice is of noble quality and great range, reaching up to A-flat, and it is undimmed by the slightest tendency towards the vibrato.”82 Quite impressive, for a singer just short of his fiftieth birthday. In July 1887 at the Drury Lane Theatre Battistini sang with the de Reszke brothers in a Lohengrin that was produced with a completeness and wealth of accessories; . . . the rich dresses of the Saxon and Thuringian nobles, the heralds, and knights, backed by the exquisite scenery, form[ed] a stage picture that has rarely been surpassed. But it is not as a pageant that it must be remembered, for [the producer] has been fortunate in securing artistes that could do full justice to their respective rôles. The Lohengrin of M. Jean de Reszke was refined and dignified, and his singing that of a thorough artiste. . . . M. Edouard de Reszke looked every inch a king, and his grand voice was heard to the very greatest advantage. Signor Navarrini faultlessly and powerfully delivered the music entrusted to the Herald, and with a distinctness that enabled it to be well heard above the clang of the wind instruments. Signora Kupfer Berger, who in

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Chapter 1 Germany has made the part almost her own, imbued Elsa with a tenderness and poetry that were most fascinating; the love duet with the Knight was exquisitely given, and in the third act she entranced her audience. Were it not for the use of the tremolo no fault could be found with this gifted lady’s impersonation. Madame Tremelli, too, was splendid as the sorceress Ortruda, and sang and acted with a fervor and a revengeful passion that were thoroughly appreciated. Signor Battistini realised completely the character of Telramondo, and did justice to the difficult music entrusted to him. The choruses were admirably rendered throughout. Signor Mancinelli conducted as usual most ably, though at times I thought the orchestra too overpowering.83

A SINGER WITH IDEAS In March 1888 in Milan, prior to a run of Lohengrin at La Scala under the aegis of the local patroness Giovannina Lucca (in the hope of remedying the poor reception given to Wagner’s work by the same theater at its premiere there in 1873), Battistini was interviewed by a reporter from the Mondo Artistico. Aren’t you worried about how the audience will react tomorrow evening? No, not at all. I’ll be singing for this public for the first time, but I have the highest respect for their intelligence and education, and I am fully confident that it will make honorable amends for its past errors. In rehearing this music it will surely be acknowledged that Lohengrin is of a craftsmanship that can only be admired. Connoisseurs will be easily convinced that Elsa and Lohengrin are inspired creations of Wagner’s genius. As for my role of Telramund, I have sung it in Rome; however, in Milan I am even more committed to giving it my best, given the particular circumstances of the revival. It’s not that the role is so important, but it is supremely artistic. Of course I must sacrifice applause, but think of how much expression I can put into it! . . . I love Wagner precisely for the effectiveness of each of his dramas. . . . Yet you are known as an artist associated with Italian composers . . . It’s my duty! But that’s another story . . .84

This is one example of how Battistini conceived the role of the artist-singer, who must put his reputation on the line to defend the works, the composers. However, he clearly avoids falling into the trap of becoming an artist obsessed with defending a national music. He goes on to describe, with remarkable boldness, what he, as a performer, expects from the composer.

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On the stage I couldn’t accept doing just walk-on roles; for me, the artist must always distinguish himself, either through singing or acting. And I’m firmly convinced that the singer must strive to become a double artist, that is to say, singer and actor, which is what I try to do. . . . You are right, because today’s audiences are less content just to hear a cabaletta belted in front of the footlights and over the prompter’s box; they are beginning to develop esthetic expectations. . . . And the public is perfectly right. The intelligent, responsible artist can only do well by coming in contact with such a public. For that reason, instead of being nervous on the eve of my return to La Scala, I am delighted.85

As a performer, Battistini is ready to serve a composer on the condition that the composer gives him the opportunity to express himself, to blossom, to exist. The mutual respect needed for the work to be presented to the public under the best circumstances depends on this balance. It is a moral contract. Each generation reinvents the art of acting, leading one to think that prior generations did not act at all. It is funny how the notion of progress in dramatic standards periodically returns, in all its naiveté, to reassure the public of the validity of what they see, and to spare them the absurdity of what they never knew. But even if Battistini strove to perfect his acting, it is clear that he was not about to grant it priority, as would soon become fashionable. He placed it on an equal footing with singing, which made it already far from negligible. A few years later, after the verismo movement had taken hold, Battistini had to make an emphatic point of defending his lofty principles against what he perceived as a decline in vocal values. I believe that, for an opera singer, acting is as important as singing. Just as I do not recognize a dramatic artist without a voice, nor do I recognize an excellent singer who can’t act. One and the other must be inseparable. It is to be regretted that in modern operas the acting takes precedence. I have often been asked why I do not appear in these works. My response is that there is nothing in them for me. Indeed, is there even anything for Marcello to sing in La bohème? Why do I avoid these operas? You will understand after you hear me in Maria di Rohan or Linda di Chamounix. I happened to sing in an Andrea Chénier that was given in Moscow. I like the role of Gérard, and the composer, Giordano, has promised to insert an aria in it especially for me. In the old operas, singing and acting are indispensable. For example, to do Rigoletto the voice and the ability to act are equally important. The singing alone can never convey everything. A vast canvas presents itself to

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Chapter 1 the creative talent of the artist-interpreter. It goes without saying how the old operas surpass the modern ones, in craft and inspiration.86

The above interview (cited in part by Fracassini) reveals a number of controversial opinions, though it should be pointed out that the statements readers of a century ago would have considered outrageous are not the ones that would raise eyebrows today. In Battistini’s day one would have been shocked to read that operas of the past were greater than those of the present; the time had not yet come when the repertory consisted of standard classics from the past. A fifty-year-old opera was considered a relic that required no small effort to revive successfully. Battistini supports modern composers as much as he defends a repertory threatened by extinction. When he took the risk of preserving a living tradition by reviving the 1843 Maria di Rohan at the Teatro Costanzi in Rome in 1885, the press did not fail to take notice. Coming on the heels of Carmen and even Ernani, Donizetti’s opera seems quite old-fashioned. The libretto and the action certainly are, though certain scenes have resisted the ravages of time and still reveal the genius that Donizetti was. Battistini nonetheless did everything possible to breathe new life into this forgotten work. He was truly at his best in the third act, proving to be as perfect an actor as he is an excellent singer. The audience repaid him by showering him with warmest applause and making him repeat the largo of his big aria, which he sang with great artistry.87

A few years later, a Russian reviewer wrote that Battistini’s “magisterial performance [in the same Donizetti opera] made us forget our awful boredom at the outdated Maria di Rohan.”88 Maria di Rohan had been composed forty-two years before the first review, sixty years before the second. Today, a work of the same vintage has every chance of passing as “contemporary,” but a century ago tastes changed quickly. This mentality was not limited to Italy and Russia, as the above quotations might lead one to suppose. An English critic, reviewing a performance at Covent Garden in 1905, found that Verdi’s Rigoletto “has aged quite badly in places, and it is only when a great artist appears in the opera that the merits of most of the music are made fully apparent.”89 To classify operas according to when they were written, to say Carmen surpasses Ernani, and Ernani outrivals Maria di Rohan, implies a rather narrowminded sort of approach to listening. Battistini displays a totally different capacity for appreciating these works. His opinion goes against the grain of his era, which he rose above, but it is in line with ours. If today’s opera buffs would quickly agree with him that certain works in the repertory should be preserved and that the old operas are the best, they would on the other hand

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be surprised to hear him say that Marcello has nothing to sing in La bohème (to say nothing of Schaunard) and that the role is a minor one. For us La bohème is a venerable classic, whereas for Battistini it was a contemporary work. In fact, for the audiences of today performers should not be concerned about the size of their roles and whether they provide them an opportunity to shine; they should simply be the servants of the score. But Battistini expected a role to offer him the possibility of a personal expression, of a transcendence that would benefit the work through a heightening of its impact on the audience. He believed that this challenge was indispensable for maintaining the art of singing on the highest level. Nor was this assertion lost on music critics of the time, one of whom could write that “it seemed as though the artist wasn’t just performing works by well-known composers that he had studied but that he was involved in his own impressions illustrating his state of mind at a given moment. This is what constitutes the highest level of artistic execution.”90 That sort of naturalism is precisely what we try to avoid today, when the concern to keep the work within a specific intellectual context overrides the desire to enjoy it to the fullest. About Battistini’s Iago, a Polish critic wrote that “whenever you see Mr. Battistini undertake a new role, each time you are amazed at the love with which he studies the character-type down to the last detail; the libretto never gives sufficient fuel for a fully realized, complete interpretation.”91 And of his Hamlet, another critic declared that, in his opinion, “Battistini was perfect. In his performance he avoided every vulgar effect in favor of finesse and originality. Hamlet must instill in the listener a vague sense of depression, of awful fear. Battistini understood this so well that he endeavored to correct the librettist and the composer. In the drinking song, the most banal page of a superior opera, Hamlet never sang in a commonplace manner or shouted drunkenly.”92 Not only did the singer prove himself capable of “collaborating” on the work, but the era also acknowledged his right to do so. Later on, this kind of approach would be denied, or at least it has become the stage director’s sole prerogative to rethink the work while the performers pride themselves on an impeccable performance of the music. Where have all the creative singers gone? Today, it is widely believed that the score contains everything the performer needs to know, that the truth of the performance and fidelity to the composer’s genius depend on the accuracy of its execution. Hence, techniques such as portamento and rubato, which are not clearly indicated since they must be felt instinctively by the performer, have all but disappeared—even though they constitute, to a certain extent, the soul of this music. It is not because certain composers and critics have sometimes found these excesses so distasteful that they should resign themselves to their absence.

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Accuracy of performance has come to mean self-effacement of the performer. The advantage of such an approach is that it offers a simple criterion for evaluating the quality of what one hears. For Battistini the score is only a blueprint of how the work should sound and therefore somewhat incomplete and imperfect. It is a matter of rediscovering and reconstituting the original music by means of this aide-mémoire, which fortunately consists of more than just paper: besides its innate musical properties, it draws on oral tradition. Battistini often expressed a concern for preserving a school of singing, a style of interpretation. But at the turn of the last century, when the younger composers made it a point to break from tradition, his principles did not always meet with understanding. In fact, a new, contradictory philosophy emerged, claiming respect for and obedience to the written score, while at the same time displaying disdain toward the most famous singers of the past. Fidelity, perhaps, but to the letter more than to the spirit of the art. Battistini did not hesitate to expose himself to comparisons, and on the very ground of his predecessors, instead of safely cloaking himself in the thencurrent standard repertory under the pretext of being more faithful to the composers’ intentions. Therein lies the key to the vitality of his art: indeed, the fear of confrontation is always the sign of an era’s weakness and lack of confidence in its own artistic creations. It is important to emphasize that, for Battistini, fidelity to the composer did not preclude the possibility of personal expression. Today these two methods are generally viewed as mutually exclusive, though our way does not seem to engender the same kind of enthusiasm that yesterday’s audiences regularly experienced—and to explain this by arguing that today’s audiences are less cultured hardly convinces. Arrogance for some, courage for others? Battistini’s position remained unchanged, though if he maintained the idea of a balance between singing and acting, he soon began to voice his criticism of the way opera was evolving, verismo having come onto the scene (Cavalleria rusticana in 1890, Pagliacci in 1892) as well as other trends (Pelléas et Mélisande 1902) that favored continuous action and a declamatory style over the development of melodic singing and the exploitation of vocal resources. During the time when these developments seemed avant-garde, Battistini’s position smacked surprisingly of reactionism; today, as the supremacy of text over music has begun to decline and the works endorsed by the King of Baritones appeal to us more than those he criticized, his position takes on a more progressive slant. If it has never been fashionable to question an avant-garde movement, in retrospect one can’t help wondering if Battistini, more sensitive than others, didn’t foresee a decline in opera that would later be confirmed (and for the reasons he expressed) at the precise moment when the art form seemed healthier than ever.

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THE BLACK CAT AND OTHER ANECDOTES In April 1888, at Rome’s Teatro Argentina, Battistini once again found himself engaged to sing with Sigrid Arnoldson in Il barbiere di Siviglia. Drawing from the soprano’s memoirs, Palmegiani recounts an anecdote related to this event. On the eve of the premiere, Battistini, whose acquaintance she claims to have just made, took her to visit the church of San Pietro in Vincoli to see Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses. While they were admiring the masterpiece someone behind them exclaimed, “Hello, Madame Arnoldson!” The soprano turned around and saw her country’s ruler, Oscar II of Sweden, whereupon she hastened to present her illustrious colleague. The next day, just before the opera, a black cat was spotted scampering backstage, and, worse, Battistini saw it and was so upset that he didn’t want to go on. The impresario got on his knees and pleaded with him, to no avail. The soprano recounts that she then had the idea to remind the baritone that by refusing to sing he would be disappointing the king of Sweden, with whom he had had a long and cordial conversation about art the day before. Who knew whether the sovereign would ever have another chance to hear him? Thanks to the charming lady’s power of persuasion, Battistini agreed to sing after all, to the great joy of all. The potential disaster became a triumph, and several pieces were encored. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this story, though a few details need to be clarified. Arnoldson seems to have forgotten that she had already met Battistini the year before in London, during another Il barbiere di Siviglia production. Their contact must have been on a more distant, professional level in England than in Italy, where he seems to have made a more memorable impression on her, showing her the sights in his native city as he so often liked to do. The kneeling impresario was Guglielmo Canori, the directorship of Teatro Argentina having changed several times during the previous decade. Battistini does seem to have been superstitious, as confirmed by this and other anecdotes. Levik claims that the baritone had a habit of sitting in a special armchair before every performance and that he (Levik), without knowing, sat in it once and was then cautioned by the stage manager not to let the divo find him in it. The first time Battistini went to St. Petersburg he had sat in it while the coiffeur was fixing his hair, and thereafter he would sit in it for two or three minutes just before going on stage. The stage manager urged a vow of silence on the subject, though the young Levik obviously didn’t consider himself bound by it. In Rome Battistini might have been “doubly” impressed by the black cat. He would have known that when Il barbiere di Siviglia was premiered in that same theater in 1816 a black cat crossed the stage and the opera was subsequently booed. Battistini’s superstition, an outgrowth of the stage fright he felt

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before every performance, might seem surprising for an artist who was so sure of his technique; perhaps it was the inevitable price paid by one so demanding of himself in his work. Superstition is born, perhaps, when the artist realizes that any one element in the making of a successful performance can be ruined unexpectedly, by the merest grain of sand. It is the very same perfectionism that allowed Battistini to scale the artistic heights and that warned him of anything that might prevent him from achieving the kind of performance he envisioned. It is very likely that the performance of 11 April 1888 was warmly received, as Arnoldson reported; however, the Italian press held its customary enthusiasm in reserve. In presenting Barbiere, the impresario had but one purpose: to present Signora Arnoldson, announced as a star of the first rank, to the Roman public. I can’t say she lived up to our extraordinary expectations. The audience (actually a bit sparse that evening) applauded and cheered her. But to tell the truth, we’ve begun to have enough of these singers who are trained to perform Barbiere recomposed, revised and arranged unrecognizably by Strakosch, who was also the coach of this new Rosina. Arnoldson sang barely a note of Rossini. Yet she has a voice that is of small compass, but pleasant, and she sings with precision; her acting is praiseworthy, and she is nice to look at, which does not hurt. She was quite warmly applauded after her cavatina [Arnoldson made a recording of “Una voce poco fa”] and the duet with Figaro; enthusiasm waned thereafter, because in the Letter Scene Signora Arnoldson sang a waltz and a Swedish song that left the audience cold. There is little to say about Arnoldson’s colleagues. The baritone Battistini was, without doubt, a very elegant Figaro.93

The previous season, in London’s Drury Lane Theatre, Arnoldson’s Rosina earned quite a different reaction: Last night, in the Barbiere, a young singer, who seems to have a highly promising career before her, made her first appearance. Mdlle. Sigrid Arnoldson is of Swedish birth, and the world knows what wonderfully fine singers Sweden has produced. To hint that Mdlle. Arnoldson will become a Jenny Lind or a [Christine] Nilsson would be to go too far; but the young artist has much in her favour. She possesses a very agreeable soprano voice of, for the most part, even quality, though some of the middle notes are slightly deficient in tone. She has been well taught, and ventures upon the most florid embellishments with considerable success, and she shows skill and appreciation, together with the most complete self-confidence as an actress. At present Mdlle. Arnoldson cannot be accepted as a thoroughly

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finished vocalist; her scales lack the equality and smoothness of perfect vocal art, and her phrasing is not always beyond reproach; but she won her way speedily to high favour with the audience, and will very justly be reckoned as an attraction. Her rendering of “Una voce” was very warmly applauded. In the lesson scene she introduced a new valse by Signor Arditi— not a very remarkable composition, but her delivery of it won an encore, and she substituted a Swedish melody, which was sung with much sweetness. Her next appearance will be awaited with interest. . . . Signor Battistini was an excellent Figaro. “Largo al factotum” was capitally given, and throughout the opera he favourably distinguished himself.94

Obviously, this was another performance and opinions vary from one critic to the next, but the difference in the tone of the reaction to Battistini is striking. It is therefore not unthinkable that the black cat and the superstitious concern that it caused Battistini, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, had a good deal to do with this, surprising though it may seem. Reading the Italian reviewer’s comments alongside those of the Englishman brings out some interesting comparisons: notice, for example, the English critic’s greater indulgence for the variants imposed on the score by Maurice Strakosch (1825–1887), pianist, tenor, composer, and brother-in-law of Adelina Patti. Fortunately, La favorita (given right after the Barbiere di Siviglia, on 13 April) served once again as the vehicle for the still-young, thirty-two-year-old baritone’s success at the Teatro Argentina, ten years after his first triumphant appearance there. It was in 1888 that the Republic of San Marino bestowed the title of Baron of Poggio Casalino on Battistini, who would add this honor to the list of the many other decorations he received during his career without ever displaying them in public. In the spring of 1889, Battistini embarked once more on a trip to South America with Masini and Torresella, returning by January 1890. Never again would he accept traveling such a long distance. According to Louis Blanquie, Battistini “dreaded sea travel, the winds that rocked the boat, and the fish that ate human flesh.”95 Palmegiani (drawing on Lancelotti) reports the singer as having declared, “In spite of the most tempting offers, I no longer let myself be persuaded to traverse the ocean. Need I confess why? The sea, with its tempests and voracious sharks, seems treacherous to me. I would prefer to climb the Matterhorn or journey to the center of the earth rather than to have to face a long Transatlantic voyage. It is a strange phobia.”96 In 1918, avoiding any mention of the Titanic and the Lusitania, the ships that he might have taken in an era when the greatest singers went to New York’s Metropolitan Opera to receive lavish fees, Battistini explained, “The ocean liners in those days lacked stability as well as comfort. On a return trip I experienced such a tempest that I could never again agree to head for those distant shores.”97

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In the first years of the twentieth century, when rivalry between opera companies was at a peak, Oscar Hammerstein, the director of the Manhattan Opera Company, had sent a blank contract to Battistini so that he could fill it in according to his wishes. The baritone, according to one source, sent it back with a letter saying he was not available for American engagements, which at least gave Hammerstein the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t lost to his competitors. The same source describes another American impresario’s attempt to offer the baritone $2,000 for twelve performances in the 1920s, with the same result (other publications quote a fee of $5,000, plus expenses).98 When interviewed in Sweden late in his career, Battistini complained that during his stay in Stockholm he had been “annoyed by a series of American impresarii who are relentlessly trying to get me to consent to go to the United States. I dread ocean voyages and I hate the unexpected and the unknown. A country whose customs and language I don’t know scares me. My entire career bespeaks my consistency.” To put an end to the matter, Battistini asks, “Do you think I would cross the ocean for money?”99 Certainly one could associate Battistini’s phobia with his superstition. Through his fear of the sea, Battistini asserted himself as a man of the world, of the tangible earth. Art for him was not an unfathomable, inexplicable mystery. He believed in certain principles and would prove their validity. The beginning of 1890 saw the baritone in fifteen triumphant performances of Simon Boccanegra at La Scala, followed by Il barbiere di Siviglia, Ernani, and Amleto with Emma Calvé and Felia Litvinne. In the summer, he was in Spain, appearing in Madrid with Marcella Sembrich and Luisa Tetrazzini. In March 1891, a Madrid Tannhäuser earned him more high praise from the local press; to the critic for the Noticiero Universal it seemed “as though Wagner had written the role [of Wolfram] especially for him” and that “no one could possibly sing it better.” The Liberal declared, “We had to wait until last evening to be truly able to hear [Wolfram’s] delectable romance sung as it should be.” And the Eco National said, “No other baritone can approach Battistini, even in the most insignificant recitative.” He spent the fall of 1891 in Lisbon before returning to Italy. In the spring of 1892, in Rome, he sang Rigoletto at Teatro Argentina and Simon Boccanegra at the Costanzi. The latter theater was then directed by the musicologist and composer Gino Monaldi (1847–1932). In an article he wrote after Battistini’s death, Monaldi claims that he met the singer after he had written a review of his performance in 1880 as de Nevers in Les Huguenots for the Unione Liberale, Perugia’s only newspaper. Palmegiani’s book mentions their encounter, which, while there is no reason to doubt that it happened, differs slightly from what Monaldi recalled in 1928: the review he wrote was published, but in the 11 August 1879 issue of the newspaper Il Progresso. And it

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was perhaps not until after a second favorable review on 30 August, of Dinorah, that Battistini expressed the desire to meet him and say thank you. The anecdote itself occurs in May or June 1892. The management of the Costanzi was going through some difficult times, and after one performance, Monaldi had to confess to Battistini that he didn’t have the funds to pay his 1,500 lira fee or the salaries for the orchestra, amounting to some 4,000 lira. Without blinking an eye, Battistini lent him the money to pay the musicians and said, “As for my 1,500 liras, give it to me when you have it.” Of course, this anecdote is not found in Fracassini’s book, where Battistini would not have allowed such a personal favor to be advertised; there is, however, a reference to Monaldi, for having coined the epithet arbiter elegantiarum (arbiter of elegance) to describe the baritone. On 10 November 1892 at the Pergola in Florence Battistini sang at the premiere of Mascagni’s I Rantzau (which a typo in the Fracassini book dates 1890). Others in the cast included Fernando De Lucia and the future creator of Tosca, Hariclea Darclée. It was a success, for which Mascagni would remain grateful to his performers. After Cavalleria rusticana and L’amico Fritz, the new hit seemed to solidify the reputation of the composer. A friendship was born, and later when Mascagni’s fortunes declined and he undertook his conducting tours, he always had a place for Battistini.

FALSTAFF We have seen above Verdi’s description of the ideal Iago and can appreciate, from the way Battistini’s youth and elegance stood contrary to that vision, the composer’s initial hesitation in casting him in the part. So how to explain Verdi’s choice of Battistini to create the role of Falstaff? At the very least, it proves that Maurel must not have been entirely to Verdi’s satisfaction. Certainly, over the past six years, the composer had been impressed first by Battistini’s Posa and, eventually, by his Iago—which ultimately convinced him of the singer’s capacity for performing roles other than noble and magnanimous aristocrats. However, Battistini (as well as Masini, to whom the role of Fenton was offered) had the audacity to turn down the rare privilege of participating in the creation of Falstaff. Did the tenor’s refusal influence the baritone? Did the two discuss it? We don’t know. Was Battistini less concerned about adding such feathers to his cap than is generally believed? Verdi’s wishes, toward the end of his life, were taken as commands, and everyone knew of his proposal to make Battistini famous by creating the title role in his final opera. Did he handle it

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wrongly and ruffle Battistini’s pride with tyrannical demands that the still young baritone felt unequal to? I don’t think so, because after Battistini declined Verdi’s offer with all the tact he could muster and mutual friends tried to convince him to change his mind, here is his alleged response (cited by Palmegiani, drawing from the 19 June 1926 obituary in La Stampa): It was useless. It wasn’t that I was being excessively vain, for I am quite innocent of that nasty fault. Nor was it to make [Verdi] beg; on the contrary, it would have been a very great honor to satisfy the Maestro, but, even though I tried to study the character in depth to familiarize myself with it, I couldn’t see myself as Falstaff, and when a character eludes me, I can’t perform it. To sing thus against my better judgment, I wouldn’t feel right, and, furthermore, I would feel I was being essentially dishonest.

The above response says a great deal, while still leaving much unanswered. It should also be considered that at thirty-seven (eight years younger than Maurel) Battistini might have felt reluctant to impersonate an old lecher, a buffo role that could be more easily and truthfully performed by an older singer. No matter how great his acting, his physique had to be taken into account, and Battistini doubted he could succeed in depicting Sir John’s vulgarity and loose morality without attracting critical scorn. It is interesting that Maurel had to have a particularly grotesque costume stuffed with padding to simulate rolls of flesh. Such artificiality never appealed to Battistini, and nothing could have been farther from his nature than to try to entertain the public with the sight of his decadence: the more he tried the more he would have felt untrue to himself. Moreover, the role lay rather low for him, even if Verdi had eventually consented to a few variants and transpositions (since he hadn’t composed the part for any singer in particular). In 1923, annoyed at his interviewer’s apparent disappointment over the missed Falstaff (insulting for him, as though a singer’s worth was determined only by the number of roles he created), Battistini explained, with a laugh, “I never liked being beaten and packed into a basket. I prefer to do the beating myself.”100 Verdi was stung by the refusal and bore a grudge for a long time. According to Lancelotti (and repeated by Palmegiani), he forgave him during a stay in Montecatini, when he noticed Battistini smiling during an instrumental version of “Eri tu” at a concert given in the composer’s honor. Verdi called him over and asked him why he was smiling. Battistini explained that he had been thinking about a certain baritone (discreetly unnamed) who had stopped singing in the middle of the Ballo in maschera aria when he heard the audience booing him. Before walking off the stage, the unlucky baritone reportedly exclaimed, “Those who would like to hear the rest of the aria are invited to follow me home.” The anecdote amused Verdi, who loved funny stories. Then

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and there, he admitted to Battistini that he had seen him in performance and applauded him often, in secret. Battistini never sang Falstaff, although the role was proposed to him for a production in Monte Carlo in 1919. On the other hand, he frequently programmed “Quand’ero paggio” in his recitals—but only after Verdi’s death, and when he was approaching the age of the role (the Messaggero lists the piece in a notice of a June 1903 recital). The same newspaper, announcing a concert in Fiumicino in May 1907 that enlisted the participation of another baritone, Antonio Magini-Coletti, and the tenor Francesco Marconi, again made a point of mentioning that “Quand’ero paggio” was on the program. If Battistini avoided voluntary discussion of his Falstaff refusal, he could not prevent the spread of rumor. In his lifetime, all of the gossip painted him in a favorable light as a strong personality, one of the few people able to stand up to the irascible composer, and who was notorious for having done so with others besides. Today, in retrospect, the story takes on a different meaning, causing one to interpret Battistini’s refusal as a show of impertinence, a crime of lèse majesté. Who did he think he was, to turn down an opportunity of which he was unworthy to begin with? But the question is clearly contradictory, for, if the performer was not up to the job, he should be given credit for his abstention. This way of looking at the problem illustrates the low opinion held of performers in comparison to composers. Verdi must have experienced a similar reaction when his offer was refused, as though his will alone were enough to settle the matter, without acknowledging the performer’s right to make his own decision based on his own abilities. But could it not have been precisely his modesty that made Battistini decline the offer? Did he not humbly admit that he wasn’t able to feel and, therefore, enact the character? He ought to have been commended for his sincerity. It has sometimes been suggested that, in Falstaff, Verdi wanted to fling his music into the audience’s lap without making any concessions to public taste, now that he no longer needed to. This debatable notion points out the composer’s modernity as well as the performer’s reactionary attitude, though it has the major drawback of casting a bizarre retroactive shadow over all the other operas of Verdi’s youth and maturity. Nor does it easily explain the success of Falstaff’s premiere. If the public had somehow been able to perceive or sense the composer’s mischievous ulterior motive, it would only have applauded louder to forestall the cruel joke, which would in turn put the composer in the awkward position of having to admit “he who laughs last laughs best.” Such speculation has little merit or relevance other than implicitly supporting the position of those who accuse Battistini of hedonism, and who find his refusal to be the perfect example of what should be condemned. They can then

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flaunt the image of a capricious, irresponsible divo wanting to make himself look good by playing only noblemen, whose narcissism prevented him from recognizing a gem of a part. But why not acknowledge Battistini’s choice not to like, not to want to perform this character? It denotes a free and independent mind—a mind that could be described as modern. So, in this case, Verdi turned to his second choice, Maurel, who undoubtedly realized how much the experience would add to his prestige. But again, the relationship between composer and singer were far from ideal, as Verdi wrote to Giulio Ricordi. Don’t hesitate one instant to break off negotiations. Maurel’s conditions have truly wounded my pride. How? A singer comes into my studio, picks up a score that is not even finished, and says to me: “I’ll sing your opera, but I want to be the first to sing it in all the major opera houses . . . London, Madrid, etc.” Nor do I approve of the fee he is asking. Perhaps it’s none of my business, but I don’t want the management of a theater to lose money on a new opera of mine. . . . I wouldn’t even approve the 10,000 lira for the rehearsals!! It’s too much, much too much!! What a precedent it would set!! It’s terrible!101

Certainly the opportunistic composer and performer had both seen better days together. Once he was engaged for Falstaff, Maurel reportedly insisted on working only three months on it, and only one week with the composer. He ordered his famous costume from England. Verdi complained about Maurel’s theatrics, wondering if he might deliver his third encore of “Quand’ero paggio” while doing a handstand. On the occasion of the Paris premiere, Verdi was still angry. He removes a piece here and there, according to his whim, as though experimenting to see what works and what he needs to cut! And they talk of art! . . . of high art!! What a joke!! That way, operas become no more than exercises for whatever artist to try out his voice, manner of singing, or stage acting (mannered, of course).102

It is indeed surprising, not to read Verdi’s pet peeves about opera singing and acting, but to see Maurel—who represents for us the very model of the Verdian singer, the modern, or, at least, “reformed” singer—to be the one to trigger them.

NOTES 1. Reprinted in Battistini’s obituary in Corriere di Milano, 15 November 1928, signed V. Ramperti.

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2. Listok (Odessa), 1 March 1898. 3. “A Great Singer from Italy: Romance of Battistini’s Career, by Himself,” Daily Graphic, 28 April 1922. 4. Mario Tiberti, one in his series of necrological tributes published every ten years, La Voce, 29 November 1958. 5. Opinione di Roma, 11 November 1878. 6. Bersagliere, 10 November 1878. 7. L’Avvenir, 10 November 1878. 8. Voce della Verita, 11 November 1878. 9. La Gazzetta dei Teatri di Milano, 14 November 1878. 10. Il Suggeritore di Roma, 16 November 1878. 11. Rivista Settimanale di Roma, 20 November 1878. 12. From unspecified contemporary press clippings in Italian archives. 13. Alfred Fischof, “Souvenirs,” Kurjer Polski, 13 November 1928. 14. Sergei Yurevich Levik, The Levik Memoirs: An Opera Singer’s Notes, trans. Edward Morgan (London: Symposium, 1995), 119. 15. Warsaw Courier, 18 May 1896. 16. L’Arpa di Bologna, 1 April 1879. 17. Gino Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato (Milan: Carlo Barbini, 1914), 79. 18. Mefistofele di Napoli, 25 November 1878. 19. Gazzetta Ferrarese, 27 January 1879. 20. Il Risorgimento di Torino, 3 April 1879. 21. Il Pirata di Torino, 5 April 1879. 22. La Patria di Bologna, 6 April 1879. 23. La Gazzetta dei Teatri di Milano, 10 April 1879. 24. Mondo Artistico (Milan), 16 August 1879. 25. Mefistofele di Napoli, 17 March 1880. 26. L’Apollo, 23 March 1880. 27. Rivista Settimanale, 11 April 1880. 28. Don Pirloncino, 9 April 1880. 29. Amico degli Artisti, 16 November 1880. 30. Asmodeo, 9 November 1880. 31. Corriere Italiano, 14 November 1880. 32. Il Sisto, 6 December 1880. 33. Livorno Artistica, 12 December 1880; La Gazzetta Musicale, 6 December 1880; L’Arpa, 18 December 1880; Popolo Romano, 5 December 1880; La Gazzetta Musicale, 18 December 1880. 34. La Gazzetta Musicale, 18 December 1880. 35. Excerpt from El Commercio del Plata, republished in Il Figaro, 30 July 1881. 36. Excerpt from La Gaceta Musicale, republished in Il Figaro, 30 July 1881. 37. Excerpt from La Tribuna Nacional, republished in Il Figaro, 30 July 1881. 38. See, for example, Henri-Jean Frossard, La science et l’art de la voix (Paris: Ch. Delagrave, 1914). 39. Unspecified 1881 review clipping.

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40. Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato, 29–30. 41. Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato, 30. 42. L’Union Française, March 1882. 43. La Repubblica, undated clipping. Erminia Borghi-Mamo (1855–1941) had a fine career, perhaps only slightly less glorious than that of her mother, Adelaïde BorghiMamo (1826–1901). Armand Castelmary (1834–1897), Count of Castan, was a French bass; he would die on stage during a performance of Martha. Fanny Visconti had a respectable career. 44. Operajo Italiano, undated clipping. 45. The Morning Post, 10 May 1923. 46. The Morning Post, 10 May 1923. 47. El Estandarte, undated clipping. 48. El Imparcial, undated clipping. 49. La Prensa Moderna, undated clipping. 50. Asmodeo, 1884 clipping. 51. L’Occhialetto, 27 March 1886. 52. La Gazzetta dei Teatri, February 1884. 53. Fiorello, El Constitucional, undated clipping. 54. La Scena Illustrata, undated clipping. 55. La Gazzetta dei Teatri, 2 November 1885. 56. Gazzetta d’Italia, undated clipping. 57. L’Italie, undated clipping. 58. La Tribuna, 29 March 1886. Giuseppe Kaschmann (1847–1925), highly regarded today by connoisseurs, perhaps because he was less popular, seems to have been an alternative to Battistini. He sang notably at Bayreuth, where Bernard Shaw heard his Amfortas: “Kaschmann, who replaced Reichmann as Amfortas, was comparatively weak in voice and limited in acting; but he spared us Reichmann’s exhibitions of the art of singing flat” (The Star, 23 July 1894). Kaschmann experienced a vocal decline, and the recordings he made reveal a voice and style that, alongside Battistini’s, are comparatively lacking in nobility and splendor. He gradually turned to buffo roles. 59. Il Sistro, undated clipping. 60. Twenty years later, in Russia, Navarrini sang again with Battistini, who remembered him and recommended him for an engagement at the Paris Opéra. 61. Il Pungolo, undated clipping. 62. Gazzetta d’Italia, 9 April 1886. 63. L’Italie, February 1887. Filippo Coletti (1811–1894)—not to be confused with Antonio Magini-Coletti (1855–1912)—had a brilliant career. He was a major interpreter of Bellini and Donizetti, then one of the best Verdi baritones (in Ernani, Rigoletto, Il trovatore, La traviata, Simon Boccanegra). He retired in 1880 at age sixty-nine. 64. Giuseppe Verdi to Domenico Morelli, 24 September 1881. 65. Giuseppe Verdi to Victor Maurel, 30 December 1885. 66. Bernard Shaw, The Star, 12 July 1889. 67. Bernard Shaw, The World, 22 July 1891. 68. Bernard Shaw, The Scottish Art Review, September 1889. 69. Corriere di Roma, 29 April 1887.

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70. St. James Gazette, 22 June 1887. 71. Lady’s Pictorial, 25 June 1887. 72. Musical Standard, 25 June 1887, 407. 73. Sale and Exchange, 20 June 1887. 74. Daily Telegraph, 16 June 1887. 75. Truth, 23 June 1887. 76. Modern Society, 2 July 1887. 77. Sunday Times, 26 June 1887. 78. Tribune, 2 July 1887. 79. Standard, 24 June 1887. 80. The World, 1 June 1892. 81. The World, 28 October 1891. 82. Westminster Gazette, 16 November 1905. 83. Stage, 1 July 1887. 84. Mondo Artistico, 7 March 1888. 85. Mondo Artistico, 7 March 1888. 86. Novosti (Odessa), March 1903. 87. L’Italie, November 1885. 88. B. Janowski, Kiev Gazette, 25 March 1903. 89. The Observer, 19 November 1905. 90. Messager de Vilna, 23 February 1896. 91. Warschawski Dnevnik, 27 March 1896. 92. L’Italie, 8 November 1903. 93. La Gazzetta Musicale, 22 April 1888 (report dated 18 April). 94. Standard, 24 June 1887. 95. Avenir, 7 November 1928. 96. Cited in Arturo Lancelotti, Le voci d’oro (Rome: Fratelli Palombi, 1942) and echoed in Francesco Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni (Milan: Stampa d’Oggi, 1949), 73. 97. Unidentified, undated newspaper clipping. 98. Musical America, 7 May 1927. 99. Tidens Tegn, 9 March 1926. 100. Morning Post, 10 May 1923. 101. Giuseppe Verdi to Giulio Ricordi, 31 August 1892. 102. Verdi to Ricordi, 1 June 1894.

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RUSSIA

Eighteen ninety-three was a watershed year in Battistini’s career, for it

marked his first trip to Russia. St. Petersburg boasted the most glamorous opera company of the day, employing the best artists and offering lavish salaries. Since Battistini stopped going there after 1914, the oft-cited claim by Palmegiani that Battistini sang twenty-six seasons in Russia must be discounted. Palmegiani must have either misinterpreted one of his sources or made a typographical error. Or did the baritone have a special way of calculating the sum total of his appearances in St. Petersburg? If Palmegiani was thinking of a 1903 article cited in Fracassini, the date of which is incorrectly given there as 5 April 1888, that might account for the twenty-six reckoning. In that article, cited by Palmegiani, Battistini describes his first time in St. Petersburg, ten years before, and tells how shop windows were broken and his photos stolen by adoring fans. In 1893, when I arrived for the first time in St. Petersburg, I must admit that in spite of my experience in the opera house I was terribly anxious about how the public would react to me. Could I hope to establish a connection, so precious for any artist, with the audience? That’s what was constantly on my mind. I knew about the brilliant tradition of the Italian opera house in St. Petersburg. I knew that I would have to sing before the descendants of those who were regaled by Rubini, Mario, Grisi, and the entire glittering Pleiades of extraordinary singers who, for thirty years, made the Italian opera house in St. Petersburg the finest in Europe. It did not seem easy to me to sing for a public that had not yet forgotten Cotogni, for such a demanding audience. For my debut, I chose

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Chapter 2 Hamlet: it seemed to me easier to touch these Northerners’ enigmatic souls behind the mask of the ill-fated prince of Denmark. That nebulous figure’s oneness with nature fascinated me, and I wanted to introduce myself artistically through the language of the Shakespearean hero. The anticipation was unforgettably long for me, but after the first duet with Ophélie there was an electricity that filled the house; a sensitive artist can always feel it, and when he senses the favorable atmosphere around him he soars like an eagle. Encouraged by my success, I was in my best voice. When I had finished Hamlet, I no longer dreaded the St. Petersburg public; I felt like I had conquered the Sphinx. When the opera was over, the applause didn’t stop. The audience wouldn’t calm down, and even after I had removed my makeup I was forced to reappear on stage in my street clothes. From then on, I quickly earned the admiration of the St. Petersburg public. After Hamlet came Maria di Rohan, then Un ballo in maschera. At first, some critics treated me indifferently, finding many flaws in my singing and rating me below Maurel, but the public continued to come in droves. I was so warmly received that, from the first winter, the famous solid bond that satisfies both the artist and the man had been established. Indeed, can there be anything more fulfilling than to feel understood and appreciated? During the past few years, I have often experienced this delight, and that is the reason for my attachment to St. Petersburg, which for me was never cold, always keenly appreciating the characters and personages that I tried to show. Singing in St. Petersburg has always been pleasant for me, and nowhere else do I sing with such pleasure; not a single good note goes unappreciated here—it is always accompanied by an echo of friendly heartbeats. With my singing talent alone I would never have achieved such a complete success, maintained for ten years uninterruptedly, but the poet and the singer blossom when a climate of love envelopes them. I am grateful and very attached to St. Petersburg, and I come back here each year as though it were my family. I hope St. Petersburg never ceases to love me.1

His modesty and generosity of spirit made him underestimate the craftsmanship behind his accomplishment while acknowledging the public’s role in the success he managed to achieve. Battistini was not one of those artists who ridicule their forebears and think that art begins with them, not realizing that they will someday have to endure the treatment they inflict on others. He underscores his connection to the bel canto tradition, of which he names St. Petersburg the privileged guardian, emphasizing his discomfort at being regarded as a legitimate heir to an aesthetic and a technique that produced the glorious singers that he worshiped himself. Thus, he names Mario, also called Mario di Candia, from his real name, Giovanni Matteo di Candia (1810–1883), whom he had met in Rome, where the celebrated successor of Rubini lived in retirement and predicted a glorious future for Battistini in Russia. Mario must

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have mesmerized Battistini with stories about the wonderful years spent in the company of his companion, Giulia Grisi, and with descriptions of how his other colleagues sang. The narrative of his St. Petersburg debut provides a wordy counterpart to that of his Rome debut, including his weighing of the risks involved and the image of the wings that allow the artist to soar. The association is probably due to the singer’s attitude toward the public. For Battistini, it was a matter of conquest: to fulfill his artistic potential, the singer must earn the appreciation of the audience. The notion that spectators might not be capable of understanding him does not even cross his mind; his only consideration is to prove himself worthy of the highest expectations. Battistini’s conception of his close rapport with the public might seem unusual to us today. He envisaged the possibility of achieving, independent from the roles he performed, the persona of an artist assuming a personal conception of music and transmitting it in that form to the audience. The extent to which he was able to succeed in this mission made him more than just a singer, and the public knew it. It made him a divo, a star. In his operatic performances, Battistini never forgot his role as an artist dispensing aesthetic delight, and it pleased him that in St. Petersburg, more than anywhere else, the public was sophisticated enough to appreciate the ephemeral beauty that he lavished upon them. This admission will be held against him by those who believe that the drama is the sole objective in opera, that a successful performance depends on the singer’s self-effacement. For Battistini, opera is a work of music, a work of art, and, as such, must convey aesthetic pleasure. Battistini’s singing could never be called emotionless, yet, ironically, it is probably the radiant sense of jubilation in his tone that rubs some ears the wrong way and makes his singing seem casual, even frivolous. Reading between the lines, one recognizes the same ideas expressed in 1888 regarding the artist’s responsibility in deciding which works to champion and which works to create. To assume this authority laid the artist-interpreter open to strong criticism, and Battistini did not shy away from it. Obviously, no particular fault could be found with his ability to perform the written score with respect and objectivity, but in 1909, the performer was still held responsible for his choices, and the reporter for the Messaggero was not afraid to take Battistini’s side on a burning issue of the time. M: Commendatore, you are accused of being the champion and apostle of foreign music in Italy. B: Nonsense. Indeed, who performs our nation’s music more than I? Not only do I unearth old masterpieces to give them a new life, but I sing them with no less enthusiasm than I do modern operas. Certainly there has to be

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Chapter 2 a character worth creating . . . but haven’t I sung Andrea Chénier in Moscow? . . . Haven’t I also done [Cristoforo] Colombo, Tosca? Didn’t I do the world premiere of Mascagni’s I Rantzau? Should I give up Werther when Massenet adapted the part especially for me, changing the range from tenor to baritone? . . . If Puccini, Leoncavallo, Giordano, Franchetti, and others write more good baritone roles, I would be very happy to perform them. . . .Who is more interested than I in Boito’s Nerone and impatient for him to produce it? . . . Therefore, I repeat, the accusation is completely groundless. M: Do you believe that the music of the past can still hold its own on the stage? B: Certainly, given the right performers. M: But are there enough singers who possess the virtuosity to do justice to the old masterpieces? B: Aye, there’s the rub! The style of these operas has gone out of fashion, though the melodies and the vocal parts still remain admirable, and if one can find performers equal to them, these operas can still succeed in the theater. From experience, I can affirm that young music lovers with good taste, admirers of Wagner and of all that is modern, without any knowledge of the repertory that delighted their grandparents, have been touched by certain choice tidbits. . . . When I did Linda [di Chamounix] and Maria di Rohan in Rome—especially the malediction scene of the former and the third act of the latter—I saw the most vehement opponents of this type of music break into applause. It convinced me all the more, if I needed convincing, that the major opera houses of Italy should reconsider their programming, so that we may admire Wagner one evening and Mozart the next, or Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi, etc. as well as the latest contemporary composers. But to put this project into effect, there must be moral and material support on the municipal, provincial, and even national levels—more than there exists today, for the training of singers. Having Rigoletto and La traviata as one’s goal is not so bad. M: Families quarrel over whether German music is better than Italian . . . B: I’m not aware of that, though I don’t believe it concerns me. . . . Certainly, of the two, Italian melody goes more directly to the heart and touches a large audience by inspiring warm, noble feelings. Abroad, the classic modern Italian operas reign supreme: one need only produce Traviata, Puritani, Rigoletto, etc. to fill the house and crown the performance with the most enthusiastic ovation.2

Some would be tempted to point to sections of the above quote as evidence of golden-age singers’ lack of cultivation, and then jump to the conclusion that Battistini would have approved of the sort of training singers in our time receive. Certain ideas reappear here: Battistini’s conception of the rapport between composer and singer, which differs from the master-slave scenario cur-

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rently ascribed to. He develops his thesis, contrary to the climate of the time, in which the artist-performer takes matters actively into his own hands and tries to preserve, even revive, a complete survey of musical history and establish a permanent, aesthetically vital repertory, instead of building his success on the popular operas and conveniently ignoring the obscure ones, and instead of being a sort of public servant, subject to the vicissitudes of popular taste. Thus the very singer who had to fight to defend Wagner finds himself going back to war for having won the battle, this time in order to urge music lovers to remember Donizetti, to extend their curiosity toward another universe, adding this or that work to the repertory, rather than rejecting anything not conforming to the delusory ideal of modernity. Notice Battistini’s ribbing of the young followers of the modern repertory and his legitimate pride at having won a few modernists over to his side. The performer is therefore not a neutral link in the chain, and the composer cannot ignore him if he wants his music to be performed. The proof of this is demonstrated by the disastrous effects of the way “contemporary music” was disseminated in the twentieth century. Although the art of Battistini was the expression of a highly cultivated man, it was neither elitist nor pandering. It did not require spectators to absorb an entire agenda of whatever it intended to communicate (along the lines of what many stage directors indulge in today) or to study the history of an era. His legitimate pride rested on the ability to make music available to anyone willing to listen. So, this art of communicating by sounds, all the impulses of the soul! . . . Melancholy daydreaming, profound grief, bursts of anger . . . the artist can express all these things in a language comprehensible to everyone, even those who do not understand Italian, even those who haven’t read the libretto.3

THE PRESS Battistini enjoyed some of the most laudatory reviews that critics ever lavished on an opera singer, and yet his need to be loved made it impossible for him to erase from his memory the first negative press comments he received during his first engagement in St. Petersburg—hence his eagerness to point out the discrepancy between the newspaper reviews and the public’s warm reception. Of course, a great artist grows through his art, and, just as in his first appearances in England, it is likely that Battistini had not yet attained the level he would achieve later on. But also (and Battistini emphasizes this) the critics one would expect to be more perceptive than the general public were not yet in a position to recognize his qualities, obsessed as they were by those of Maurel.

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When evaluating the importance of an unfavorable judgment, or of any criticism whatsoever, it is necessary to keep in mind that no artist, alive or dead, attracts a unanimous response. Even if he did, it would be wise to exercise a certain skepticism about it, since such a response would probably be attributable less to the singer’s individual merits than to the fact that his singing ruffles no feathers. On the other hand, one should beware of paying more attention to vocal defects than to the evidence of good qualities, no matter how ordinary. Fault-finding is the refuge of those insatiable novelty seekers who have become bored with the art and desperately crave variety, the titillation that true art denies them—as though praise implied the admission of the spectator’s inferiority, whereas criticism allowed one to rise above the level of the artist himself. Those who find praise boring probably consider it nothing but blind adoration and give scant attention to its aesthetic implications. Indeed, beyond the praise, the adjectives an artist inspires attempt to describe him and therefore will not have the same connotation if applied to a rebel or a divo. That is to say, an expressionistic kind of artist cannot claim to elicit the same sort of appreciation as the kind who caters to the sublime, and yet we will see later that certain groundbreakers often wish to establish themselves on the thrones of those they overthrow. Fortunately, the actual qualities of Battistini gain additional luster when set alongside the criticism that some individuals have thought it appropriate to level against him. A few examples of such criticism have already been cited, but we should have another look at some of the earlier ones as well as jump ahead a bit in order to consider the principal ones. This irregularity must be excused on the grounds that the subject matter often takes precedence over strict chronology. In 1879, an Italian critic felt that the young Battistini was “ill-advised to appear at the [Teatro] Apollo so soon after having begun his career at the Argentina. His clear, tenorish voice is ill-suited to a central baritone part like that of Nevers [in Les Huguenots], a difficult role that, even when performed to perfection, is not one for bringing out a singer’s good qualities.”4 Battistini was wounded by this review. He saved it and wrote a note in the margin saying that the same newspaper had purposely avoided publishing a review of his debut at the Teatro Argentina. Was there perhaps a rivalry among certain newspapers, and did La Libertà consider Battistini the property of La Gazzetta artistica di Roma and its editor, R. Barbaro? In any case, Battistini’s performance in that Les Huguenots was reported, almost in the same breath, as a success—a contradiction that seems to go against the ethics of serious journalism. Other critics found the baritone’s voice too attractive for Nélusko (in L’Africaine), as reported in, for example, the Buenos Aires Courrier de la Plata in the summer of 1881. But this remark, and the one about his “tenor-ish voice,” must certainly have flattered Battistini, who refused to uglify his voice

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or appearance for a role. For him, art had to ennoble the most desperate theme and raise the picturesque to the level of the sublime. The youth and beauty of his approach could not be faulted. Those who find base reality to be more interesting, more difficult, or more varied than the beautiful lack artistic vision, since they devote all their attention to the subject and deny art’s power to express its specificity. During the first South American trip, one critic wrote that Battistini’s voice is of a completely homogenous timbre, pure throughout its entire two-octave range, and resonant from one end of the scale to the other. However, if the voice of this singer has anything that may be criticized, it must surely be its extreme purity and beauty. This limpid voice lacks, by its very limpidity, the force of dramatic expression, sometimes referred to as “bite,” an element of no small importance in numerous bel canto contexts. The tenor Tamagno is a magnificent example of this. Indeed, by its very nature, the new baritone’s voice is particularly well suited to a sentimental or erotic mode of expression; in that vein, his singing will be admirable in Ernani’s “Vieni meco” or in Ballo’s famous “Eri tu.” However, his performance of the more dramatic, emotional scenes will be lacking in the energy needed to bring out anger, jealousy, vengeance— the very sentiments that are frequently in play in baritone roles. Battistini has it all: an exceptional voice with a perfect technique; an ease of expression full of good taste; impeccably clear articulation, which allows him to phrase with exquisite refinement. From the preceding, it follows that the thankless role of Salluste [in Marchetti’s Ruy Blas] was not in accord with the characteristics of this highly skilled singer who radiates elegance and bravura. His performance, at best, couldn’t overcome either the mediocrity of the other singers’ performances or the weakness of the music itself.5

The above critique is singularly confusing and contradictory. It emphasizes the importance of dramatic expression for baritones before affirming that Battistini is deficient in it. And it is odd to see Tamagno, a tenor well known to the public, cited in comparison to the twenty-five-year-old Battistini, still at the dawn of his career—which rather suggests that there were not all that many baritones who could support the critic’s point. Later we will see evidence that Tamagno was not always perceived quite as favorably alongside Battistini, and that the dramatic punch that the reviewer detects in the tenor was regarded more as a roughness (the latter impression is what the tenor’s recordings convey to a modern listener). Nor does it seem that the reviewer heard Battistini in very many dramatic roles: the writer’s rhetorical use of the future tense here implies a theory unverified by experience.

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Even more striking, after the list of criticisms, is the writer’s about-face to offer praise, as though he were haunted by the beauty of the voice, as though he couldn’t get enough of the pleasure of hearing it, as though the reality of it defied all reason. The reader begins to wonder if the reviewer’s dissatisfaction with Marchetti’s opera might not be the source of his unfavorable reaction, and if the vocal and musical qualities of Battistini don’t eclipse the dramatism with the radiant pleasure of the beauty they engender? But if that was the case, why should it be held against him? Forty years later Battistini recorded an excerpt from Ruy Blas (“A miei rivali cedere,” 22 May 1921), a performance that does not sound lacking in dramatic intensity. Perhaps he didn’t sing it precisely that way in 1881, or perhaps it sounds more dramatically expressive to us because the sound of the recording does less than full justice to the beauty of timbre. But it must be added that even in the early days of his career Battistini had success in operas that demanded the kind of dramatic feeling that the critic claimed to be foreign or inaccessible to this too-beautiful voice—for example, in L’Africaine or Lucia di Lammermoor. A few years later, after a Rigoletto in England, a reviewer wrote that Battistini “has a fine voice, and excepting as to a tendency to exaggeration, and particularly to dragging the tempo, he is a capital singer and actor.”6 Is the writer making an indirect reference to rubato? For bel canto singers, this liberty was not an option but an obligation, the expression of a controlled freedom. Rare is the critic who reproaches the singer for this trait; others, more sensitive to the controlled flexibility of tempo, on the contrary do not hesitate to acknowledge his rhythmic precision. To test this out, the reader need only listen to the recordings Battistini left us. One will not hear any undue tendency to drag the tempo (several arias are taken at a faster speed than that generally adopted today), while the flexibility of his phrasing, far from undermining the musical and expressive intensity, is extraordinarily compact. Eighteen years later, in the same country and the same opera: He comes with the highest reputation from the chief opera houses of the Continent, and for once rumor has not exaggerated his superb qualities. To a rich voice he adds a perfect method and keen dramatic perception, and his interpretation of the jester was an exceedingly strong one. Excepting a too pronounced tendency, as common with Italian artists, to act too much to the audience, he certainly achieved a triumph, and music lovers will look forward to seeing him with anticipation in Mozart’s Don Giovanni, which is promised for next week.7

Of course, everyone is entitled to an opinion, but a cross-check of the existing documentation on this subject (which must be our guide in evaluating the critical commentary on Battistini) yields little support for this reservation. So

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many other reviews, in all languages including English, praise his poignantly intense acting, that it would be an error to point to this one as evidence that Battistini’s acting lacked depth. But if one examines this text more closely, one notices that it opens by acknowledging that “for once rumour has not exaggerated his superb qualities”—which, for an artist who has inspired so many superlatives, takes on all the more significance. The only reservation is that he tended “to act too much to the audience.” Certainly, it cannot be denied, Battistini’s goal was to offer his art to the audience. But consider another criticism noted among other good qualities in a review of the same opera, in the same city, the following year. This time his acting was not felt to be so shallow. The fact that he is an exceptionally tall and particularly well made man is a little against his Rigoletto, and he has an undue partiality for smiling; but he is an actor of considerable force, and the beauty of his voice and the refinement of his singing, combined with his dramatic expression, mark him out as an artist of the front rank. His refinement is, now and then, almost excessive, but he never ceases to be sincere.8

A few weeks later, still at Covent Garden, in Eugene Onegin, more comments about his physical appearance and also his acting: Signor Battistini sings the music of the title-part very well, though he is not quite the person to capture a young girl’s fancy. He has neither Mr Lewys James’s individuality and refinement, and still less can he rival the memorable impersonation by the late Eugene Oudin; but he sang the music with great success and won great applause at the end of the first act.9

What can one say? That we are not in a position to judge, there being no recorded trace of the performances of the other baritones mentioned. So many other reviews—of course, not only English ones but Russian ones as well—lead to this view of how Onegin should be interpreted. Again, everyone is free to express his own opinion, but what does it reveal, if not supported by logical argument, besides the personal prejudice of the person who utters it? The reader is again invited to arrive at his own opinion by listening to Battistini’s 1902 recording of Onegin’s “Se dell’imen la dolce cura.” Later on, we will have occasion to examine more Eugene Onegin reviews, not only from England but also from Russia. Speaking of Russia, a St. Petersburg critic once remarked that Battistini’s Rigoletto, although “magnificently” sung and acted, was “too young and too attractive” for the role. However, he went on to report that the baritone “was obliged to repeat the vengeance duet [with Gilda], in which the masculine

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energy of his accents, allied with the suave voice of Mme Arnoldson, sparked real enthusiasm.”10 To recap the opinions on Battistini in Rigoletto: the English Daily News critic in 1887 found fault with his rubato but praised all the rest; the 1905 Scotsman critic liked everything but his acting; the 1906 World reviewer approved of everything except the singer’s physique; and in Russia the voice was deemed too beautiful for the role of an old father. A synthesis of all these opinions indicates that Battistini must have achieved an outstanding interpretation of the part and that it was difficult to find any flaw in it, which would seem to explain why he performed it so often. To get back to the eternal complaint about a too-beautiful voice, it should not be forgotten that one aspect of its beauty derives from how it was employed; its attractiveness is expressed through the technique, and the technique reveals one part of the attraction. This is a matter of importance in an understanding of Battistini’s style: emotion is not the enemy of beauty, nor is beauty impersonal or boring. On the contrary, the artist can find beauty and use it to touch the listener emotionally. So many like to think that it is easy to sing beautifully and difficult to convey the right emotion, that the singer must make the voice ugly to achieve the right dramatic inflection, yet so many voices already sound old and threadbare at age forty. Ultimately, all these reservations accompanied by compliments are benign and negligible when viewed in light of the praise. But now for a sharper criticism: in her memoirs, Yanina Vaida-Korolevich (1876–1955), who prided herself on having been one of Battistini’s partners, describes some of his incarnations . . . unflatteringly.11 She admires above all his Il barbiere di Siviglia Figaro, his Germont, his Don Giovanni, and his Wolfram; however his double role in Pagliacci did not please her. She admits that he sang both parts brilliantly but remains shocked at how unrealistic and absurd it seemed for Battistini to perform the prologue in coattails before enacting the role of Silvio. This categoric judgment merits careful consideration. Of course, the prologue is supposed to be sung by Tonio, in the costume of a poor itinerant actor, but it should also be understood that this same prologue is an introduction; the one who sings it takes the audience by the hand, so to speak, and leads it into the world of the drama. In front of the elegant St. Petersburg public, the coattails represented not the actor stepping out of character but, in a way, the composer or his agent coming to present his work to the audience. Leoncavallo had in fact allowed this way of beginning his opera, apparently only for Battistini; for anyone other than the “divo” (the composer’s own term) it was not permitted.12 Why should anyone object to what the composer was perfectly willing to allow? Why should minds remain closed to the uniqueness of what Battistini had to offer, to his unparalleled strengths that the composer himself recognized?

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It should be added that the taste of the Russian public (as Battistini must have realized) did not seem predisposed to this “popular” work, produced in St. Petersburg in 1895, barely three years after its world premiere, and sharing the bill with “two acts of La Favorita with Battistini in the role of Don Alfonso.”13 The local press called Pagliacci “not a very interesting opera” while admitting that “when the role of Nedda is sung by Mme [Marcella] Sembrich and the other parts given to artists like Battistini [Silvio], Cotogni [Tonio], Garulli (who created the role [of Canio] in Italy), then [it] becomes extremely interesting.”14 Did Cotogni refuse to sing the prologue, or did Battistini’s stardom automatically qualify him to deliver it? In any case, the piece remained the property of Battistini whenever he sang the opera. The year before the St. Petersburg Pagliacci, Battistini had sung in the Moscow premiere of Leoncavallo’s I Medici with Tamagno. A few years later, the composer gave him his photo, inscribing it: “To Mattia Battistini, at the summit of his art and the future Giovanni Ratenow in Rolando. [Signed] His admirer, R. Leoncavallo, Paris, 6 June 1899.” Der Roland von Berlin, commissioned by the German kaiser Wilhelm II, premiered in December 1904 at the Berlin State Opera; Battistini does not appear to have sung it until some time later, at the Teatro San Carlo in Naples. By 1901, the Pagliacci controversy had ceased to be an issue for the Russian press, which reported that “the prologue sung by M. Battistini enthused the public, and the encores that ensued showed the general satisfaction with the performance. It goes without saying that M. Battistini was also a perfect Silvio.”15 A few years after that, Pagliacci had become permanently coupled with Cavalleria rusticana. Yesterday, Cavalleria and Pagliacci were once again mounted together, which seems to be the unalterable destiny of these two operas. In Pagliacci Battistini performed the double role of the Prologue and Silvio. In my opinion, he performed it even more artistically than in previous years. Here I am referring only to his acting, in the marvelous scene before and during the murder of Nedda. Admirably conceived, it was performed by Battistini with rare mastery. His acting was brilliant, profound, psychologically right. About his singing of the role I have nothing to say: as always, it was perfect.16

Vaida-Korolevich also felt that the role of Escamillo was ill-suited to Battistini’s voice and that he could not manage the desired effect in the Toreador Song. Certainly, that famous solo is written for a “big baritone,” and a number of bassi cantanti have done it distinguished justice. Although Battistini made no recording of it, from the records that do exist one can probably safely assume that the role of the bullfighter did not show his voice to its best advantage.

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Nevertheless, it seems to have brought him considerable success. One critic, while admitting that the part was “a bit low for M. Battistini,” felt that “his marvelous baritone was splendid in the second-act couplets and in the duettino at the end of the opera.”17 Another wrote of the same Carmen that Battistini was “the hero of the performance,” that he had encored the Toreador Song, and that “he sings ravishingly, as always. Without a doubt he is the number-one baritone of this era! One can’t avoid going into raptures over hearing his velvety smooth timbre, in no matter what role he performs.”18 Carmen brings to mind an anecdote, cited by Palmegiani, concerning the costume Battistini wore when he performed Escamillo. The famous Spanish torero of Italian-Basque ancestry Mazzantini, Battistini’s friend and exact contemporary and known for his wealth and generosity, gave the baritone a real bullfighter’s costume as a gift. It was reportedly “worn by a real torero, with a scarlet cape on which there are genuine traces of blood from a real bull.”19

CHALIAPIN VERSUS BATTISTINI The Russian singer and writer Sergei Levik (1883–1967) wrote a book, An Opera Singer’s Notes, which evokes the atmosphere of the pre-revolutionary Russian musical scene particularly well. Although he writes that “we compare Smirnov with Anselmi, Kastorsky with Navarrini, Sibiriakov with Arimondi and so on. For any of them, the highest form of praise was comparison (however remote) with Battistini, who at that period was considered the greatest master of ‘fusion’ of bel canto,”20 it must not be concluded that he was an unconditional admirer of the King of Baritones. The Levik case is complex. He approached Battistini as a young baritone in search of a teacher, but that did not prevent him from being severely critical of him at times, as in his judgment of the King of Baritone’s William Tell, which might legitimately be ignored as an isolated, subjective opinion if it weren’t at singular odds with the majority of Levik’s remarks, expressing as it does a whole movement of thought vacillating between an aspiring nationalism and an art of refinement long since imported from Italy (and not limited to the subject of music; remember, some of the most splendid architecture in St. Petersburg is due to the Italian Rastrelli and the Frenchman Leblond). In turn-of-the-century Russia the plastic arts experienced a crisis comparable to that which Levik describes, and not even the strongest advocates of realism could prevent the imminent birth of abstract art. For example, the Russian abstract painter Wassily Kandinsky published his influential Art of Spiritual Harmony (1910) at about the same time Mikhail Larionov and Kazimir Malévitch championed quite different trends.

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In his discussion of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell, Levik immediately evokes the theatrical version of Schiller in the interpretation that most impressed him: the actor Lepkovsky’s simple but dignified peasant, forced to defy the tyrants. Levik surely has this interpretation in mind when he speaks of the 1905 revolution and, in the same breath, the audience’s reaction during the play, as they were stirred to a frenzy by the slightest allusion that reminded them of their own fight. Is Levik fascinated by Schiller’s drama, by his interpretation of it, or by the realization that a work of art can be used, distorted, to galvanize the crowd for political ends? Already one can see that Levik would not have appreciated Battistini’s Tell, above all because the opera is not as faithful to the action and the “message” of the drama, but also because, through the music of a composer like Rossini, Battistini would have been concerned less with depicting realistic actions than with achieving a romantic idealization. Indeed, Levik does not recognize the rustic patriot; nor does he see, as he naively expected, the leading baritone of his time surpass the illustrious actor in aggressiveness. And yet, on another level, Levik was ultimately won over, but without really understanding the miracle, without truly acknowledging and analyzing it; to a certain extent he recognized it in spite of himself. His written record of his impressions during a performance of the opera gives evidence of a mind struggling with the conflict between the reality of his emotions and the impulse to analyze them rationally. Levik begins by expressing his distaste for the beautiful costume and the formality of the staging. At the start of the opera, the voice itself did not seem remarkable to him. Oddly, to show what he means he compares Battistini’s voice with that of a tenor, Sekar-Rozhansky. With a sort of national pride, he expresses his admiration for the baritonal characteristics of the tenor, because for Levik, without question, a tenor with the timbre of a baritone is better than a baritone with tenorial qualities. And why? The more effortful the singing, the more it fans Levik’s revolutionary flame. He values the cost of victory only in relation to the amount of risk incurred along the way, which is why a baritonal timbre pushed into singing a tenor’s notes gives him more satisfaction than a voice whose technical reliability makes access to the high register sound unforced and natural. His virtuosity automatically leaves Battistini out of the running here, for, instead of attracting attention to the difficulty, the art of bel canto makes singing appear easy, second nature, and effortless for the person who exercises it. Despite the underlying revolutionary tendencies manifested in Levik’s criticism, antipathetic to the overly refined nature of Italian opera, it should not be assumed that his opinion was unanimously shared. A Russian review from about the same period of Battistini’s performance in Maria di Rohan

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says the baritone’s “large and powerful voice filled the auditorium, its infinite nuancing brilliant, sounding now like a cello, now like a tenor’s mezza voce with its metallic middle register. These sounds swell to the loudest forte, then subside to the sweetest piano. And it is remarkable that all these numerous modulations appear to take no toll on the artist: the highest baritone notes, up to the A, are as easy for him as the middle C; the loudest forte leaves not the slightest impression of effortfulness; the artist always sings, without ever shouting like our Russian singers often do.”21 Of his Rigoletto, one Russian reviewer notes that “Battistini sings but never shouts,” and of his Barnaba in La Gioconda another observes that the “musical feeling to the degree so admirably cultivated by Battistini allows him to avoid unsubtle effects, and it is regrettable that a public accustomed to hearing other artists effectively interpret the same pieces in a vulgar or forced manner is not always capable of appreciating Battistini’s ultra-refined interpretation for what it is worth.”22 When Battistini visited Russia for the last time, at age fifty-eight, his singing was still found to contain “nothing awkward or strained. He sings effortlessly: never does he force the notes. He shuns every temptation to be flashy, yet at the same time the volume of his voice is so strong and powerful! . . . His crescendos and fermatas are impressive, and the wide and ever-increasing scope of his voice is capable of filling the vast auditorium at once. . . . And with that, a rare sense of moderation. . . . What perfection! What beauty!”23 In sum, while a certain number of witnesses echo Levik’s impression of the ease of Battistini’s singing, they also acknowledge another aspect: instead of viewing this characteristic as a defect, they appreciate its unique artistic value. When Levik expounds on the robustness of a voice and on the singer’s effortful delivery, which he equates with the heroism of the character, he appreciates its very inadequacy. A voice reduced through inexperience to struggling with itself certainly gives an impression of striving beyond its means, but only in the most basic sense, confusing crudeness with spontaneity, whereas the ease of a bel cantist must be acquired or at least practiced diligently in order to remain on a level of proficiency. Battistini even admitted to Levik (who could not have forgotten it) that he had needed no less than seven years (he sometimes said eight) of relentless struggling, day in and day out, to get his voice in shape. Levik even notes how dim a view Battistini took toward a singer who didn’t practice enough. Battistini deliberately avoided the coarse heaviness of a chesty middle and low register that so pleased Levik. And yet it must be acknowledged that, ultimately, Levik, in spite of his preference (and this is not the least of his contradictions), did not judge the baritone’s voice to be deficient.

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Battistini’s voice was particularly rich in overtones, which continued to sound long after he had ceased to sing. The singer had finished singing, but the sounds somehow still held you in their power. The unusually attractive timbre of his voice caressed the listener, as though enveloping him in its warmth. His voice was unique and without rival among baritones. He had everything that makes a vocal phenomenon: two full octaves of a sound that was uniformly soft throughout its full range, as well as being flexible, full of power and warmth and with something in reserve. Even if his teacher Cotogni was mistaken in making him a baritone and not a tenor, it was a fortunate mistake. There was a joke that a baritone received a hundred per cent and a little bit more. Saint-Saëns said that music ought to bring delight and Battistini’s voice certainly brought a thousand delights: it was music itself.24

Levik must admit that Battistini was second to none, but Fedor Chaliapin apparently remained his idol. Throughout his book, Levik compares Battistini to Chaliapin, the former doubtless representing art in its most polished state, the latter representing long-awaited truth. Levik seemed to be waging his own war of ancients and moderns. Moreover, a few nagging similarities exist between Levik’s way of thinking and the point of view presented by Chaliapin in his memoirs. Was there somewhat of an influence here? It is true that the situation in which they both were living—in exile, as it were, from their own country, through the triumph of Italian music—must have caused them to reach similar conclusions. One gains a better understanding of Levik from passages in Chaliapin’s autobiography, as in this paean to his Russian roots. One thing that strikes me as being particularly significant in the life of Russia is the fact that my singing has always been encouraged by simple Russian artisans, and that my apprenticeship to music was served in the choir of a Russian church. There is a strong hidden affinity between Russian church-music and the songs of the Russian people. Russians sing before they can talk; they learn to sing in their cradles. This, at least, was the case when I was a boy. Tragedy was innate in the soul of the people, and their songs were full of wild melancholy and desperate gaiety. Why, then, have they exchanged those songs for the unbearable triteness and banality of tchastouchki?25

The above is a veritable hymn to the ancestral tradition of the Russian people, stressing the naturalness and spontaneity of the child, implicitly opposed to the artificiality of bel canto. The sacredness of the church contrasts here with the frivolity of opera, the folk with the social elite. The people that unfortunately forgets its folk songs loses its identity.

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Chapter 2 How beautifully they used to sing in those lost days! At nightfall they sang in meadows and haylofts, by the windings of rivers and brooks. They were inspired by the spirit of song, and the consciousness of lyric joy was ever present.26

Where would Chaliapin have come by such sentiments? He had a “fateful encounter” with a certain Dmitri Andreivitch Ousatov, his first singing teacher, from whom he says he learned more than just vocal technique; Ousatov helped him find himself. He would seat himself at the piano, while we gathered round him, and play various excerpts, pointing out the differences between an opera of the Italian school and one which was typically Russian. Although he certainly did not overlook the merits of the former, he said that simple melody, intelligible to all, predominated in it. It would appear, he explained, that this type of music had been composed for a people endowed with musical gifts who, when they had heard and memorized an opera, would henceforth sing its charming arias in the sad or joyful moments of their lives. Russian music, including that of Mussorgsky, is the entire antithesis of this school. The melody is there, but it is of an entirely different character. In Russian music, melody is the medium through which the atmosphere is suggested and the drama unfolded; it expresses both love and hate in a far more profound and penetrating manner. “Take Rigoletto,” he proceeded, “the music is pleasing, light and tuneful, and at the same time in keeping with the characters of the protagonists. Nevertheless, it is superficial and entirely lyrical.” (And he would sing Rigoletto.) “Now, gentlemen, listen to Mussorgsky. This composer expresses the psychology of each of his characters through the medium of his music. In Boris Godunov two voices are heard, in two short musical phrases. One voice sings: ‘Mitiouk, Mitiouk, what are we growling about?’ and Mitiouk replies: ‘How the devil do I know?’” The music gives you a perfectly clear picture of the two boon companions. One is a red-nosed argufier with a hoarse voice and a weakness for drink, the other is dull of wit.

* * * Mussorgsky’s music, played or sung by Ousatov, had a powerful effect on me. It awoke curiously familiar echoes in me. Apart from all Oustov’s theories, Mussorgsky suggested to my mind a strong concoction of the aromatic herbs of my native home. I felt that his music was fundamentally Russian, and for that reason I could understand it. But my classmates—basses, tenors, and sopranos—chorused:

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“Don’t take any notice of what our worthy Dmitri Andreivitch Ousatov tells us. We all know he is eloquent, and all he says may be true, but ‘La donna è mobile’ is the right stuff for singers. Mussorgsky, with his Varlaams and Mitiouks, is literally poison for the voice and singing.” I was somehow torn in two, and could not as yet see which half of me was in the right. Sometimes I was so racked with doubt that I lay sleepless. Which should I choose: ‘La donna è mobile’ or ‘In the big town of Kazan’? . . .

* * * I was now aiming confusedly at something different, but what it was I scarcely knew myself. Moreover, I was still bound by conventions and was very far from being a “revolutionary” as regarded opera. Outward effects had not ceased to have an appeal for me.27

Unfortunately for us, Chaliapin’s aversion to “facile melody, accessible to all” had little positive impact on his art; it would have been constructive to see him try to reconcile this rejection with the desire for a basic truth that could have rooted out the corrupting clichés, to draw us nearer to real life and show us the virtues of folklore. One would think that the aspiration for democratic equality, the unwillingness to let opera remain the property of a fortunate elite, should result in a universal appreciation of the music, even in spite of its regrettable simplification. The leveling-out at the bottom would be justified by the legitimate right of access supposedly possessed by those with little interest in the subject, who like to think they devote themselves daily to more important affairs but who demand a piece of the pie . . . The picture that Chaliapin gives of himself during his salad days, when he was still attached to outdated values, ostensibly mortifying his flesh, is quaint indeed, especially since the “revolutionary” Chaliapin, afraid of being criticized for his limited schooling, gives us the anecdote about musical polarities as evidence of his perfect education. Above all, he prefers to see his condemnation of bel canto attributed not to his ignorance of formal rules but to a carefully considered personal choice. The analysis of Rigoletto offered by Ousatov and in turn repeated by Chaliapin does not indicate a very deep acquaintance and understanding of that opera or the Italian repertory in general. To cite “La donna è mobile” as proof of Italian opera’s triteness is tendentious in the extreme. Of course, it was only natural that Ousatov, a former tenor, should cite the example of a piece in his own tessitura, and it illustrates his thesis to perfection—how could he have resisted it? But if he had wanted to defend the work and the style, that very aria would have been a fine illustration of characterization through music: the irritating insouciance of the seducer in contrast to the tragedy of the father.

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If one equates lyricism with superficiality, one could easily declare that Rigoletto contains nothing but light and charming melodies—except for moments like “Cortigiani!” or “Piangi, fanciulla,” for example! By such logic, one might have to conclude that the best tunes come from the mouths of lecherous drunkards! On such a scale of values, our estimation of I puritani and even La traviata, not to mention Don Giovanni or Pelléas, drops sharply. And one thereby understands what Battistini meant when referring to modern singers’ inadequate training. Chaliapin, feeling himself torn, as it were, between two irreconcilable aesthetics, went to consult “the celebrated actor, Mamont-Dalski,” to help him resolve his dilemma. Not surprisingly, he went to seek the truth from an actor instead of pursuing a musical path. After listening to the young Chaliapin recite the words of the Miller’s aria in Dargomizhsky’s Rusalka, Dalski said: “The intonations by which you interpret your character are false. That explains the whole thing. You utter the Miller’s reproaches and complaints to his daughter in the accents of a petty tradesman, although the Miller is a steady-going peasant, the owner of a windmill and other property.” I was cut to the quick by Dalski’s criticism. I immediately grasped the truth of what he said, and while I was ashamed of my unsuitable renderings, I was nevertheless glad that Dalski had given a form to my confused ideas. Intonations—that was the essential. I was justified in my dissatisfaction with The Song of the Flea; the entire value of a song lay in the correctness of the intonations. Now I understood why bel canto nearly always gives rise to boredom. I thought of singers I knew, with magnificent voices, so perfectly trained that at any moment they could sing piano or forte, but who nearly all sang notes to which the words were merely of secondary importance. In fact, so little stress was laid on the words that more often than not the audience could not make out a syllable of what they were supposed to be saying. Singers in this category sing in an agreeable manner; their voices never sound strained, and are produced effortlessly; but, should they have to sing several times in an evening, no one song would sound very different from any other. Love or hate—there is really nothing to distinguish them! I don’t know what impression this makes on the average listener, but I do know that I am bored after the second song on the program. Only exceptional singers, such as Mazzini, Gailhard, and Caruso, can hold the attention of the public and rouse it to enthusiasm by the mere beauty of their voices. . . . Intonation! Does not this explain why there are so many excellent singers and so few good actors in opera? How many opera-singers can express the sorrow of a mother whose son has been killed in battle, the grief of a young girl for her beloved, in simple, natural, convincing language? . . . On the other hand, Russian drama has no lack of excellent exponents.28

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The above passage tells us a great deal about the musical perception of Chaliapin. Bel canto bored him; he needed something more concrete—the true-tolife drama of a mother who loses a son, or a woman who loses a lover. By denying bel canto the ability to convey the essence of these emotions, and because he had no concern about absolute beauty, Chaliapin thus revealed his own limitations. He could not imagine a subtle meaning emanating from a melodic line, from internal necessity rather than from an external description of a character in life. It is therefore Chaliapin who remained superficial, unable to probe the depths of music and emotion. He naively believed that music benefited from the impact of characterization, that the characters were what empowered music. He stated that, in order to preserve the pure timbre of the voice, the bel cantist wrongly avoided the variety of music, which is to say, the truth of his character, and that only a few “exceptional singers,” such as Caruso, Masini, and Gayarré (the latter two names awkwardly misspelled to appear like the famous Italian nationalist Giuseppe Mazzini and the great French bass and director of the Paris Opéra Pedro Gailhard), could hold the audience’s attention with this singular attraction, even though, according to Chaliapin, everything sounded the same. Those three voices alone, all tenors, received his blessing; hence, his nearly total lack of regard for a Battistini. It is always easy to attract the approval of the public by peddling such a simplistic philosophy. Those who become bored at the opera because they were hoping to witness a thrilling drama but instead must sit patiently for the baritone to persuade a group of reluctant choristers and extras to go off to war, or for the prima donna to finish her death scene while she embarks on a long aria that common sense ought to have discouraged her from attempting at all (even topping it with an interminable high note, making her sound healthier than anyone in the audience, whose applause is positively anemic at this solemn moment), are all too prone to accept such reasoning at face value. But, inasmuch as it is acknowledged by the advocates of dramatic expression that certain vocalists can only sing in one expressionless manner, is it really because of their allegedly perfect technique? If they were to sing badly, would they gain in dramatic expression? Battistini would never have defended the complacent, conventional, and academic ideology espoused by Chaliapin. Never would he have complained that there were “so many good singers” able to fine-tune their expression at will; he was probably less easy to please than Chaliapin in that regard. The bel canto argument inevitably leads to the “music versus words” controversy, the polarity between the two being greater than one might think. It is more than a petty rivalry between two essential, generally equal, elements of opera. The hegemony of the text, or literal meaning of the words, denies art the specific possibility of being an autonomous arrangement of elements: thus,

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the words are what make a melody expressive. And yet everyone knows that music without words can still touch the listener. But for Chaliapin, leaning toward the descriptive realm of character and dramatic situation, opera could only be the poor relation of the theater, an imperfect, incomplete version that had to be clarified in dramatic terms. Of course, Battistini could not have subscribed to such a simplistic view of art. Other critical commentary might help us to put the Chaliapin aesthetic into perspective. Reynaldo Hahn, on Chaliapin’s Basilio in Il barbiere di Siviglia: In the Barber, Chaliapin gave free rein to his imagination and made a gigantic incarnation of Evil out of a character who is simply wily, secretive, and crafty. Thus the admittedly antipathetic but essentially buffo Basilio of Rossini became something larger-than-life and absurd. . . . All this goes against common sense and good taste. But what is more serious, the Calumny Aria (which, despite a certain repetitiousness, is something of a masterpiece) was adapted to the scale of the new Basilio and, to begin with, sung with a slowness that distorts the spirit and appeal of the piece.29

Apparently, not everyone was of the opinion that the revolution did justice to lyric drama by cleansing it of the narcissistic tendencies of Italian bravura singers! Here is another opinion, this time from one of the Russian bass’s contemporaries and admirers, Mario Podestà, who reveals the extent to which drama had become the touchstone for Chaliapin. The great singer was an exceedingly conscientious professional. One evening, before singing in Gounod’s Faust, he arrived at the theater two hours early to prepare his Mephisto. After being made up to look truly diabolic, he went into the hallways to test its efficacy. As he approached a little ballerina, he let out a satanic “Hah! ha!”—she was terrified. Turning to a stagehand, he reuttered his “Hah! ha!” and he was terrified. Unfortunately, he continued to do so on stage, and all throughout the opera he peppered his text with his diabolical chuckles, resulting in “La jeunesse t’appelle [hah! ha!] la regarder. Lorsque tu bégayais une chaste [hah! ha!] prière.” The conductor, his baton in the air, would wait for the cascade of ha-has to end, and the audience was not terrified, but rather amused.30

The theater had truly become Chaliapin’s guide. If the above anecdote comes from the pen of an admirer, one cannot help thinking of the expression, “With a friend like this, who needs enemies?” But another, more genuinely artistic, reflection arises from it: Chaliapin was not afraid to tamper with the music in order to glorify text and character, but did not realize he was sawing the branch he was sitting on, ruining the very foundations of opera. Although many point admiringly to this aspect of his

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art, it is difficult to endorse it today, or at least to regard it as a desirable goal. Podestà relates how Chaliapin generously tried to share his stage philosophy with his colleagues. At the rehearsals for Khovanshchina was the bass H . . . whose extraordinarily powerful and beautiful voice truly surpassed that of Chaliapin. We were curious to see how he would react. His reaction was unexpected and amusing. When H . . . had finished his aria, Chaliapin warmly embraced him and said: “In the thirty years I’ve been singing Khovanshchina I have never heard a prince like you. Therefore you will do something that only you can do. Instead of singing your aria stupidly in front of the prompter’s box, go way upstage, there on the hill; it’ll be magnificent.” H . . . , as poor of resentment as he was rich of voice, proudly climbed the little hillock at the back of the immense opera stage and abruptly ceased to be too resonant and too imposing for Chaliapin.31

Battistini never would have agreed to such a procedure. Never would he have tried to ensure his own success by abusing his colleague in such a manner—in this case, Albert Huberty (1881–1955), with whom, by the way, Battistini also had occasion to sing. This anecdote suggests that Chaliapin’s voice was not as thundering as is usually thought, that it in no way surpassed bel cantists’ voices in volume and intensity, but that he knew quite well how to conserve its strength and make the most of its effects. Such modifications to the score are quite different in spirit than those of the bel canto singer, who adds notes, appoggiaturas, or rubatos. For Chaliapin, the changes arose not from the music or the vocal organ that conveys it, but from the dramatic action. When he speaks of the “correctness of the intonations,” of the necessity of finding the truth of the Miller, the music itself never enters the picture. This attitude is antiartistic when the performer, faced with conveying either the signifier or the signified, chooses to convey the latter. Although Chaliapin seemed in consistent agreement with himself, one colleague recalled that with others “he sometimes had temper tantrums, especially with conductors. I have seen some put down their batons and walk out on him. On such occasions [Raoul] Gunsbourg [director of the Monte Carlo Opera] would let them leave, saying: ‘You, dear maestro, are replaceable. Chaliapin is not.’”32 But the dramatic conception of Chaliapin opened up so many horizons for the literary-minded that it inevitably found among the intelligentsia many supporters with a knack for verbal rhetoric. The power of his voice, like its compass, is not really extraordinary. All the singers above named [Edouard de Reszke, Pol Plançon] could produce

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Obviously, Chaliapin’s voice was not of the basso profundo variety, and yet that is how it is often conceived by the general public (at least by those who haven’t heard his recordings). According to the implied syllogism, Chaliapin was a Russian bass, Russian bass equals basso profundo, therefore Chaliapin equals basso profundo. But during his lifetime he was strongly suspected of being a baritone, even more emphatically than in the Musical Times citation above (for example, in the Novoé Obozrenié of 9 July 1893). It is true that Caruso was also suspected of being a baritone; and there was a famous saying, “If Caruso is a baritone, then De Lucia is a bass” (in reference to the latter’s often drastic transpositions). Thus, Battistini was not alone in arousing questions about his tessitura, and such remarks cannot always be accepted at face value. As for Chaliapin’s, however, Battistini spoke his opinion to the singer in person, in the home of a St. Petersburg acquaintance (as he recalled in an interview several years after the event): The lady of the house introduced me to a tall young man with almost no sign of hair on his face. After dinner he was invited to sing. And we heard the Demon’s aria. The voice was indeed big, beautiful and soft; the young man sang expressively, with feeling. When he had finished, I conveyed to him my sincere pleasure at his interpretation, congratulated him on his rich vocal resources, but said: “You undoubtedly have a future, but why, my friend, do you sing baritone parts when you have a genuine bass? Never mind that the pitch of your voice allows you to take high baritone notes: you are nevertheless a bass and this you must remember.” The young man [it was Chaliapin] entirely agreed with me. We parted and have not seen each other since.34

Thus, by his own words, Battistini authenticated Chaliapin’s range as that of a bass (he did not say basso profundo, granting his access to the occasional high note), thereby offering his support. He was correct to distinguish between Chaliapin’s legitimate tessitura and the extremities of his range (he himself was known to hit a few “tenor notes,” after all). It requires extensive vocal knowledge to be able to discern this notion of a voice’s maximum output, which can easily lead to misinterpretation. Battistini does not say precisely which aria he heard Chaliapin sing, but could it have been the Demon’s so-called first ro-

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mance in the act 2 finale, “Do Not Weep, Child,” sung in the original key (and which he later performed transposed down a half-tone)? Chaliapin made a recording of it (duly transposed) in 1911, which the reader can compare against Battistini’s 1902 recording of the same piece sung in Italian. Battistini never uttered an unflattering comment about Chaliapin, even though the latter showed himself incapable of handling the modest vocalises in the Il barbiere di Siviglia’s “La calunnia” aria, since he probably was concerned more with creating a picturesque personage than with understanding the innate character of the music. Indeed, the Chaliapin model ushered in an entire era when basses were no longer expected to sing bravura. Concerning the aesthetic differences between the two singers, one might say that Chaliapin was never more successful than when he was singing the part of a doddery old man (which is, indeed, what Levik admired in his interpretation of Silva’s “Infelice! e tu credevi” in Ernani), whereas Battistini evoked more the young man, the gallant knight, the lover. Chaliapin conveyed crushing fatality, Battistini sublime radiance. Of course, neither performer limited himself to these stereotypes, but they do represent the essence of their artistry. While on the subject of Chaliapin, it is well to remember that another great Russian bass, Alexander Kipnis (1891–1978), was so stunned by Battistini’s singing that he “almost wanted to quit studying. I thought to myself, what’s the use?” Later, when asked what singer had impressed him the most, he still replied: “Mattia Battistini. He had the kind of voice which made the voices of other cast members sound like tin in comparison to a golden bell.”35 From Kipnis’s comments, one can understand why contemporary reviewers dwelt on Battistini at such length, even in articles on operas in which he played a secondary role. And one understands that the reservations and criticism about him must be read in the light of overwhelming, prevailing admiration. As we have seen, Levik sensed, though as if in spite of himself, the power and allure of Battistini’s voice, the truth of his inflections, and his persuasive force. And yet he could not resist being attracted by the histrionics of Chaliapin, who, even when he had nothing to sing, stole the scene from his colleagues, whereas Battistini, with the modesty and nobility that Levik recognized, withdrew from the spotlight when the opera brought another character to the fore. But just as Levik recognized that Battistini succeeded in making his mark, both vocally and scenically, at the end of Guillaume Tell, so he might also have given the baritone credit for playing Tell, in the beginning of the opera, as a fairly unremarkable character, who becomes a hero only gradually, when events conspire to make him the leader of a great cause. This idea seems not to have crossed his mind as he illustrated and defended his renovation of opera.

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To explain the difference between the acting of Chaliapin and Battistini, Levik says that the latter “stood before the audience not as the character, but as an advocate, an emotional spokesman, but not a completely involved one.”36 Cleverly expressed, though it is strange to find a similar turn of phrase applied to Victor Maurel, generally considered a great actor, from the pen of Bernard Shaw: “He gave us a description of Don Juan rather than an impersonation of him.”37 On Maurel’s Iago, Shaw had this to say: “The excessive descriptiveness which is the fault in his method, and even in his conception of the actor’s function, resulting in a tendency to be illustrative rather than impersonative, occasionally leads him to forget the natural consequences of the actions he represents on the stage.”38 It seems that only the English critics perceived Battistini as a singer who distanced himself from the characters he portrayed. Of course, in taking into consideration published reviews of all types from around the globe to formulate our opinion of the baritone, we cannot ignore the English press accounts. Wherefore this image, applied to Maurel by one writer and to Battistini by another, when one would have expected the acting of these two baritones to differ considerably? Might it simply be that Levik regarded all Italian opera singers (before the verismo era) in opposition to the realistic trend that he advocated, and that he called Battistini an “advocate” because he was the singer who represented the epitome of the bel canto aesthetic? Levik added disapprovingly that, to him, Battistini always sounded like Battistini in whatever role he undertook to perform. Yet is that not a trait common to all the greatest artists? To give but one example closer to our own time, in all her different incarnations, didn’t Callas always sound like Callas? Battistini’s acting, which only gradually earned Levik’s admiration, is based on the power of suggestion. It fired the potential imagination of the spectator, instead of emphasizing visible effects or caricaturizing the personage for consistency. His efforts to find models for his costumes in paintings reveals his quest for the ideal, whereas Chaliapin went to extremes to find links in reality. As one of Chaliapin’s colleagues related, I sang in one of my first Toscas in Monte-Carlo. For the role of the sacristan, Gunsbourg had engaged an Englishman whose name I have forgotten. When he saw him in costume, Chaliapin (who was there to perform for performances of Boris and Khovantschina) told him: “You have obviously never seen a sacristan in Italy! They are all filthy, and have worn-out shoes.” The singer went to hunt for some old shoes in a trash bin, soiled his legs a bit, and made himself look seedy. Then Chaliapin was satisfied: “Ah, bravo! finally, a real sacristan!”39

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Note that realism, as perceived by the reformists, was typically presented in the form of squalor or seediness, and that is how its believability was measured. For Battistini, the impersonation of a character was a synthesis; for Chaliapin, it was a copy. The former never lost sight of artistic priorities when studying the characteristics of a role; the latter felt that emotional truth was best achieved by analyzing the nuts and bolts of a part. The two approaches resemble each other, in a way, but are different, too . . . and one can appreciate Levik’s mixed reactions. Significant among the many contradictions in Levik’s analyses is the fact that he found the acting of Italian artists exaggerated, whereas in fact the new Russian expressionist school of acting strove for intensity in the depiction of emotion (as Chaliapin’s own comments above imply). Moreover, Levik found Battistini comparatively restrained, low-key, and short of expectation. Presumably, in Levik’s day and age, subdued acting would have seemed old-fashioned (though perhaps today we would favor it?), and Levik preferred to see The Demon acted by the vocally inferior Giraldoni, who represented the verismo style and its popular offshoot in Russia, which one might call Slavic verismo. (Chaliapin’s Demon, incidentally, was not very well received by the Russian press in 1904.) Levik repeatedly injects his commentary with dazzling generalities, such as when he says the art of Battistini “soothes the troubles of the world.” This also reminds him of a quote from Stanislavski in which the reformer of dramatic acting recalls the effect hearing bel canto for the first time had on him: “His heart stopped beating and he could not stop smiling for joy.” That phrase, he feels, applies so well to the Battistini phenomenon that Stanislavski ought to have said so implicitly. In the eyes of the avant-garde of the time, or of those who considered themselves in the avant-garde, such power is unenviable, and even represents the contrary of what should be desired: in the name of what perverse taste for deprivation did suspended emotion become the opposite of pleasure? One should, however, consider aesthetic delight an essential component of bel canto, of classical art. The power of its impact hinges on this sense of rapture. Remember Farinelli, who, through the charm of his voice, cured the Spanish king of his depression. Is that not a prowess comparable to that which temporarily relieved Stanislavski from his pessimism, so that ultimately the theoretician enjoyed it more than anything else? By the same token, to the confused and tortured soul of Levik, pleasure was not without sin, so he repressed his euphoria and closed his eyes to this particular kind of magic, since he expected something completely different from a work of art. It only had to be powerful and disturbing! To understand Levik’s contradictory feelings, one should remember that he professed to have been converted to ideas then considered modern and

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revolutionary while at the same time frankly admitting that, during the period of his close contact with the King of Baritones, he was anti-Italian. This shocking confession reveals a duplicity on the part of a young man who had endeavored to penetrate the private circle of an opera star, for such contact could only be justified by a deep sense of admiration, which is how the artist must have regarded it . . . unless Levik was simply the kind of person who liked to rub elbows with the famous. It’s a shame the young man didn’t know how to benefit from an exceptional opportunity, for his eyes remained fixed in the opposite direction. Levik lets us know along the way that at the very moment when realism in opera was flourishing, he was one of its advocates (as if his commentary on Italian opera were not enough to convince us). He claims not to have realized that Battistini was the direct opposite of Chaliapin. On the other hand, Levik’s confession is quite surprising: could he really not have sensed the difference between these two artists? Did Battistini never engage him in any conversations about art and painting, as we know the baritone liked to do? And, if Levik was really as close to the singer as he claimed he was, did he never overhear Battistini talk about his preferred tastes in art and music, which were totally contrary to modernist positions? Perhaps Levik found it more comfortable to believe that no antagonism existed, to avoid having to make a choice. Or his confession might involve a clever defense mechanism, fabricated after the event, in order to justify his having maintained a relationship with a foreign celebrity. Thus, his activity could be seen as a flattering privilege, not subject to accusations of his having adhered to a “petty, profit-bearing, bourgeois” aesthetic trend. Levik claims to have been corrupted (a wise defense at the time, in the country where his work was published); he implicitly affirms that, in his heart, he always belonged to the new wave, even if he associated with the opposing side—and without major contradiction other than an excusable naiveté. But Levik’s shallowness of perception, no matter how honest, inevitably diminishes the value of his analysis, and his ultimate indictment of Battistini takes on an aspect other than that of an informal reflection on opera . . . After reading Levik’s criticism of Battistini’s William Tell, and for an evaluation of his real impact in the role, it is well to turn to another point of view. The house is full, everyone holds his breath, the lights go down. . . . The last notes of the overture sound, the admirable first-act introduction is played, the opening chorus still echoes when, on the little bridge over the gorge, “He” appears. He instantly attracts all eyes and all interest. “He,” looking like he has just stepped out of a portrait by some master painter . . . From the superb face to the tiniest detail of costume and accessory, everything is historically true about “Him.” From head to toe, he is William Tell. Before an artist of Battistini’s stature, levare il capello, as the Italians say.

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We remember all the Tells seen and heard, and not a one can sustain comparison. One does not know what to admire more: the marvelous singing or the brilliant interpretation of the role. He is striking, enchanting, touching. He does not act, he lives, feels, and suffers the part; he loves and hates. . . . And he sings in a manner that defies description.40

Fracassini cites a portion of the above review. One cannot help but notice how the image it gives differs from that of Levik. The magnetism of the person, the appropriateness of the costume, the voice, the genuine emotion: assuredly, the critic sees and hears differently, and there is no reason to place less faith in this account than in Levik’s. Since the reporter’s reaction is more of an immediate one, and because it seems to reflect the majority of opinion, one can almost suspect Levik of having deliberately twisted ideas that would no longer have been in compliance with Soviet realism. Ultimately, Levik praises the moving performance of the aria “Resta immobile,” but not without strongly criticizing the penultimate note, in the Italian style, which sounds vulgar to his sophisticated ear. This is a good way to show himself to be an even more demanding connoisseur than the Italians, especially when the Russian school of singing was so often attacked, by Russian critics themselves, for lacking in sophistication. There is no reason to believe that Battistini sang any differently in his 1912 recording of the aria, so the reader can judge the expressive effects against those typically employed by Chaliapin. Beauty is rare, but less rare than the ability to recognize it. Levik saw it in Battistini, but he passed over it because he was looking for something else and did not consider its importance. He was not cultivated enough to understand that the sublime towers above everything; at his level of development, his knowledge was limited to appreciating the outward effects of realism. When the power of art involved aesthetic pleasure rather than a dramatic reinforcement of character, Levik became disconcerted. He did sense, however, that Battistini was not just one good singer among others, or even a better singer than most, but that he represented an aesthetic manifesto. Yet even when under the singer’s influence, he was unable to sort out all the implications and incompatibilities, caught up as he was in a mixture of intuition, naiveté, and blindness. Examining the circumstances behind certain eyewitness opinions sometimes makes it possible to explain their import. Celebrities are often besieged by youthful debutants asking for assistance, and we know that Battistini gladly provided advice and his influence in opening doors for talented young musicians—such as Adamo Didur or Vittorio Gui, for example. Among the crowd of followers are those who never make it on their own; what they admire in the diva or divo is the force of character they themselves lack, which

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accounts for their courtierlike persistence. Their attitude toward the star sometimes even sours to the point where they find fault with the person who once inspired them. At least Levik could not accuse Battistini of laziness, because he was aware of how many hours per day the artist practiced, something he himself could not have endured. But what do such disciples want to accomplish, when they confirm their expectations by getting close to their idols, other than the satisfaction of giving up a losing battle? It should not be assumed that a mediocre or unsuccessful singer is in the ideal position to judge one or another of his colleagues; his very method of evaluation betrays the germ of what brought his own career to a premature end. In a text that professes to be an eyewitness reminiscence of an opera star, it is often the artistic shortcomings of the biographer that are exposed. It seems clear that Levik’s judgments on Battistini in Italian opera, of which he was the perfect representative, are merely a prelude to his more important judgments on Russian opera. Let us remember that Vaida-Korolevich no longer heard or met Battistini after 1908, whereas Levik is supposed to have met him in 1910, although he had had opportunity to hear him well before that. Both Vaida-Korolevich and Levik wrote and published their memoirs much later. But to understand the context of their diaries, one has to recall the situation Russian artists found themselves in when the St. Petersburg Opera was dominated by Italian singers who were highly paid under the tsarist regime. Russia was eager to catch up to the rest of Europe by exporting its culture and asserting its national identity, notably through opera. It is hardly surprising, then, that Russian singers should have wanted to define themselves in opposition to the foreign style; the Italians manifested exquisite refinement as much as the Russians wanted to call attention to their flair for spontaneity—the truth of the common people in contrast to the artificial manners of the nobility. This long digression concerning Chaliapin and the image he represents will, we hope, allow us to place the praise and criticism of Battistini in context. It will also help us better understand why Levik denied to all Italian singers the ability to communicate the spirit of his country, even though he claimed that a Russian singer could penetrate the Italian aesthetic! Without batting an eyelid, he pronounces subjective judgments on the characters in Verdi’s operas to explain why the Demon and Onegin remain inaccessible to the foreign interpreter. And he fails to realize when he is both judge and judged. It is now time to examine a very important area of Battistini’s career, his interpretations of Russian operas.

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THE RUSSIAN OPERAS The first Russian opera Battistini performed was, in 1894, Anton Rubinstein’s The Demon. His assumption of the title role remains permanently linked to an anecdote recounted by his various biographers, all of whom give it great importance. We therefore begin by citing the singer’s version of it, as printed in the Italian press after his death. I interpreted the Demon in an original manner, making the protagonist of this opera a beautiful angel rather than a menacing monster. The innovation aroused the enthusiasm of the Russian public. There was a scene in which the Demon sang an aria and then sank into the ground. I sang and acted it so successfully that the audience vociferously demanded an encore. I decided to risk it and reappeared from the underworld. The St. Petersburg papers rightly accused me of vanity. I learned a lesson from it and swore never to sin again. At the second performance, in the exact same spot, the public expected me to sing the aria twice. I held my ground, and all hell broke loose. A police commissar came looking for me to beg me to satisfy the public, which was threatening the worst. I refused to give in. But when I reappeared in the next act, I received a salvo of insults and catcalls. I wrote to the newspapers appealing to the same critics, explaining the reason for my refusal. Thus the cause was exposed; the problem was clear. At the third performance, in compensation for the boos (the only time I received them in my entire career), I received a gift of more than fifty crowns.41

It was quite characteristic of Battistini to want to seek out the beauty of the Demon and disregard the temptation to emphasize physical ugliness and facial distortions for supposedly expressive purposes. Contrary to appearances, this was not the easy way to portray the part; it was an endeavor to make the character more rounded, to give it greater dimension by avoiding the oversimplified equation of bad equals ugly. The anecdote is not just a surprising or amusing story; it is a sketch of a Battistini in a playful mood, and called back to order by a subsequent turn of events. The happy narcissus openly repents and recognizes the power of his reform. The triumphant artist caught off track necessarily inspires compassion or cynicism; the significance given to this event by both Palmegiani and Lancelotti is therefore no coincidence. All three printed versions of it begin exactly the same way, with the later examples becoming more emphatically rhetorical. For example, it is unlikely that Battistini would have said, “The public that adored me,” though quite understandable that Palmegiani should want his subject to convey that adoration through a first-person quote.

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In any case, both Lancelotti and Palmegiani almost certainly based their versions on the 1928 Stampa article, while developing, if not exaggerating, the discussion about the singer’s regret over having given in to the encore. Indeed, does even the original article faithfully reproduce Battistini’s words? Reading between the lines, one detects a kind of humorous mea culpa parody that could well be his. Battistini seems to be making more fun of himself than of those who set themselves up in judgment. This points up a misinterpretation committed by later biographers. If one focuses on the facts, the anecdote reveals precisely the opposite of what Lancelotti in particular tried to have it convey; it constitutes no more no less than a clearly calculated Indian-wrestling match with the Russian press of the time, when Battistini depended on his bands of admirers to subdue the moralizers. He returned the catcalls that he received, and deliberately provoked, right back to those who truly deserved them, the critics. That’s why this anecdote leaves one with a strange aftertaste, due to a contradiction between its apparent signification and its subtextual truth. One point remains unanswered: did Battistini really learn his lesson, as he claims, and rule out encores definitively thereafter? One must refer to the narrative of these same events by Alfred Fischof, a close friend of the baritone and the husband of Sigrid Arnoldson. Asked by Fischof if he ever experienced a fiasco during his career, Battistini cites the incident in Moscow, as follows: I was the first to dare to sing Rubinstein’s The Demon there in Italian, which scandalized my Russian colleagues. One Moscow critic wrote that to encore the second-act strophes “Deh! non plorar, tu piangi invano” was unartistic, even though the public had cheered me at great length. At the next performance of The Demon, the Moscow audience again desired to express their appreciation of me with a long ovation after these strophes. Thousands of gullets croaked, “Encore! encore!” But I remained imperturbable, refusing to sing an encore. The audience, finding my behavior disrespectful, turned against me; an indescribable commotion ensued, and I was booed for several minutes. To restore order, the chief of the Moscow police (with whom I was on good terms) begged me to repeat the strophes, which I did after some hesitation. When I had finished, a tidal wave of applause flooded the theater. The following day, I received more than thirty extraordinary bouquets and baskets of flowers.42

There is much that rings true in this account, above all the thirty bouquets of flowers (instead of the fifty silver crowns alleged in the Stampa, Lancelotti, and Palmegiani, presumably a translational error). Another point that gives it credibility: it was indeed in Moscow that Battistini made his debut as the Demon, in April 1894, and not in St. Petersburg. Battistini expresses himself with his

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customary restraint, but there is absolutely no trace of regret or evidence of any correctional press notice. He makes no admission that his colleagues had reason to be scandalized, but instead seems pleased to have ruffled them. It is possible that on another occasion he had some fun concocting a mock tale of repentance, which anyone who knew him would have seen through. One is stunned by the remark that a journalist called it “unartistic” on the part of Battistini to give an encore. It may be that the writer discussed the possibility, but that he should state it so bluntly in connection with an artist of this quality is unrealistic, beyond arrogant. Battistini does not even take the trouble to comment; just to cite the fact is enough, and he adds “even though the public had cheered me at great length”—a more than sufficient response. The little strike he undertakes in order to clear himself brings the debate to a close. It is particularly interesting to note that Battistini ultimately gives in to the crowd here, whereas the other versions (whose objective was to show that, after being rebuked, the voluntarily irresponsible singer admitted he was wrong and got back on the right track) had to cut the epilogue that shows him repeating the bad deed, thus nullifying all the purpose of the lesson they wished to teach. The Fischof narrative confirms the extent to which Battistini made a point of trapping moralizers. It is also interesting to note that Fracassini, who in 1914 should not have been ignorant of the facts, makes not the slightest mention of the event but, on the contrary, reports the following remarks by Battistini, adding that he agrees with him. I am for encores, because they serve to enliven the spectacle; they excite the public and the artist at the same time. An encore is like a reward for the artist. I would feel offended if I were not asked to give an encore of certain arias. I would feel misunderstood, or as though I had not understood the piece myself. Certainly the repetition of some arias disturb the illusion; in that specific case, the artist himself will abstain from singing an encore, but in the majority of cases the illusion is in no way disturbed by these repetitions, especially since arias constitute separate pieces.43

This text reproduces verbatim some remarks from an interview in the Odessa Novosti in March 1903. It is perhaps no coincidence that Battistini brings up the subject of encores after having announced, in the same article, his upcoming performances of Il demone that season. The interviewer does not explain how he and the singer got on the subject, except to say that “the conversation turned to encores.” Had Battistini not forgotten the Moscow incident of almost ten years before? Was he trying to exorcise the memory of it or advertise its imminent recurrence? One detects not an ounce of guilt in this declaration of principle, nor does it reflect the modern aesthetic suggested in the three previous versions of the Il demone encore. One should remember

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that, in the days when interrupting the dramatic flow of an opera was discouraged, the encore—a sign of the old, episodic “number” structure— seemed antiquated. But today, audience involvement during the course of the work, dubbed “interactivity,” is becoming a sign of the future, putting Battistini ahead of his time instead of behind it! Respect for the audience is another example of his concern for “the human side of art,” in contrast to a growing disregard for a public unresponsive to the masterworks of the future, which became the line of thinking of the uncontested elite. The critics of 1895 and shortly thereafter limit themselves to identifying the numerous encores given by Battistini, without questioning his right to do so. Perhaps the strategic move to which Battistini was reduced in order to defend his artistic freedom is symbolic of his underlying hostility for the press, and one understands why he expressed his infinite appreciation to the Russian public. This perhaps explains Fracassini’s afterthought, following his citation of Battistini’s remark on a successful Traviata: “My press was marvelous.” The author adds: “But the press had only done its duty; it was he who was marvelous.”44 Does this clarification not smack of admonition, of counterattack? Unless they failed altogether to seize the meaning of Battistini’s remarks, Lancelotti, Palmegiani, and others distorted them in accordance with the climate of the time, one whose allegiance to realism was regarded as inescapable. This was tantamount to treason, contrary to the philosophy of Battistini. Though, too, it must be admitted that, in light of a growing and seemingly irreversible trend, the biographer might have appeared to be doing harm to his subject if he were to expose the singer’s true position on encores. Writers would not have had any defense in support of a behavior viewed as outmoded, but which was in fact a position consistent with hedonism. Battistini was not afraid to interrupt the dramatic flow, because for him theatrical illusion was not so much the truth of stage events, but the truth the artist wields when carrying his listeners to that incredible level of the sublime, which incites them into shouting “Encore!” The partisans of “intellectual” art (deprived of aesthetic delectation) want to prohibit the encore, not only because it constitutes an infringement of temporal unity, but also because it spotlights, through the role, the action and presence of the artist-performer. The affair of the encore demonstrates that the avant-garde is not always a movement toward liberation, and even that it frequently does great harm. Battistini, on the contrary, supports a strong position with calm and confidence. He is not embarrassed about giving away stage secrets; he has no theatrical trickery to be ashamed of. Acknowledging the work of art for what it is, and not as the vehicle of an illusion, can only incite more admiration and pleasure.

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A few years after the Moscow quake, in St. Petersburg, the King of Baritones encountered this aftershock. It is no surprise that his talent gave rise to a whole series of ovations which, to our great disappointment, were not well timed: in the middle of the second act, after “Deh! non plorar,” naturally encored by popular demand. Is that really a good moment to interrupt the action, and who gave permission for it? Would it not been better to do it at the end of the act, as is customary?45

What a killjoy! At the time of the first incident Battistini was just making his debut in Russia, but in 1898 he could carry on as he desired and let the dogs bark. How could he have sung without anything more than polite applause? That was certainly not the kind of reaction that would meet the expectations of his vocation and of his engagement. Encores were inevitable when the public recognized the exceptional heights attained by its idol, of whom one critic declared, “This admirable artist is of the sort that the more one hears him the more one wants to hear him.”46 As for the encores, Battistini could grant them as well as refuse them. Added notes and cadenzas are not an obligation; it is up to the artist to bestow them or omit them. For example, in the first two acts of an 1897 Ernani in St. Petersburg, Battistini “seemed to want to save his voice and avoided encores; but in the third act, he sang the entire tomb scene magnificently and encored the aria ‘Gran Dio, o sommo Carlo,’ which was sung generously with much facility.”47 The following year, although his Alfonso in La favorita was much applauded, “the artist remained unyielding in spite of all the demands for encores; he was probably saving his voice for Onegin.”48 There were many reasons why Battistini may have chosen not to sing an encore. For example, in an opera star’s contract there was often a clause allowing the singer to organize a fixed number of (nonsubscription) performances in a season, of which a large portion of the receipts would go to him. These gala performances were called benefits. In a review of a benefit for the tenor Masini, it was reported that “after the duel scene, the public gave [Masini] a great ovation, with no less than fifteen gifts, though no greater in quantity than those counted at the benefit of M. Battistini, who is at the height of his artistic power. . . . M. Battistini, probably tired after his benefit, refused to encore the famous act-three aria, but that could not diminish his voice’s incomparable beauty of timbre.”49 Conceivably the angelic voice of the fifty-six-year-old Masini had lost a bit of its freshness, but Battistini remained loyal to him by avoiding the possibility of earning a greater success than the singer to whom the performance was intended to honor. Surely, it was not fatigue but politeness that held Battistini back.

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A couple years later, another instance of Battistini’s gentlemanly manners surfaced at a Warsaw benefit performance of Ernani for the tenor Constantino, who “received many flowers and gifts after the first act, besides being asked to encore his aria. And that’s as far as it went! M. Battistini absorbed all the attention of the public, and the honoree was forgotten. The hero of the evening was in fact M. Battistini. . . . [He] was asked to encore the tomb-scene aria, but he declined to do so.”50 To return to the subject of The Demon, it is difficult to imagine today how popular Rubinstein’s opera was in Russia at the beginning of the last century. Battistini performed it frequently, and there are many reviews one can consult that indicate the impact of his interpretation on the adoring Russians as well as their hope to see their national opera produced abroad, even though it inevitably gave rise to criticism of international casts. The performance last evening at the Aquarium was dedicated, as the playbill announced, to the memory of Rubinstein. We hope that the event will be a harbinger of many others dedicated to Rubinstein—not only at the Aquarium but also across Europe, where Italian artists ought to have been performing his operas for a long time. A few years ago, Bevignani conducted The Demon in London with Maurel and Mme Albani in the leading roles. But Maurel’s voice was not made for the title role, which perhaps explains why the opera didn’t make its mark. . . . Battistini, chosen and approved by Rubinstein himself, finds himself in completely different circumstances. He can do this beautiful opera everywhere, with the brilliance and beauty it deserves. He has in his voice enough sweetness, charm, and strength to be able to make this work appreciated by those not as familiar with it as we are. This Demon measures up to the challenge the composer set for the singer in the third act; any listener who knows the opera could tell how luminously clear the act 3 duet sounded yesterday, whereas most interpreters fail in their attempt to do justice to the composer’s intentions here. A Demon like Battistini will assure the universal success of Rubinstein’s opera, and we are convinced that the performance of this opera by Italian artists will not be limited to St. Petersburg and Moscow (where this opera was given last year with Battistini) but that it will be the first step toward European renown. If such is the case, foreign artists will have rendered a great service to Russian art, and this circumstance is very important. . . . Battistini . . . accomplished his difficult task brilliantly. He has studied his role carefully and gave us not a wild, evil Demon but, on the contrary, a sad, believable, and almost likable one. This characterization resembles the creature of Lermontov’s poem. Some comment was only made about trifling matters, for example M. Battistini’s costume, which some found not very appropriate for the role. And yet the costume was based on drawings

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of Lieci; and Tartakov, who is one of the best interpreters of Rubinstein’s opera, wears that very costume and is made up just like Battistini. We are of the opinion that Battistini’s costume is in perfect harmony with the figure he cuts onstage. Artists of a different physical stature can choose other accoutrement, as M. Iakanovlev has, for example. M. Battistini has had immense success, and several of his numbers were encored.51

The Russian press, always touchy about the issue of style in this opera, observed in 1897 that “when M. Battistini incarnated the Demon at the Aquarium for the first time, he made the character too mild and elegiac, but now he performs the role perfectly, bringing out the elements of strength and invincible pride. M. Battistini’s voice rang out admirably, and one understands why the audience was unable to keep their enthusiasm in check. The aria ‘Deh! non plorar’ was encored not once but twice.”52 The next year, the issue of exportation arose again: “A performance such as this one can do so much to promote the propaganda of Russian operas abroad!”53 And again: To speak of M. Battistini makes one go into raptures over his marvelous bel canto. The public, as ever, hangs on to his every note, and no singer in the company inspires and deserves as much applause as he. He interprets Lermontov’s Demon a bit liberally, or should we say, in his own manner, but his singing disarms anyone who might remain skeptical about his characterization. He sang “Deh! non plorar” marvelously, and it was encored. “Allor che l’ombra della sera” was less successful, for the artist did not seem too sure of the words, and because the public does not like that aria as much as the preceding one, even though connoisseurs find it a pearl of Rubinsteinian music.54

Any nagging reservations about Battistini’s Demon are put to rest by the following critic, who exclaims: Battistini! Battistini! Battistini! . . . Vocally and musically, Mme Arnoldson is irreproachable, but . . . Battistini towered over it all by singing and acting with all the force of his talent and vocal resources. The comments of a few musically uncultivated jokers on his rhythmic inexactitude are without justification. It would be desirable for those miserable critics to prove their professionalism in a manner comparable to the way Battistini proves his. It’s been a very long time since such an artist has graced the stage, and in this precise case, we can admire the rare combination of the most varied artistic elements. We should admire and bow before such artists, and not look for spots on the sun.55

Three years later, the music-versus-drama debate is taken up again.

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Chapter 2 M. Battistini is an original Demon, as much for his costume as for his makeup, for which he adopts a strictly national flavor. Scenically, M. Giraldoni cuts a figure closer to the “exiled spirit” of Lermontov; but in yesterday’s performance, M. Battistini shines on the vocal level, through his noble manner of singing that is so fascinating. He had a very great success and was obliged to repeat “Deh! non plorar” three times.56

This review, which gives preference to Giraldoni’s acting while recognizing the vocal superiority of Battistini, resembles the Levik text, with an essential difference. Here the critic does not grant priority to one of the two components, whereas for Levik acting is the fundamental element of an interpretation to which voice and music must submit. It is difficult to determine what the performer has the right (and the duty) to bring of his own personality, hence those aspects bearing no resemblance to the abstract model of a role. Obviously, opinion may vary as to the effectiveness of Battistini’s approach to Rubinstein’s devil; for example, accustomed as we are today to hearing a Russianstyle bass as Mephisto, even in a work as French in spirit as Gounod’s Faust, it would most likely lean toward the negative. Although one cannot dispute a Russian’s ability to judge something that does or does not appear to reflect his own culture (which would incline us to believe him automatically), it must be pointed out that Levik’s opinion was not unanimously shared among Russians. Some, just as nationalistic as Levik, found all their expectations fulfilled in Battistini’s Demon. The latter review expresses a preference for Giraldoni’s acting of the part, but another journal complements it with some information about that same performance that explains the public’s relative disappointment. A storm of enthusiasm, ovations, applause, encores, and nothing more. . . . During that storm, a veritable downpour of flowers and wreaths. Need I say what caused it? M. Battistini, who sang The Demon, and how he sang it! The admirable singer’s performance during the first act was less effective than might be expected, but it wasn’t long before the cause was explained, leaked out by the artist’s most fervent admirers, and, as always, one small circumstance can lead to serious consequences. . . . The hairdresser had damaged the wig worn by the singer, who, as usual, incarnates a character from head to toe, from alpha to omega, and who this time became nervous about the problem; that is why his performance in the first act made less of an impression. M. Battistini has studied the role under the direction of the composer . . . and is made up according to [Rubinstein’s] instructions; the least imprecision in the details affects the artist’s nerves.57

It is interesting to see one reviewer conjure up the histrionic ability of Giraldoni at the very moment Battistini’s acting falls short of its usual quality due to an unexpected circumstance. Did Levik base his judgment on this per-

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formance or on secondhand knowledge of it? Levik admitted that he procrastinated in writing the portraits of artists that he later assembled in book form; in the process, might he not have read a few press notices in search of additional information or anecdotes in order to fortify his point of view? Don’t forget that Levik prided himself on having attended Italian opera between 1898 and 1915, and that he specifies having heard Battistini in Kiev, Odessa, Warsaw, and St. Petersburg: seven Rigolettos, three Don Giovannis, three Onegins, two Demons, “etc.” Remember, too, that The Demon was close to his heart, and that he even recorded some arias from it. The always elusive Levik may formulate a distinct opinion, only to admit later in his book that artistic criteria are necessarily subjective—which ought logically to have led him to examine the opposite opinion without steeping himself in contradictions. This obsession with subjectivity brings to mind the nihilism that was sweeping across Russia at the time. Nor can it be ignored that dramatism, Levik’s chosen mainspring of art, invariably leads to subjectivity and, ultimately, the negation of art and all it represents. The need to give his opinions a sounder foundation sometimes forces him to rethink his views and abandon some of his shakier premises. After being tempted by the pleasure art can offer (in this case, by the singing of Battistini), Levik resorts to vague feelings in reaction—an acknowledgment of failure. The Odessa critic saw things quite differently. What an amazing artist, Battistini! He possesses the kind of enchanting simplicity that falls only to great talents, to born artists. In him there is not one superfluous gesture, not a single ugly tone—and, withal, a firstclass demeanor and great nobility of style. If I had to describe this extraordinary talent, I would cite Truth and Beauty as his dominant characteristics. To those, one would have to add a keen understanding of stage deportment. Battistini obviously does not rest on his laurels. He works hard, and with discernment; that explains the coherence and polish of each of his creations. The Demon is an opera in which everything has been distorted—to begin with, by Lermontov’s inept libretto, which a stream of mediocre performers have not been able to rescue from banality (and, one might add, without managing to disguise the absurdity of a role they try to make demonic). With Battistini, everything is different, novel, interesting, and all his, unlike anything we are accustomed to seeing and hearing. Routine used to saddle the Demon with quaint poses, cheap effects, and mannered singing. Battistini has divinely simplified it all. At the beginning of the opera, his Demon is a spirit, almost an abstraction of the mind. Thus in the first two scenes he remains distant, without the least passion, with few gestures, in a kind of self-willed monotony. He looks at Tamara with a cold and distant

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Chapter 2 gaze. But little by little, the man in him awakes, and in Tamara’s cell we see him troubled, like a simple mortal, racked with sin. Battistini’s costume illustrates his conception exactly: for all its elegance, it is nonetheless extremely simple, without bells, no star on the forehead, none of the fake jewels with which our Russian performers customarily adorn themselves. In act 1 he appears with wings that he loses in the following acts, as though the artist wished to emphasize that, with the awakening of passion, the Demon becomes a man. This earthly episode is rendered with great lyricism by Battistini; his Demon suffers, loves deeply and passionately, but in the expression of feeling he remains sober and tender, without sinking into the tawdry melodrama to which we are accustomed. The overall impression is perfect. As for the singing, it is ideal. In no other contemporary singer do we hear such beauty of timbre, such technical perfection.58

Note that this review specifically describes Battistini’s costume as stylized, whereas commentary by his detractors leads us to believe that it was tastelessly extravagant. His acting was apparently understated, conceived so that it grew on the spectator during the course of the opera. The remark “he remains sober and tender, without sinking into the tawdry melodrama to which we are accustomed” certainly contradicts the criticism one so often reads about Battistini’s acting in Russian opera. At the end of May, Battistini sang his final performances in Odessa, and the press returned to comparisons with Giraldoni and other baritones. “Ne plach’, ditya. . . .” Indeed, there is no reason to weep; not only did Battistini sing the Demon admirably last evening, but he will sing it again today! And the Odessa audience is known for showing its appreciation for opera when presented with an excellent, even exceptional artist, with a singer who cannot even be compared with good singers like Giraldoni, Camera, Sammarco . . . , for he is infinitely superior to them; his quality is infinitely greater. One could only compare the celebrated Battistini to the no less celebrated Cotogni of years past. But Cotogni never sang The Demon. Hence the public was well aware of the aesthetic delight in store for them, and before the signs went up, before any announcement in the newspaper, the ticket bureau was taken by storm. The office was not even open the day of the premiere; all the tickets had been sold. I can’t remember anything like it before. This anticipated success was followed by last evening’s deliriously successful performance. The desire to hear Battistini was so great that, to please the public, he will sing again tonight. But that will be the last time; Battistini is in a hurry to return to Italy to rest, and to Spain to go hunting. He takes away countless laurels; his first tour of southern Russia brought him a shower of gifts. A special railcar will be needed to transport them back to Italy. Every city—Odessa, Kiev, Kharkov, Rostov, Ekateri-

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noslav—generously paid their admiring tribute. Already at the dress rehearsal Battistini charmed everyone with his incomparable singing and his totally original interpretation of the Demon. Everyone, from Maestro Pribik to the last member of the chorus, was filled with wonder, inspired, uplifted by this strong and magical voice, by this extraordinary artist. All the performers wanted to do their best for the occasion, and the rehearsal was more beautiful than some “gala” performances by artists one pays thousands of rubles to hear.59

The public appreciated Italian artists’ performances, and the press called for the diffusion of the Russian repertory while expressing hope that its style would be respected when entrusted to foreigners. Nevertheless, some press notices disclose a certain amount of friction. The celebrated artist found himself on Nicholas Boulevard and admired the sea. “What a marvelous view,” he told us. “Look at that sea, that sky. What beautiful weather in Odessa! I just arrived, and I’ve been walking all day long. I feel particularly well when the weather is like this.” We told the artist that we wished to ask him a few questions. “Very well, but why should we go back inside? Let’s chat here instead, surrounded by beautiful nature. I’m always delighted to return to Odessa. It is a pity, though, that I have to sing at the New Russian Theater; I should have sung at the Municipal Theater. Several performances had been proposed and I had already agreed, on one small condition: that the artist who performed Tamara in The Demon would give the last act in Italian—and the rumor spread that I didn’t want to sing with Russian artists. In Kiev I was asked if it was true. . . . This rumor is extremely offensive to me, for I am very friendly with a number of Russian composers. I find Russian singers just as good as the others, and I have even been singing in Russia for ten years. Recently, on the occasion of my tenth year of visits to this country, I was given an anniversary tribute that will always be one of the most happy memories of my life. That’s evidence enough to show how ridiculous that rumor is. . . . I said that I would gladly sing with Russian artists in Rigoletto and other operas, but that I desired a small exception for The Demon; if the artist who played Tamara sings in Russian, I could make an involuntary mistake on hearing unfamiliar words, and thus appear ridiculous, which would be particularly disagreeable to me in The Demon. The memory of Rubinstein is too precious to me to take part in a performance of the fourth act that might provoke laughter, as could easily happen. . . . Last year I accepted to sing The Demon with the Russian ensemble, because Mme Loubkowski, the Tamara, had consented to perform the fourth act in Italian [16 May 1902]. If only an arrangement could have been found to engage one of the Italian opera singers, that would have made the

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Chapter 2 production possible. . . . But nothing could be done, it had to be sung at the Russian Theater. Next year I will surely not sing there any more, for, in addition to the Municipal Theater, you will have the New Theater.60

It is in the above article that Battistini expressed his thoughts on the encore, a passage cited previously. It should be added here that Battistini sometimes sang isolated arias in Russian, as the Novoé Vrémia reported. As for the desire to give the last act in Italian, perhaps Battistini was still feeling the sting of an incident in St. Petersburg. Everyone knows how Battistini performed the role of the Demon. Yesterday there were encores upon encores, but there was also a little incident. At the end of the opera, when Tamara prepares to die, the prompter stopped prompting, thinking the opera was almost over anyway. As a result, neither the Demon nor the Angel could continue. They looked at each other in silence. Battistini appeared not to remember his line and Mme Lavner was unsure of her part. Fortunately the chorus was singing at this moment, otherwise utter silence would have ensued. After the end of the opera, M. Battistini gave a little speech to the audience explaining what had happened, following which wild Indian cries joyously echoed in the hall. All’s well that ends well . . . but the prompter must be attentive, especially to M. Battistini, who this year has positively saved the whole repertory and who sings almost every day of the week.61

Indeed, Battistini frequently sang almost every day of the week, and what is more, in different operas! Thirteen years after the above article was published, Battistini’s Demon was fully accepted in its original trappings. The following review from 1914 evaluates other Italian baritones in the same role and once again mentions Giraldoni, in an unfavorable light. The year would prove to be one of farewell, since Battistini never sang in Russia again. It was a unique performance, a performance of the rarest kind that can be described as historic. Those who had the chance to see and hear Battistini in the role of the Demon will never forget the impression that his divine singing produced. Battistini is the first foreign singer ever to sing this opera. After him, Giraldoni and Titta Ruffo tried it, both with success, in fact, but no one has been able to equal Battistini in artistic insight, technical perfection, and also in power and beauty of voice. He towers above his colleagues at an untouchable height. Battistini’s Demon differs in type from all the Russian artists’ Demons. His Demon is personalized: not an effeminate fallen angel with a vague, paradise-lost expression. He is a kind of rebellious, strong, impenitent Ti-

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tan cast down to Earth, in search of a fateful love after his encounter with Tamara. All the nuances are rendered magisterially. The final duet with Tamara conveys a tempest of love, passion, and hopelessness that deeply stirs the listener. The house remained under the spell of the Demon’s aura, hypnotized by the sorcery of his irresistibly seductive voice. Battistini has introduced many original and interesting ideas into this role. The celebrated aria “Ne plach’, ditya” becomes a genuine masterpiece in his interpretation. No one has sung it like him, and no one will ever sing it with that exquisite perfection. The second aria, “Nella profondita dell’etere,” surpassed the first, if possible, in its pure, light, crystalline singing, as ineffable as the movement of ether: a dream-like song, unreal. . . . The artist’s intonation is always infallibly correct. The emission of sound is always of fascinating beauty, with not a shade of unevenness. The audience was looking forward impatiently to the great scene in Tamara’s cell. It was already sensed what Battistini could do with it, but the reality surpassed all expectations. It was sublime in its passion, life, and artistry. With every phrase, his incomparable voice became stronger and more life-like: no effort, no fatigue, the timbre always fresh, as in the first act. One wondered where this extraordinary force came from; was it infernal or divine?62

This time, unlike the writer for the St. Petersburg Védomosti fifteen years earlier, the critic prefers the second aria. Again we encounter the notion of quasidivine perfection. The entire article is infused with this revelation of the sublime. Rather than just offering a string of superlatives, it is insightful enough to observe that another’s art, like Chaliapin’s or Ruffo’s, would not inspire such emotions or impressions, nor could it, being so strongly rooted in reality. Glinka’s Ruslan and Ljudmila likewise demonstrates the close critical scrutiny to which foreign artists were subjected in Russia, as illustrated by this 1899 review of a St. Petersburg performance: In the person of Mélonikoff, we had an incomparable Ruslan of yore, but that was the past. In our time, M. Battistini has nothing to learn from the current performers of the role; it is not the art of singing that he needs to learn from them.

* * * Let us not discourage foreign artists with inordinate demands on the performing of our musical works, especially our operas. The easiest path for a critic to take is to point out only the flaws. M. Battistini sings his act 2 aria transposed, and how the critics scolded him for it! However, it is not a sin. The few adjustments to Glinka’s melody

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Chapter 2 that M. Battistini makes are so slight that he ought not to be criticized for it. In any case, M. Battistini is the most magnificent of Ruslans. He had to encore his aria “O pole, pole” (O terra, terra).63

The next day a review written by the Russian composer and theoretician César Cui expressed similar, if less comprehensive, praise for Battistini, who from the divine beauty of his voice and his technical perfection should be counted among the outstanding and best baritones we have ever heard in St. Petersburg. But Ruslan is a bass part, and M. Battistini is a genuine baritone. What, then, could he do? Either accept the fact that he sometimes could not be heard, or make a few small changes to Glinka’s score. He preferred the latter solution. . . . Hence the impression produced by M. Battistini’s performance was of two varieties: when he sang Glinka without changing anything, for example, when he addresses the sleeping Ljudmila at the end of act 4 and at the start of act 5, the charm was complete; it vanished in the moments when it was necessary to alter the music. . . . It goes without saying that only a small portion of the audience was displeased; the majority applauded with enthusiasm, specifically those changes with brilliant high notes added.64

Coming from one of the famous Russian Five composers and a defender of an opera that clearly conveys the Russian national identity, this text deserves our close attention. Let us appreciate not only the moderation of his criticism, but above all his eminently objective realization that the majority of the public could rightly applaud what he found fault with! And one detects the suggestion that neither solution in this case is totally satisfactory; in fact, those altered notes that make the voice shine grant it a power and a potential for expressiveness that cannot be dismissed from the general artistic impression. Indeed, what is there to be gained by respecting every note of the score, when its inappropriateness for a specific voice shows the singer at a disadvantage and detracts from the listener’s enjoyment? One might say that the singer should abstain from singing such parts, but can one be sure that his talent would not have uncovered some untold beauties of the work, even in those very passages that had to be reshaped? And, in fact, Cui neither challenges this interpretation nor regrets that Battistini attempted it. The modern issue of fidelity to the score was just beginning to gain headway, whereas less than a generation before no one would have contested the need to adapt music to the voices of specific singers (indeed, the Courrier du Théâtre review cited above inclined toward this philosophy). A third article proves quite well-intentioned. M. Battistini, who possesses a rare baritone that might be regarded as inadequate for a role as low as that of Ruslan, agreeably surprised us; only in

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the trio and final quartet of act 3 were the transposed notes not completely welcome, whereas the aria in the second act, the fantastic, delicate ensemble in act 1, and the other ensemble numbers were performed perfectly. M. Battistini very carefully made the most of the changes indicated and authorized by Glinka himself, without ever doing harm to the individuality of the melody. His acting was noble and dramatic, his success very great.65

Glinka, who died in 1857, obviously could not have approved Battistini’s interpretation in the way Rubinstein was able to do, though one can believe that he went along with certain arrangements for higher voices during his lifetime. With three articles expressing the same point of view, Battistini could hardly resist putting them to the test. Within a week, he made his move to demonstrate that the rapport he wished to establish with his public was not undivided. This time, M. Battistini performed his part as it was written by the composer, minus a few slight accents that are found in the score—in a word, as it is sung here at home. For his baritone voice, this role is thankless, but he had resolved to change nothing more than that which was absolutely necessary. While we appreciate the consideration that M. Battistini shows toward the music of Ruslan, we are almost sorry not to have been able to attend the premiere performance. At any rate, in Ruslan M. Battistini amazes all those who know and appreciate the art of singing. He faced a challenge from which he has brilliantly emerged the victor.66

This time, the critic is obliged to approve of the respect Battistini showed for the score while at the same time expressing regret over not having heard the variants (which he should not have been concerned with, had he been certain that the come scritto approach was the best). Did this misadventure persuade Battistini not to risk singing Boris Godunov, which he had prepared with similar modifications? The role had been recommended to him by B. Korsov, hired by the Great Imperial Theater of Moscow to organize the Italian opera seasons. Of the operas in the Russian repertory, the one in which Battistini made the greatest impact was certainly Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin. The performance of Onegin by the Italian artists was not a copy of the one seen on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater. Although faithful to the original, this performance was stamped with individuality that stemmed on the one hand from the artists themselves, and on the other from other nationalities in general. . . . We declare that M. Battistini is a perfect Onegin, a true gentleman whose disenchantment and world-weariness are clearly comprehensible to everyone. For his part, M. Battistini was indisposed, so

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Chapter 2 they say. His indisposition was noticeable only in the garden scene with Tatyana, when he did not take the high F in the way he usually sings high notes; he sang all the rest in such a brilliant manner that one never would have suspected he was indisposed. His acting was impeccable, without one superfluous or awkward gesture that was unsuited to the role. Performers as demanding on themselves as Battistini give the most exigent of judges no right to tell them how little they understand their role. . . .67

Without elaborating on the rarity of health-related cancellations in Battistini’s career, we instead focus on what this passage tells us about the critic’s meticulous attention to the slightest modification, transposition, or variant to the score, as well as his interest in the meaning of the tiniest gesture (further discussed below). One can tell how impassioned the press could be when discussing Battistini, but was that not the case with any great artist? The following season, the opening of the Italian Opera . . . filled the Conservatory auditorium. They did Onegin, which apparently is just as successful on the Italian stage as on the Russian stage. The performers in all the roles were the same as last season. None of the artists has changed vocally, but the artistry of a few, such as Battistini and Masini, appears to have greatly improved. It is difficult to perform the role of Onegin better than Battistini does. What art, joined to such vocal perfection! What mastery of singing and phrasing! As much must be said of Masini, who also carried the audience away yesterday. It goes without saying that the solo numbers were encored to the sound of unanimous applause, and Battistini had to sing his ball scene arioso three times.68

Concerning the same performance, it was felt that, as Lensky, Masini “made a less profound impression on us than our Russian performer [Nicolas] Figner. Battistini had the greatest success of all, and it must be admitted that he amply deserved it.”69 Four years later, the press pointed out how Battistini avoided playing to the house, by singing Onegin “with rare nobility and elegance, without aiming for crowd-pleasing effects. His performance displayed a reflective and serious manner.”70 Would the “effects” that Battistini resisted (and Chaliapin claimed to have purged himself of ) be the ones that Levik deplored? Another review of the same performance tells a different story. M. Battistini is a perfect Onegin, but, as the Odessa public is used to seeing Onegin affected, singing exaggeratedly, and as Battistini did not sing “Non c’è più dubbio” in Russian, the majority of listeners were not completely satisfied with his performance and did not at all appreciate the artis-

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tic simplicity with which Battistini interpreted Onegin, with his singing’s characteristic musical beauty. Every new opera in which we hear Battistini in Odessa confirms our conviction that he is a genuinely great artist and exceptional talent.71

In any case, the dissatisfied segment of the audience did not prevent Battistini from being applauded to the point of having to encore the very aria he sang in Italian. And the critic himself challenges the dissenting group with praise for the simple approach. What did other critics have to say about it? A press notice from the same period states: When eminently Russian operas are performed by Italian singers, we cannot demand from them what we demand from our Russian singers: a comprehension of the work’s subtlest nuances. Provided that the artist respects the composer’s intentions and gives us a characterization that is not too shocking, we are satisfied. These are reasonable expectations. But Battistini gives us much more than we had the right to expect of him. I will even go so far as to say that, in my opinion, none of the Russian interpreters of the score of Onegin whom we have seen here has been as interesting as Battistini. As is natural for an outstanding talent, Battistini managed to seize upon the character traits of Onegin and create a well-rounded, living personage. The smallest detail is worked with care, has its raison d’être—every movement, every vocal inflexion. The artist’s singing in Onegin is full of nobility, very calm, very studied, very elegant, not for an instant departing from the overall conception of the character. Battistini admirably rendered the cold, refined manners of the man of the world who keeps his inner self a secret, always held in check by worldly constraints. He reveals himself only twice: at the ball, when Lensky’s insult causes him to lose his temper; and in the final meeting with Tatyana, when, intoxicated with love, he gives voice to his passion. The famous garden aria, “Se dell’Imen,” attains the ideal in Battistini’s performance through his firm, ample, calm voice, with not one sound that cheapens the dramatic effect (just as one never hears him shout the high notes), which we are so accustomed to hearing from our Russian singers. The climactic F is sung an octave higher by Battistini, but with a surprising mezza voce, which makes the note seem to fade in the distance, perfectly illustrating Onegin’s reverie. The ball arioso that the public is so fond of, “Non c’è più dubbio,” is performed with ardor and passion, but with moderation; there, too, no vulgar effects but much noble simplicity. The dramatic aspect is no less impeccable than the vocal aspect; the acting abounds in subtle, interesting details. Thus in the duel scene, at the prospect of settling the dispute amicably, Battistini turns toward Lensky and appears to desire their reconciliation. He waits for the slightest sign from Lensky, who remains unshakable. Onegin sighs, utters his last “No!” against his will, holding the pistol with revulsion,

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Chapter 2 hesitates yet another moment, then shoots. It is all perfect, as is everything from that point on to the end. Battistini’s histrionics and all his movements are full of artistic expression. The garden aria was sung twice, the ball aria three times.72

Another critic for the same paper described Battistini’s Onegin a few days earlier in the following terms: The true hero of the performance was Battistini. We had before us a genuine Onegin: a pitiless, indifferent egoist and an otherwise ardent, passionate dandy of the 1820s. He begins by scorning everything in society except himself, but gradually grows to hate the world, life, and himself; presumptuous and arrogant at first, debased, unhappy, and rejected at the end. If one adds to this the fact that the artist was in particularly good form, that his voice was sweet and full of charm, one will understand why he made such a profound impression on the public. It is truly surprising that in the performance by an Italian artist of whom one could not expect a detailed knowledge of neither Pushkin’s poetry nor the idiosyncrasies of the poem’s hero, we managed to see an Onegin corresponding faithfully to the design of the poetic genius, in the musical version imagined by the composer. A few moments ring astoundingly true, for example, with what cynicism and indifference Onegin-Battistini proves to Tatyana that conjugal life would be a torment for them; or with what perfection Battistini conveys the moment before the duel, when the idea occurs to him to make peace with Lensky; or with what temperament and fever he performs the last scene, like a passionate young man! To all that must be added the vocally ideal performance of the whole role; the immense success he earned becomes absolutely comprehensible. The garden-scene aria was sung as we have not heard it in a long time: with subtle nuancing, perfect harmony. Such expression and feeling gave much charm and beauty to this aria, which Battistini ends in such a sweet and ideal falsetto that shows with what virtuosity he handles his perfectly trained voice. This aria had to be encored, at the public’s insistence. Battistini has given as much proof as can be given of the richness and strength of his voice in the last-act arioso (such a favorite of the public, and which he had to sing three times) and in the final phrase of the opera. To listen to Battistini is to understand what is meant by the Art of Singing, combined with talent. The natural facility with which he sings, the precise diction, the sincerity of expression, all produces a great and ineffable impression that seizes and electrifies the listener, filling the soul with an enthusiasm that we experience rarely, to our regret, in our temples of Art.73

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Any artist could be proud to inspire such notices. Might this enthusiastic approbation, this evocation of sublimity, have been what bothered Levik? Battistini sang the high F in the recording of the garden scene aria that he made the same year. The piano is subtle, but it is not a falsetto (which indicates an independent register, not the one the artist normally uses to sing). To the inexperienced ear, the color of falsetto might be confused with that of Battistini’s falsettone, although the latter is warmer, giving none of the androgynous, emasculated impression of falsetto; it shimmers with sweetness and youth. Even if in the falsettone one can hear an underlying falsetto, the two registers never separate, thus permitting the artist to crescendo to full voice without a break. Needless to say, only great mastery of the voice makes this nuance possible. Another press notice on Battistini’s Onegin merits our attention. While listening to M. Battistini in Onegin, we could not help thinking that such a performance would have been a revelation for the late professor Everardi. The celebrated veteran of classic Italian bel canto did not like the vocal style of the title part in Tchaikovsky’s work. This quasi-declamatory style was for him an annoyance that he did not even attempt to hide by diplomacy. Sometimes he would leave the theater saying, “I’ll return when they’ve done with that chattering.” We do not think he would have felt the same during M. Battistini’s performance of Onegin; he would have seen how much genuine artistry, harmony, and musical intelligence can be breathed into this music. Battistini even confines himself to singing mezza voce, except when the passion the hero feels gives greater freedom to the artist’s vocal temperament, as in the final scene. Possessing such an exceptional voice and such a rare technique, the artist was able to hold the attention of the audience in every phrase until the end, without having to resort to the usual flashiness of voice with which other performers like to launch high notes and fermatas. . . . The remarkable moments that prove the singer’s esthetic integrity are numerous: for example, the aria “Se dell’Imen la dolce cura.” Here M. Battistini in no way oversteps the limits of the genuine conversational tone. On the E-flat, M. Battistini admirably passes from the strong attack on the note to the sweetest pianissimo, and the transformation from one nuance to another is achieved as if by magic. In the monologue “Non c’è più dubbio,” sung three times, the artist somewhat approaches the Battistini we heard in Maria di Rohan. In all the preceding part, he was, we repeat, an entirely new singer who gave Onegin a new vocal character. One also noticed a good deal of intelligence and originality on the dramatic plane. Thus Battistini does not sit cozily alongside Tatyana on the garden bench in the expository scene; he remains standing at a distance. In the ball scene he waltzes with the queen of the party, which the composer always wanted to see. We also saw the quarrel with Lensky in an entirely new

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Chapter 2 interpretation. M. Battistini is self-controlled, avoiding all excess, not only from natural moderation but in order not to aggravate the dispute. He seemed to want to calm his adversary with his sangfroid, through the desire to avoid taking the young man’s anger too seriously and to regard it with indulgence, in the hope that it will cool down by itself. Before the duel, M. Battistini displays a certain nervous agitation, as though he were impatient to bring this painful confrontation to an end as soon as possible. After the gunshot, he does not remain inert, in a more or less tragic pose; he approaches the body, from one side, then another. . . . In comparison to such a great singer and dramatic artist, the other performers were certainly rather weak.74

Camillo Everardi was a famous singing teacher, notably of the baritone Oscar Komionsky (1869–1917), of whom Battistini spoke most favorably. The comment about the E-flat confirms the use of falsettone. Above all, the above article gives us more information about the staging and shows how attentive an audience member can be, noticing every gesture and weighing its significance— whereas today, critics go on about the theatrical concept, basing their comments not even on the actual performance but on the stage director’s essay in the program or on a newspaper interview granted prior to the premiere. Interestingly, another journalist, writing about the same performances, felt that on the whole, if Battistini’s acting did not rise above the level of the best Russian interpreters, it surely matched it, surpassing them all by far in the vocal department. The first scene’s recitatives were rendered with perfect savoir-faire and taste. During the expository garden scene Battistini dazzled us with all the richness of his musical insight, with the amazing variety of intonations and nuance. The sound of his voice rose and fell, now filling the hall, now flitting in light waves, almost fading; soft sounds, full sounds, caressing sounds. Never in an artist have we encountered such perfection in the mastery of the voice. The fourth and fifth tableaux allowed the artist to pass majestically from the lyric to the dramatic level. His voice expanded and became more virile before our eyes; already in the description of the journey it was difficult to recognize the sweetly tender inflections in the garden exposition. In the arioso of the sixth scene, the artist displayed all the power of his vocal resources, but it was not the forced, unattractive barking of our Russian interpreters. It was an incomparably powerful sound, but just as songful and suave as a lyrical sound. Needless to add, the most beautiful scene, the last one, was a musical pearl in Battistini’s interpretation. The ovations for the great artist went on and on. All his colleagues are incredibly inferior to him. . . .75

Of course, the above review is but one among many, but to say that Battistini matched the acting of Russian interpreters in the role of Onegin is no small

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praise. The reservations about Battistini’s acting permit compensatory discussion of the voice, of greatest interest, and which confirms what we knew. In any case, how can one not be struck by the description of the musical and vocal delight obtained from this exceptional singer? All these texts certainly undermine the credibility of Levik’s claim that Battistini did not understand Russian opera.

FROM MOZART TO BEL CANTO We shall now survey the non-Russian operas given over a ten-year period, 1893–1903, in Russia and Poland (the two countries saw the same tour productions). The year 1903 marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of Battistini’s debut, which provides our stopping point for this section. During the long winters in Russia, Battistini had the opportunity to sing several roles for the first time. It was there he starred in one of his most acclaimed incarnations: Don Giovanni, a role that he would subsequently do throughout Europe with triumphant success. Mozart’s opera is the subject of an anecdote reported in Palmegiani, as well as in the memoirs of Gigli, who probably got it directly from Cotogni himself. At age thirty-eight, Battistini, with already a substantial repertory to his credit, had not yet performed Don Giovanni. One day in 1894 in St. Petersburg, he was told he ought to prepare it. The proposal should have delighted him, but it did no such thing. For years, Battistini cultivated friendly (almost filial) relations with the great baritone Antonio Cotogni. Now sixty-three, the singer who was nicknamed Count Toto had to resign himself to dropping some of his roles and seeing his younger colleague take them up himself. Battistini knew that, for Cotogni, Don Giovanni represented the jewel of his career, and that abandoning the role would strike the veteran singer as the sign of his inevitable decline. Battistini did not want to appear insensitive and risk offending an artist who had been his benevolent supporter early on—for example, by writing a letter of recommendation for the young baritone to take to Portugal, and in all likelihood in other instances as well. The tenor Francesco Marconi (1853–1926), aware of the situation, had offered to serve as go-between, apparently without success, when one morning at seven o’clock Battistini heard a knock on the door of his hotel room. Who should appear but Cotogni himself and, before Battistini could stammer out his excuses, the unexpected visitor exclaimed, “What are you waiting for, Mattia? Come on, get up! You have to start rehearsing. Mozart’s no joke . . . and this is no time to improvise.” For a week, Cotogni was available to smooth over the rough spots and preserve the tradition of a role he had learned from Tamburini. On 7 February 1894, despite his avowed stage fright, undiminished for such

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distinguished sponsorship, Battistini succeeded beyond all expectation. After the performance, his gallant mentor was the first to congratulate him and, without claiming one ounce of credit for the triumph, declared that he had done himself honor, thus crowning his successor in a role he had just given up. Interestingly, soon thereafter Cotogni received a proposal to teach at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, which he did until his definitive return to Rome in 1899. Battistini’s appreciation was equal to the favor, and never did he miss the opportunity to recall the generosity and vocal longevity of an artist who was also a great voice teacher (notably of Jean de Reszke and Beniamino Gigli). Battistini offered him a photo inscribed with the words “A te mio maestro divino, a te Antonio Cotogni, angelo degli amici, con riconoscenza ed affetto. Pietroburgo 1895.” A composer when the fancy struck, Battistini also dedicated a song (“Illusione”) to Cotogni. Battistini’s triumph as Don Giovanni is reflected in the contemporary press, which speaks of “titan,” “ultra-sensuality,” and the fact that he was forced to encore “Là ci darem,” the “Champagne Aria,” and the “Serenade.”76 The following review from later in the same year goes into greater detail. The Germans claim the Italians don’t know how to sing Don Giovanni. Obviously they have not heard Battistini, who could serve as a model of an excellent, even ideal, Don Giovanni. Although the possessor of a marvelous voice that subjugates the hearts of his listeners, he nevertheless manages to keep his stardom [ses élans] so well in check as to put neither his voice nor his technical virtuosity in the limelight, or wherever it might conflict with the musical demands of Mozart. However, his admirable voice remains admirable in this role, and his virtuosity remains equal to itself. Therefore, the possessor of an admirable voice, technical virtuosity, as well as artistic intelligence and outstanding histrionic ability, he creates the ideal type of Mozart’s hero at the same time he presents himself as the singer of singers. That is why those who claim to be connoisseurs of classical music go into raptures over Battistini’s style in Don Giovanni; that is why music lovers revel in his singing in this opera, as for example yesterday. In response to the public’s loud ovations, the eminent artist was obliged to sing “Là ci darem” twice and the famous Serenade three times. . . . Battistini appeared in four sumptuous Spanish-style costumes: (1) Act 1. Grey velvet cape embroidered with silver. Red velvet doublet with gold trim, Charles V beret of grey velvet with red feathers. (2) Act 2. White satin costume with gold-flower trim. Large red-cloth cloak lined with ivory fabric. (3) Act 3. Violet costume with velvet brocade, adorned with silver braid, grey-leather riding boots. (4) Act 4. Magnificent costume of light pink brocade woven with gold; sheer velvet waistcoat and sleeves. In addition to some superb swords, bejeweled belts, handkerchiefs, hats, etc. . . . He was a truly princely Don Giovanni.77

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The next year, the journalist discussed the unpopularity into which Don Giovanni had slipped. It is to Battistini we are indebted, for it is indeed due to his initiative that [Don Giovanni] has been revived in Warsaw. Since then, that opera, which had had little success here, has become one of the most popular. Some are drawn to the theater by the heavenly charm of the melodies, others by the magical singing of Battistini. The latter group are apparently in the majority, but the result is the same: above all, they hear the Mozart opera that lifts the soul and consequently admire the mastery of one of the most celebrated contemporary singers. Thus can he be considered in all his roles, but particularly in Don Giovanni. We would indeed consider the score of Don Giovanni to be the loftiest creation of all time, but not the liturgical text in which nothing must be modified. On the whole, Battistini changes almost nothing in the score, sticking strictly to the original. He only adds now and then an interpolated note or a fermata. What harm is there in that, especially if they are well placed? And it must be acknowledged that, with Battistini, the effect always comes just at the right moment—to charm or uplift—artistically, in fact. Only an artist like him is capable of singing the Serenade three times in a row—maybe even four—and each time differently, but with just as much taste and effectiveness. This is proof of great mastery. Added to his vocal perfection is the talent of an intelligent actor, perfectly adaptable to all situations. His Don Giovanni is the true Don Giovanni of Mozart: a passionate, sensual, seductive, hot-headed salon dandy, inspiring genuine sympathy, even from pious women. Therein lies his strength, and that is the reason for the fabulous success the artist achieves in this role.78

It is interesting to see repeated in the above two reviews the sort of criteria, or rather scruples, that we would not have expected to find among music lovers of yore: a concern for stylishness in the first and a respect for the score in the second. One does not find the absurd, all-too-common view that a perfect technique can only generate coldness and boredom and that one should favor the technically imperfect expressive approach. In St. Petersburg, Battistini’s success knew no bounds. M. Battistini/Don Giovanni again had to sing the Serenade three times. This artist has a whole legion of psychopaths—excuse me, I mean admirers—of his talent. At the end of the opera, they moved toward the orchestra pit and called out to their idol in chorus: “BAT-TI-STI-NI!!!” echoed from all sides in different voices. They persisted until he appeared and they continued to call him out until the houselamps and electricity started to be extinguished.79

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The following review reveals a clear concern for the staging, which belies the common misconception about the inadequacy of scenic elements in opera of old: Over the last twenty years, the Warsaw Opera has made more than one attempt to revive Don Giovanni, but these attempts were always unfruitful. Only eight years ago, when Battistini took charge of the title role, a change occurred and the public’s glacial reaction to Mozart’s masterpiece suddenly melted like the snow under the first rays of springtime sun. Since then, whenever Don Giovanni appeared on the bill, which was quite often, one could be sure that the theater would be packed. It seemed that Varsovians had finally understood all the charm of Mozart’s heavenly music and would never tire of hearing it. And yet, last night, it so happened that Mozart’s masterpiece was given after a rather prolonged absence and . . . the theater was empty! Must we regard this fact as a sudden change in the public’s taste? As a cooling off toward the classical repertory? Not at all, but the Warsaw public prefers to hear a bad opera performed by top-drawer singers rather than a good opera in a mediocre interpretation. That’s why the public didn’t come last night and were a hundred times right not to, for the great lyric drama was terribly mutilated, pitilessly damaged, and truncated by the omission of the celebrated sextet, the tenor’s two arias, and by shortening even favorite numbers like “Finch’han dal vino.” Indescribable chaos reigned on stage, in the orchestra, and in the scenic effects. Strangely, only the small roles were satisfactorily rendered; as for the principals, [Aristodemo] Sillich alone was equal to the occasion. [Mario] Ancona has, unquestionably, a beautiful, large voice and sings stylishly, but, alas, not the makings of a Don Giovanni. He neither over-Italianized the melodic line nor abused fermatas, and his performance was correct—but too stiff, too serious, with no understanding of the character. His memory also failed him, and he forgot his lines. As for his acting, not only did he lack anything original or striking, but he overlooked even the required movements; thus, when changing cloaks with Leporello, he contented himself with throwing his servant’s cloak over his arm instead of wearing it during the duet under Elvira’s window; he sang while keeping himself in the shadows instead of helping Leporello move his arms in comic fashion; at Elvira’s entrance during the supper scene, he did not rise from his chair to greet the lady (unspeakable rudeness!); finally, in the last scene with the Commendatore, he had no sword! The vocal performance was indifferent and colorless; the scenes with Zerlina totally lacked passion and brio; the encounter with the Commendatore brought only a cold grimace to his face; and in the famous aria “Finch’han dal vino,” shamelessly abbreviated and taken too slow, alas, if anything flowed, it was not bubbling champagne but the cheapest ginger ale!80

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This review implies, through the severity of the critic, how demanding Battistini was with regard to the multiple aspects of his interpretation and how much he was appreciated. His high level of artistic accomplishment became the norm, the minimum expectation.81 Battistini kept Don Giovanni in his active repertory until he was well into his sixties. As late as 1913, a Viennese critic was able to report: The artist is no longer a spring chicken, but his whole personality seems to have been created to perform Don Giovanni, and he possesses all the advantages that make the famous seducer irresistible and his many conquests believable: a Latin temperament, youthful flexibility, a lordly bearing, great elegance, and noble manliness. His musical performance is beyond reproach. His recitative flows like a wave of sweetness, his parlando ability is unique. His brio in the Champagne Aria unleashed a tempest of enthusiasm. With this role, Battistini has become the artist of the moment, the one who best responds to the demands of the public, because his art emanates from his soul; being inspired himself, he manages to inspire others. Every time he consents to encore an aria, he finds a new way to embellish it and thus leave the impression that the last performance was the most beautiful. In a word, his Don Giovanni is a brilliant creation of the very highest order. Contrary to all the German singers, Battistini makes the character not a tragic hero but an incorrigible woman-chaser, lively, happy, and carefree. And that is the way to do it. Yet, in the final statue scene, he managed to make a grandly majestic impact that profoundly touched the audience.82

In Rossini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia Battistini was deemed an admirable Figaro; this score brings out all of the rare qualities of this prodigious singer and fine comic actor. He was made to encore the “Largo al factotum,” as well as the first duet. The well-liked artist is truly indefatigable; the illness of Masini having upset the season’s entire repertory, M. Battistini has been obliged to sing even more often than usual. For more than a week he has sung every evening, and not only does his voice give us no indication of that effort, but it seems even fresher and stronger, the timbre more velvety than ever.83

It was not the first time that Battistini performed several consecutive evenings, and in different operas, alternating comic and tragic roles. This practice, unthinkable for most of today’s singers, reveals one aspect of a solid vocal technique as well as a mental preparation and a life entirely devoted to singing, performing, and rapport with an audience, all in the name of art. M. Battistini has just completed the series of his triumphs on our stage with his brilliant performance of the role of Figaro. We have seen several Figaros

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Chapter 2 who were “fine,” but none can stand comparison with M. Battistini regarding the precision with which he executes this part. This highly gifted artist deserves the title of baritono leggiero. He even interpolates several roulades, in no way unjustifiable, because they are perfectly in the spirit of the role. In Don Giovanni or Hamlet M. Battistini does not do this, but here it’s another matter. Why wouldn’t Figaro add a few extra roulades when Rosina adds dozens of them, and especially if he sings them with such facility? The same goes for the other liberties M. Battistini allows himself: for example, when he imitates Rosina and Count Almaviva in the last scene, M. Battistini approaches them saying, “Andiam, andiam” to make them hurry. In sum, M. Battistini ventures nothing that is not in the character of the role and the intentions of the composer. As for the dramatic side, a few members of the audience did not think the celebrated artist an elegant enough Figaro, but this complaint actually signifies a compliment. Figaro is not a worldly cavalier, as a goodly number of artists represent him. On the other hand, Figaro is neither a rogue nor a thief, but an honest and brave lad at heart who is at once witty and cheerful. This time, M. Battistini had a betterthan-usual supporting cast.84

Concerning Battistini’s colleagues, it should be mentioned that Odessa did not often host the level of artists commonly seen in the opera capitals of St. Petersburg, London, Madrid, or Rome. In the above review we also encounter the crucial issue of respect for the score, always more or less present. A year later: If the general opinion is true that only Italians can perform Barbiere adequately, it is even truer that of all current Italian artists Battistini is the only one who can sing it as he did last evening. When music critics call this or that singer an “excellent Figaro,” I am always tempted to add one reservation or another. The only Figaro who can be called excellent unreservedly, unconditionally, excellent to perfection, is Battistini. He alone surpasses all other Figaros with his voice, the incredible lightness of his vocalises, because he always sings and never declaims, because he never resorts to rapidfire patter. In the most rapid passages, in the most diverse dynamic contrasts, everywhere and always you will hear the marvelous velvety timbre; it never vanishes. When Figaro advises Almaviva to disguise himself as a soldier and pretend to be drunk, Battistini interpolates a brief but delicious fioritura that he executes at the tenderest pianissimo; it is almost no more than a murmur, and yet the timbre remains unchanged. Likewise, in the stretta of the entrance aria [“Largo al factotum,” recorded the previous year], what dizzying speed, what graceful velocity, and yet every bit of it is sung and not rapidly pattered. That is the true triumph of vocal art: the human voice turned into obeying instrument.

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The difficulties that abound in the role of Figaro are no challenge for Battistini; he adds on his own initiative roulades, embellishments, fioriture that are always welcome, always appropriate, being in accord with the character of the role. As for the dramatic aspect, since last year we have emphasized that Battistini’s Figaro indulges in none of the exaggerations that are so difficult to avoid; he is neither an elegant courtier nor a vulgar comedian. His Figaro is a likable guy, attractive and good-natured: “galantuomo, giovin di buon core,” as Rosina says, an ordinary person and very intelligent, an optimist par excellence who is never discouraged, who is unmatched in his ability to deal with any sticky situation. To understand and convey the character any better would be impossible.85

The above describes, among other things, another of the advantages of Battistini’s use of falsettone (or voix mixte), adding facility to suavity. One sees how technical ability influences expression, as perceived by the listener. The smooth and apparently easy pianissimi convey one aspect of the character, his amiability and imagination. They carry into the hall and are heard more clearly than any overarticulated speech of the kind singers today are encouraged to adopt in the name of better communication. When the writer describes the qualities he expects from an interpreter, it becomes easier for us to evaluate his opinions, sometimes agreeing, other times disagreeing. The Manchester Guardian of 30 June 1906 reported that Battistini had not attempted to make Eugene Onegin sympathetic, whereas a superstar concerned about his public image would have tried to. The above critic remarks that in Il barbiere di Siviglia he avoided what would have been for him the easy solution of relying on the elegant approach, which he could have carried off brilliantly. Both cases reveal Battistini’s considered desire to construct a real character without doing injustice to the work in which he appears. Saturday, the Italians at the Russian Theatre gave a very good performance of Rossini’s masterpiece, Barbiere. It was yet another occasion to admire Battistini’s remarkable, multi-faceted talent. To perform two characters as different as Barnaba [La Gioconda] and Figaro within the space of two days, there’s an assignment for not just anybody! His Figaro is incomparable; the first-act dialogue is exquisitely brilliant, the triumph of an exceptional voice’s flexibility.86

Although Barnaba is practically the opposite of Figaro, he still is no aristocrat. As for his Figaro costume, Battistini was inspired by drawings of Goya in Madrid’s Prado Museum. Because what we today consider the bel canto repertory was considered old-fashioned by the end of the nineteenth century, the operas of Donizetti give a special significance to the success that Battistini achieved in them.

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Although Bellini’s oeuvre figured less prominently in his repertory (and stirred up less controversy), it must not be overlooked. The question of fidelity to the score and the composer (which today we tend wrongly to regard as a recent discovery) crops up again in the following lines, though approached in a considerably different light, by a reporter who had witnessed Battistini in a Warsaw La favorita. A generally shared view is that, in the modern repertory, where composers try to breathe life into strongly characterized protagonists, singers are faced with much greater challenges than they were in the past. In my opinion one can achieve profundity through a diametrically opposite approach. The contemporary creative genius has thought of everything—or believes he has—and the singer supposedly has only to follow the psychological development of the character in an intelligent manner. The old-style composer gave innocently of whatever flowed from his soul, a melody, without worrying about the rest; it was up to the singer to draw from this raw material whatever the character, dramatic situation, stage, and audience demanded. That required greater artistry, perhaps, of the kind displayed by Battistini. He reshapes the themes of Donizetti, infuses them with feeling, and makes their dramatic power all the stronger. . . . Perhaps Donizetti himself, were he to return to life, would marvel at the undreamed-of treasures brought to light?87

Need the reader be reminded that the above was penned before the dawn of the twentieth century, before Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande? “The psychological development of the character,” which was where opera seemed to be heading, has given way in our day to fidelity to the score, guided by impeccable restraint. Today, not one critic would express or uphold the Polish journalist’s thesis, yet how can he be faulted for giving credit to the interpreter? The idea that the singer could even surpass the composer and teach him things about his own creation strikes us as perfectly reasonable when applied to the field of jazz. But we are quite reluctant to accept it when it comes to the classical repertory, even though such an approach undeniably existed, both in theory and in practice, in the time of the great composers, and even if we claim to abstain from it in the name of good taste, without realizing that in the process the music is singularly impoverished. We have seen more than one instance of how concerned people of yesteryear were about the demands of the mise-en-scène and fidelity of the musical performance, whatever one says about them today, though these two principles were established in a different context, within a different experience and tradition than that in force today. Which is probably why we feel distanced

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from them today. As usual, Battistini provokes serious discussion on questions of art that the everyday singer does not. It is true that, when listening to Battistini with score in hand, one is sometimes amazed at the liberties he takes, notably with tempi. But if one listens with an open mind, his phrasing seems to go right to the essence of the music. From this bel canto arises some notions that elude literalism and that Battistini illustrates particularly well: for example, the sprezzatura, present in music from the seventeenth century on (in Caccini, for instance) and which involves a certain negligence of natural rhythm or phrasing (“May this naturalness be beautiful,” Battistini said), avoiding an overdependence on literal interpretation of the score that might smother the vitality of the performance— the famous “hide art with art itself ” approach. Such a conception is of course inseparable from rubato, which Battistini practiced with utter consistency, to the point of mastery. In Battistini’s quest for beauty, he engages himself totally in a choice that engenders responsibility, not blind submission to the printed score. The latter case does not engage the artist’s responsibility toward his art or toward his public, since its objective is the transparent, unbiased translation of a dramatic situation. Such an artist (who in this case even strives to divest himself of that title) becomes nothing more than a witness. The tendency at the turn of the twentieth century to revitalize opera with realistic acting and the more recent vogue of fidelity to nothing but the score both imply a condemnation of the license golden-age artists took with the music they sang. At the same time, both tendencies impose variables as much as they condemn them: realism cannot be achieved without the addition of certain extramusical effects (laughs, sobs, onomatopoeias); and the strict realization of the score ignores the music’s dependency on the instrument, the timbre, and the acoustic in which it is performed, all of which can affect tempo and phrasing. Music is the art of rendering a body of sound material in a way that makes sense to the listener—but through the ear and not the eye! Not even the oldest operagoers who lived in the most brilliant era of Italian opera in the [18]60s, when the most famous stars were shining, can recall having heard such perfect intonation, such sweetness and beauty of tone in the voice. If a beautiful aria like “A tanto amor” remains beautiful thanks to its melodious nature, even as performed by a second-class artist, imagine what it becomes in the hands of a Battistini!88

An 1896 report of a Warsaw production of Donizetti’s Maria di Rohan mentions how Battistini, “the eminent artist, idol of a whole legion of Battistinists enamored of his marvelous voice and theatrical and vocal genius,”

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Chapter 2 turned the comparatively insignificant role of Henri into a brilliantly effective part. We have so often referred in this paper to the magnificent talent of this great artist, his magical voice, excellent technique, and eminent acting abilities, that there remains little for us to add, other than to say that now Battistini’s voice sounds stronger than it did last season, that he performed his role in superior fashion, but was the only member of yesterday’s cast who inspired the audience’s enthusiasm. Thus he sang his lines marvelously, but also the charming third-act arias “Bella e di sol vestita” and “Ogni mio ben in te sperai,” as well as the highly dramatic letter scene. It brought him extraordinary success. His entrance on stage was the signal for enthusiastic ovations, which from then on accompanied him consistently until the last scene.89

This report shows Battistini’s impact on his art and his ability to transfigure it, which is to say, the influence the interpreter exerted on an audience. It is an aspect that is quite misunderstood, because it undermines the already complex issue of value judgments brought to bear upon a musical work. Although so many reviews tell us that each opera he appeared in “seemed to be composed especially for him,” the compliment should not be simplified and turned around to mean that he sang everything in the same beautiful way. It would also be a mistake to conclude, from the rarities that he performed, that he was willing to sing anything. That he was “the only [one] who inspired . . . enthusiasm” tells us something about his colleagues’ inability to infuse life into this “outmoded” piece. The critic’s enthusiasm is all the more remarkable in that it extends to neither the opera nor the composer. But, remember, that low opinion was shared by the new wave, the very one that rejected the idea of attending the opera to hear the singing. Another review of the same production notes that had it not been for the aria borrowed from Maria di Rudenz, the beautiful cantabile delivered by Battistini, with which he charms not only the masses but also the most exacting connoisseur, the first act would have passed unnoticed. It must be said that M. Apostolu, a short, plain and colorless tenore di forza, and Mme Monti-Baldini, a cross between mezzo-soprano and contralto, with poor diction, contributed nothing to this half-baked affair. The second act was naturally only the passageway to the third, the culmination of elements combined with all the instinct of the Italians for theatrical effect. It is in the third act, against a background of secret doors and flashing swords, supernumeraries lurking here and there, and the noise of offstage fighting, that M. Battistini will show what he is and what he can do. Above all, the very nature of his voice imposes with its sonority, breadth of range, and variety of timbre. Thanks to these qualities, in the tender ro-

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mances it can become velvety, and in the dramatic outbursts it can peal like a bell. In the recitatives it strikes one as firmly persuasive or brutally mocking, without ever overstepping the bounds of its essentially noble sound. Acting does not play a secondary role here. M. Battistini is as interesting to the spectator as he is to the listener. He knows how to move on stage as well as act, which is to say, alter his facial expression along with his gestures. Naturally, he is a typically Italian actor, a master of pantomime, but a highly unusual one. The way M. Battistini dominates the stage and receives ovation after ovation during the course of the evening is something that must be seen. Without a baritone such as he, under the current circumstances, one could not listen to an opera like Maria di Rohan to the end.90

The above commentary is consistent with what one hears in the recordings. The tone of the critic’s praise is sufficiently informative about the Battistini phenomenon, even though Italian opera is not his cup of tea. Another report describes a full house, people dressed to the nines, an audience of connoisseurs: such is the norm for an evening when M. Battistini sings. That magician knows how to revitalize stage works as sterile and outmoded as Maria di Rohan. Whatever one might say, and rightly, against the various Donizetti Marias of yesteryear [Maria di Rohan, Maria Padilla, Maria di Rudenz, Maria Stuarda], it must be granted that [this repertory] is the last word in vocal art, as much from the technical point of view as the intellectual, and at the same time a dramatic presentation worthy of a Rossi or a Salvini. Is it any surprise, or can one even begrudge the artist for having wished to perform such a role before the public? Especially our public, who, in spite of what people say, continues to attend the opera, not for the production as a whole but for the singers. So let’s forgive Battistini for resurrecting Maria di Rohan, in consideration of the ideal vocal and theatrical artistry that he invests in his role. It is consummate art, springing from every sound, every movement. He is, moreover, a veritable prince, from head to toe! His impeccably stylish costumes are distinguished for their matchless magnificence and elegantly luxurious refinement. Yesterday, too, the celebrated artist was received with ovations, forced to repeat the first-act aria, and applauded and acclaimed after each of his subsequent ones. . . . The first-act costume is closely copied after the famous portrait of Charles Stuart by van Dyck in the Dresden art gallery: a striped emerald velvet shirt, pleated white satin sleeves. A wide, plain white collar with lace. The front of the collar is embellished with large white satin bows. Velvet trousers with satin pleats. Dark-gray leather boots, richly embellished in gold. Wide gray felt hat with an enormous, dark-green plume. Cloak of prune-colored fabric, lined with steel-gray satin, with long silk sash. In the

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Chapter 2 second act, a ravishing silver satin suit, embellished with black-velvet ribbons and silver embroidery; lace jabot; white collar à la Charles Stuart; trousers of the same velvet-embellished material; yellow leather bandoleer and real sword; black hat with large black plumes.91

Battistini always championed this opera, in spite of the underlying reservations of the established press toward the notion of artistic progress. He was the artist, and he would never allow himself to submit to the will of the ignorant. How can one not commend him for it, after listening to the excerpts from Maria di Rohan, as well as Maria di Rudenz, that he recorded? When he sang the former in Kiev in 1902, one local critic declared: In the eyes of all admirers of Italian bel canto, Battistini has justified his nickname “King of Baritones.” At least, the citizens of Kiev had never until then had the opportunity to hear a voice so powerful, so wide-ranged and even throughout all registers, married to such a grand and broad style of execution, with such a perfect mastery of technique. The singer’s great art consists of lending a crystalline purity to the smallest sound; nothing is lost to the listener, neither one word of recitative, nor the nuance of a single note, and that in spite of the temperamental fervor of the execution. The voice’s upper register is rich and dense, with a very pronounced tenorial ring. What is more, Battistini is an excellent actor, and he can prove it, even in Donizetti’s banal melodrama. His success with the public was colossal; everything in the score, except for the recitatives, had to be sung twice.92

The above confirms the previously cited reports of Battistini’s grand style, wealth of means, exemplary technique, and ability to make his voice heard even on the most delicate piano tone. It is the report of a complete and utter triumph. And yet, only one month later, when he sang the same opera in Kharkov, the house was not full; one third of the seats were empty. That is explained by the choice of opera, which did not attract confidence. . . . The success of such an opera can only be created by a soloist of the calibre of Battistini. As soon as he appeared, as soon as he sang his first note, one knew one was in the presence of a great artist. Tall and dashing, in a superb and historically accurate costume, with calm and noble bearing—such was the outer appearance. When he sings his big first-act aria, one wonders what to admire most: his voice or his amazing stagecraft. His large and powerful voice fills the entire hall to the farthest corner, shining and shimmering incomparably. It sounds now like a deep cello, now like a tenor’s mezza voce, now with a rich mid-register tone. The sound swells to the loudest forte, then fades to the tenderest piano. All these surprising modulations are like

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child’s play to this artist, and they are his in abundance. The highest baritone notes, including top A, are for him as accessible as low C. The most intense forte provokes no tension. Battistini always sings, and never shouts, as our Russian singers are wont to do. Finally, his incomparable ability to render all the impulses of the soul! . . . Dreamy melancholy, profound sadness, bursts of wrath . . . the artist knows how to express all this in a language comprehensible to everyone, even those who do not understand Italian, even those who do not know the libretto.93

The public, typically blamed by the literary avant-garde for going to the opera to hear the singers instead of the works, a sign of a lack of culture, this time seems to have heeded the highbrow advice. Yet the critic is obliged to admit that, this time, by staying away from an allegedly inferior opera, they missed an opportunity . . . to improve their taste! A voice that can swell to the most impressive forte and then fade away—without resorting either to falsetto or to muffling of chest tone, and preserving its brilliance on whatever the vowel or inflection—is not a cold machine; on the contrary, as the critic points out, it communicates the most subtle and diverse emotions. The variety of the artist’s talent is completed by his ability to touch all listeners—certainly not the elitist image that commentators sometimes try to attach to the “Baritone of Kings” [sic]. The credibility of the most simplistic of attacks, such as Chaliapin’s against bel canto, is hereby challenged. For, after all, to be told that one sings “in a language comprehensible to everyone” is one of the highest compliments any singer (even of the verismo school) could be paid. Battistini repeated the miracle in another Donizetti rarity, Poliuto, in which he incarnated “a perfect Severo, as much for his singing as for his acting and overall appearance,” and in which his remarkable costume attracted general amazement.94 He also sang Torquato Tasso in concert. Riccardo in I puritani was the one Bellini role in Battistini’s repertory. A review of a St. Petersburg performance called the baritone “exemplary” and “the hero of the evening.” Not only did all of his phrases sound sculpted to perfection, but the feeling that the artist gave to them seemed born of the music itself, even when M. Battistini added a few minor changes. In the first act, in spite of these changes, one admired his taste and vocal agility. The energy and strength the artist gave to the figure of Riccardo resulted in a colossal, almost monumental creation. This role is one of the most interesting in M. Battistini’s repertory.95

One should not place too much significance on the critic’s statement that Riccardo was one of Battistini’s “most interesting” roles, since almost everything he performed attracted similar reaction. He made incomparable recordings of “Ah! per sempre” and “Bel sogno beato” in 1911.

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But Battistini was obviously not content to do only “forgotten” operas like Don Giovanni or “old-fashioned” ones like the melodramas of Donizetti and Bellini—no more than he was content to surround himself with unworthy colleagues, or with those who appeared so when they sang alongside him.

TAMAGNO AND BATTISTINI IN VERDI To say that Battistini typically sang with second-class artists, implying that his greatness emerged only in relation to the mediocrity of those surrounding him, corresponds too neatly with the stereotype of the old-school star. John Steane gives the lie to the rumor by enumerating several of the baritone’s illustrious colleagues; yet the same author falls into another trap by stating, almost in the same breath, that when Battistini sang Iago to Tamagno’s Otello in Russia “he would therefore have had to try to match [the tenor] in volume in the Oath Duet”!96 Would Battistini truly have suffered from the comparison with such a partner on that occasion? Here is what one contemporary critic had to say: Last night at the Aquarium, M. Tamagno made his debut [in St. Petersburg] in the role of Otello. . . . M. Tamagno’s voice is astonishingly powerful; he is a unique tenore di forza, who at present is nevertheless not free of defects, the main one of which is his tendency to go flat at mid-range. M. Tamagno’s brilliant singing has served as a model for other performers of the role, which he created. His success was undiminished, beginning with his entrance phrase (which he had to encore), right to the end of the performance. The other hero of the evening, ultimately an even greater hero because of his infallibility, was Battistini, who highlighted the role of Iago by performing it in an original manner and with rare perfection. He encored two of his solos: the Credo and [“Era la notte”]. He should have encored the act 1 drinking song. Mme Gabbi was a fine Desdemona, although yesterday she had a tendency to go flat, and she overdramatized her role, robbing her singing of any subtlety.97

Notice the critic’s clear distinction between dramatization and subtlety. Since the turn of the twentieth century beauty of tone has so often been considered secondary, even harmful to the effectiveness of the acting, that today one can hardly understand what the critic means. It is quite simple, however: overimmersion in the drama causes the voice, and by extension its expressivity, to dry up. Whoever forces the voice by overaccentuating the dramatic inflections ul-

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timately ends up with a monotonous tone and loses, due to tenseness, any freshness of timbre and variety of expression. Another Russian critic wrote frankly that the voice of M. Tamagno has no charm; it is dry at mid-range, crude in the upper register, and rather monotonous in substance throughout. But this voice amazes you with its force, with its power at forte. One might call these notes “of steel,” because they are so metallic. We would not be far from the truth if we say that M. Tamagno enthralled his audience more as an actor representing the Shakespearean hero than as a singer translating the Verdian musical portrait. The lyrical portions, few in number, were not very successfully rendered by M. Tamagno; for example, in the first-act duet with Desdemona the artist’s voice was not only dry, but the intonation itself was not correct. Similarly, his singing made only a slight impression in the act 2 quartet and in the aria at the start of act 3. Throughout one sensed a lack of beauty and suppleness in the timbre, notably in his piano singing. M. Tamagno’s success was fully shared by M. Battistini, that incomparable Iago. The part is not thankless for the singer, and M. Battistini executed it in brilliant manner. His monologue and [“Era la notte”] sparked general enthusiasm.98

In Warsaw, where the troupe traveled in the spring, Otello was done again. Whenever you see M. Battistini in a new role, each time you are amazed at the love with which he studies his part, down to the smallest detail, the text of the opera never presenting enough material for a complete and finished characterization. Before us we saw, not an operatic Iago, but the Shakespearean one. In this valid conception, in our opinion, he avoids playing the crude soldier with the animosity of a wild beast; instead he appears as the refined villain, fierce in his own way, who in response to a personal affront contemplates with relish the shedding of innocent blood. How subtly he weaved his web of intrigue around Otello! Obsequious in his presence, triumphant in his absence; how malicious, vengeful, poisonous, and conniving he was! What about his singing? It was all beauty and harmony. In the drinking song he stirred up indescribable enthusiasm; the chromatic scales were like strings of pearls. Every phrase, every word, every note was striking in its polish and purity. What finesse in the recitative “Non so,” what force in the famous Credo. His voice seemed to get larger; he had to repeat the Credo. But the true summit of his performance was the narrative “Era la notte, Cassio dormia.” Such tenderness, such a mezza voce on the words “Desdemona soave” no one up to now has ever been able to achieve, not even the most famous Iagos like Blanchard, Maurel, or others. This writer could, at the very most, only dream of such an Iago.99

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The above review confirms, if it needs confirming, Battistini’s triumph alongside Tamagno. The negative opinions that the tenor received in the roles that turned him into a legend might come as a surprise, in view of all the claims of his matchlessness. Thus it is revealing to consider, along with these Russian and Polish assessments, the comments Bernard Shaw penned a few years earlier. In [the part] of Otello himself, there was an Italian, Tamagno, undoubtedly a quite exceptional artist, whose voice seems to have reached the upper part of the theatre with overwhelming power, though to others some of the current descriptions of its volume seemed hyperbolical. His voice, at any rate, had not the pure noble tone, nor the sweetly sensuous, nor even the ordinary thick manly quality of the robust tenor: it was nasal, shrill, vehement, sometimes fierce, sometimes plaintive, always peculiar and original. Imitation of Tamagno has ruined many a tenor, and will probably ruin many more.100

This description is well in accord with what one can hear on Tamagno’s recordings, and it leads one to consider the distinction between intensity and size. The dominant characteristic of the voice developed by Tamagno seems, indeed, to have been intensity. If Shaw felt the need to qualify the description quoted here, it is probably because the voice’s resonance was not ample enough to allow for more supple phrasing. Another Verdi opera in which Battistini partnered Tamagno in St. Petersburg was Il trovatore. The singing of M. Tamagno, although committed, does not warm, does not penetrate the soul. . . . He stuns with his powerful voice, you are overcome by it. But, although in a role such as Manrico there are many melodies that go to the soul, Tamagno doesn’t touch you in the way Masini does, for example, or—the tenor who just left us—De Lucia. Thus M. Tamagno makes a strong impression . . . in passages requiring force: for example, “Di quella pira,” which he executes masterfully, although he transposes it down, and instead of the eagerly anticipated high C he only hits a B, though it is strong and really amazing. We must add, M. Tamagno was occasionally under pitch last night—perhaps by accident, but it should not go unmentioned. . . . M. Battistini was a fine Count Di Luna, fighting for first place with Tamagno. He had to encore his solos, notably “Il balen.”101

In another report of the same performance (6 January, at the Aquarium), the critic felt that, in Il trovatore, Tamagno appeared less to his advantage. The part of Otello gave him the possibility of putting all his vocal guns on the table, which is to say, his endurance and his volume; the part of the troubadour requires other qualities, namely

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beauty of voice in the cantilenas and smoothness in lyrical passages, both alien to the voice and singing of M. Tamagno. Although in the principal dramatic numbers of Trovatore he achieved surprising force, in the many lyrical numbers the artist was unendurably crude and dry of voice, and short on vocal freshness. To these vocal defects must be added some musical flaws, including some dubious intonation, marked by a tendency to sag below pitch. The latter defect was so disagreeable to the ear that it completely overshadowed the singer’s other qualities, especially in the first two acts, where he had almost no success at all. No one could help being struck by two peculiarities of M. Tamagno’s singing: the inflexibility of his very loud voice, and the extreme poorness of his emission, which was particularly noticeable in the opening romance with harp accompaniment and which drew attention in all the ensembles of the first part of the opera. Not until the last act did M. Tamagno find his true voice. There he could give free rein to his strong high notes. Nevertheless, he sang the famous final aria transposed down, thus climaxing on a B and not on the high C with which Tamberlik used to thrill everyone. In general, M. Tamagno did not meet the expectations of the greater part of the public in Trovatore, and he was thrown in the shade by M. Battistini, who had a series of triumphs in the role of Count Di Luna. Indeed, this role found in him a superior interpreter on all counts, permitting him to display his voice in all its beauty.102

The following year, St. Petersburg again gave a warm reception to Battistini’s Di Luna, with the local press calling him “perfect in every way. . . . The overall finesse and beauty of his performance were beyond all praise.”103 This of course does not mean that Tamagno was bad, only that the unidimensional image we have of him—that of a formidable voice drowning out all his colleagues—is an invention that corresponds to the way we choose to view the past as a way of justifying some modern theories, no matter how inaccurate. Although Battistini did not sing Di Luna as frequently as some of his other Verdi roles, he had tremendous success with it in a Vienna Trovatore as late as 1913. His Count Di Luna profoundly moved the audience. Battistini managed to cut an astounding figure in every way. All eyes were focused on him; he glowed. The secret of the immense power he wields on stage is due not only to his voice, even though that voice is pure beauty and possesses the suppleness and softness of velvet, a timbre that is at once virile and tender, an incredibly charming mezza voce, prodigious breath control, and irreproachable diction. . . . It is therefore safe to assert that, even when the Commandatore’s voice begins to weaken it will remain unrivaled, thanks to the magic of his personality. . . . He is not only a singer but an actor of the first order who knows the value of every dramatic inflection. Within him

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Chapter 2 burns the soul of a genuine artist, full of temperament and spirit, whose every word is filled with expression and color—just like the notes he sings. He brings each one of his roles to life with the force of his inner flame, enthralling the public. Above and beyond all these qualities prevails a rare and exquisite sense of taste, a stunning nobility of style. It was marvelous to see the public’s insatiable fascination with the illustrious magician, as they coaxed one encore after another from him. It was an unforgettable evening!104

Battistini added Aida to his repertory in 1880, though it was already on his list of operas he had learned two years before that. In the following press notice, Tamagno’s stellar presence in an 1881 production in Rio de Janeiro did not have any negative effect on the critic’s appreciation of Battistini. Tamagno, ever irreproachable and every time more artistic! The first-act aria “Celeste Aida” was sung with admirable expression, and the third-act duet with Aida roused the audience. His powerful voice, his vocal fire and energy, and the facility with which he emits and sustains his high notes, connecting the note with a portamento (which gives a perfect idea of the power of his lungs)—all of that makes him the world’s premiere tenor. Battistini, who appeared in the role of Amonasro, distinguished himself to the greatest satisfaction of the most exacting fans. His pure, strong, wideranged, resonant, energetic voice is a new treasure discovered. It accentuates the shape of the melodies, which he reproduces with rare talent. In the third-act duet with Aida (“Rivedrai le foreste imbalsamante”) the sympathetic baritone shone brilliantly.105

In an 1899 St. Petersburg Aida alongside Caruso, both singers enjoyed “an immense success.” What a pleasure to hear M. Battistini, an artist so perfect in every detail! How beautiful, appropriate, and original is his make-up! One does not usually think of Battistini in roles of dramatic substance, until one sees all the energy, indomitable passion (and without in the least destroying the musical beauty) that this artist so rare of tone and style displayed yesterday in the role of Amonasro. And so many memorable dramatic touches! For example, the joy he expresses when his fetters are removed by order of the pharaoh, or his subtle reaction to the announcement of Amneris’s engagement of marriage to Radamès.106

Both the above Aida review and the following review of a Warsaw Traviata belie the claim that the sensual beauty of Battistini’s voice made him unsuitable for dramatic roles.

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[His Germont] enters Violetta’s country house with proud demeanor, blunt in his words and gestures. The noble lord is determined to impose his authority on the Parisian demimondaine and obtain what he wants through intimidation. Nevertheless, after hearing Violetta’s indignant first response to his ultimatum and to his lack of tact in her home, he suddenly changes tone and is transformed from a haughty lord to a humble visitor, asking for a favor and a sacrifice from a heretofore scorned camellia. He managed to convince her all the more easily by singing his plea so tenderly, emphasizing each word so marvelously, nuancing key notes with such force and shading them in accordance with the meaning of the words with such varying colors, that he could have melted a heart of stone, to say nothing of the flighty and good Violetta. In Battistini’s interpretation, even the aria [“Di Provenza”], which is often parodied, cheapened by amateurs with or without voices and played by organ-grinders, acquired the stamp of hitherto unknown musical masterpiece of which one could never tire. The enthusiastic applause, such as the ovation that followed the performance of this aria (which was encored), may be considered the sign of general satisfaction; nor are we surprised, Battistini having given us what we were not even expecting from this role. He cuts a figure of an old French cavalier, as though cast in bronze, an imposing figure of sincerity and truth. In this role he developed all the richness of his extraordinary talent, highlighted the superiority of vocal art, and accentuated in his stage manner the inexhaustible imagination of a thinking actor. His musical phrasing was that of an intelligent singer who knows how and when to emphasize a word.107

Palmegiani recounts the anecdote about a performance of La traviata in which Battistini had to encore “Di Provenza” more than once. The tenor (Pietro Raitcheff ), after having to hold back Alfredo’s emotional outburst yet a third time, finally burst out laughing when Battistini (after innumerable repetitions of “Il tuo vecchio genitor . . .”) gave in to the temptation of whispering into his colleague’s ear during the applause, “No one can doubt that we are father and son, to look at both our long noses.” Indeed, both had a Roman-medal profile, a prominent nose that even caused one critic to comment, when Battistini sang Saint-Saëns’s Henry VIII, that he looked more like Francis I. Another of Battistini’s Verdi roles was that of Renato in Un ballo in maschera, in which he was deemed by a St. Petersburg critic to be “perfect in every way,” projecting the part “with remarkable nobility and true feeling.”108 At an 1899 St. Petersburg performance, his “magnificent vocal talent” was noted: “His incomparable portamento brings a smile of delight to musical connoisseurs, and his true bel canto proves the extent to which the artist is faithful to the traditions of the old Italian style of singing, encountered so rarely these days.”109 Soon thereafter, the Russian press reported that “the minister of public instruction in Italy, M. Bacelli, just sent a telegram to

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M. Battistini informing him that the king has conferred on him the title of Commendatore.”110 This was only one of the numerous decorations Battistini received, and it explains why those who knew him called him “Commendatore” (as several biographers have colorfully noted); it should be regarded less as the artist’s way of keeping himself at a distance than as his friends’ way of showing respect. In Ernani, Battistini uncovered everything that Verdi put into it, in full knowledge of the facts or otherwise. Whatever obscurities there were in it, he cleared up and made comprehensible. Whatever rough spots there were, he smoothed out; that which was too broad he deftly elucidated with multiple effects. Such an interpretation ceases to be an ordinary reproduction, but becomes a recreation, hence an action bordering on the limits of artistic creativity in its noblest sense. There remains little to say about the details of the performance: it was simple, perfect. He was the image of a Holbein portrait, which is to say magnificent; the period costumes were convincingly rich and elegant; and, above all, the singing was ideally beautiful, rich in all the most precious qualities of vocal art. Such was the Don Carlo, the like of which it is not easy to encounter on any European stage. With such a performance, even the antiquated Ernani cannot fail to please, and please it did, for the first and second finales were encored, certainly thanks to Battistini, since the celebrated artist was called back ten times after the tomb scene. Battistini’s costumes were designed after the portraits of Charles V that hang in the royal galleries of Madrid: Act 1— black satin, gold-embroidered doublet with black and gold lamé embellishment à l’espagnol. On the traditional collaret, a chain with Golden Fleece insignias. Strictly true-to-style, black-and-red-knit trouser; Spanish flatheeled shoes. Magnificent Spanish cape of gray material lined with Bordeaux satin, a real Toledo sword with a superb hilt. Gray silk gloves and silver bracelets. Black velvet beret. Act 2—a dark-green tunic with gold belt. White shirt ending in a collaret. Dark-green satin and velvet trouser, embroidered in gold and slashed. Sleeveless, antique Bordeaux outer vest of gold-weaved damask, lined in scarlet satin, with large collar generously embellished with sable. High, narrow, Bordeaux leather boots, side-buttoned and gold-embroidered. Sword, bandoleer, and real spurs. Wide, red-silk belt with gold fringe. Act 3—the costume is completed by a yellow-leather cuirass and a gold Middle-Ages–style helmet. Also typical: blond hair and beard with gold highlights, strictly after the known portraits. The illusion was perfectly complete.111

After the description of Battistini’s costumes in Ernani, we cannot resist recalling a famous anecdote, alluded to by André Tubeuf: “What other mere singer could have presented himself before a prison warden to plead [successfully] for

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the release of a prisoner, brandishing his own fake sword that he used onstage in Ernani and, singing ‘Perdono a tutti!’ begged him to follow suit?”112 The story might sound preposterous, but in a way it symbolizes how a large segment of educated music lovers view Battistini and hence is frequently recounted. The facts themselves, while revealing little about the art of Battistini, paint quite a different picture than the one Tubeuf hints at. And since it is one of our aims in this book to analyze the image of the artist as perceived by the general public—an image that can be false, or fictionalized—it is well to take a close look at it here. The tale seems to have been first told by Fred Gaisberg (it is not found in either Fracassini or Palmegiani), from whom we learn that the prison warden was actually a Russian grand duke, and that the allimportant sword was an authentic weapon “of beautiful Toledo workmanship,” which the grand duke admired and wanted “as a souvenir.” The value of the gift would explain the duke’s appreciation and clemency. According to Gaisberg, Battistini is supposed to have said, while offering the precious object, “Here it is, but may it please your Highness to remember it not only as a personal souvenir but as a reminder to make good the lines I speak in Act 3, ‘Perdono a tutti.’”113 Thus told, the anecdote takes on different meaning, and one wonders if Tubeuf ’s distortion was intentional. A vainglorious, self-centered traveling player who thinks he is living the operas he performs, a dreamer who ridiculously takes himself seriously, a Don Quixote, a braggart, a blusterer who believes the moon to be of cheese and his stage prop to be a deadly weapon: indeed, what a comic-book figure! Is this not just another convenient way of mocking golden-age singers, who, as we are all supposed to believe, were wildly eccentric? Unfortunately, even Gaisberg (whose commentary is valuable when it concerns events he participated in) is sometimes inaccurate, as when he reports what someone said about an opera star without ever taking the trouble to verify it. Thus he claims, for example, that Battistini only journeyed once to the Americas or that his last appearance in London prior to his 1922 recitals was in 1901. He cites “Pari siamo” as one of the baritone’s recordings, although it does not exist. He turns Battistini’s wife into the cousin of the king of Spain instead of his minister, which indicates his lack of knowledge about the aristocracy (or at least his lack of interest in it). Inevitably, a wave of doubt passes over the reader of Gaisberg: did events occur as he recounts them, and did they involve a grand duke or a prison warden? How can we be sure of the truth? Fortunately, there is yet another, more credible version of the story. In Warsaw, Battistini had a very interesting encounter. In this city, Prince Chetwertynski gave a grand banquet in his honor. Battistini’s dinner partner was General Skallon, warden of the city’s prison. The space was small,

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Chapter 2 so the guests had to sit very close to each other. Prince Chetwertynski noticed that General Skallon was having trouble finding a place to put his sword, so he approached him and said, “If your excellency permits me, we can place your sword on the table near the window.” Whereupon Skallon, looking at Battistini, replied, “I thank you sincerely, but I prefer to keep my sword, like Battistini in Ernani.” Another event took place a few days later: the theater’s tailor was imprisoned with his entire family for having lodged some members of a clandestine organization in his home. A few of the opera house’s technicians went to Battistini to ask him to intercede on behalf of the tailor by going to the General/warden, who had absolute authority over the life and death of all his subjects in the territories under his control. At first, Battistini rejected their demand, not wishing to meddle in political affairs, but eventually he felt pity for the poor tailor. Seating himself at his desk, he wrote the following letter to General Skallon: “Your Excellency stated, at the banquet a few days ago, his desire to do like me in Ernani. Would Your Excellency please consider acting like Charles V in the same opera and remember ‘Perdono a tutti,’ to pardon everyone?” For two months [Battistini added] I heard nothing of the affair. Then one day the tailor paid me a call, threw himself at my feet, and told me how his whole family had been sentenced to thirty years in Siberia, and how after my intervention General Skallon pardoned everyone.114

We are not told if Battistini sent his sword with the letter, or if the missive was written in French (which is likely). But, thus recounted, with the details explaining the ins and outs of the affair, the story takes on other meaning, without the humor that Tubeuf all too readily attaches to it. Of course, we should not be too hard on Tubeuf, who is only passing the rumor along, but this demonstrates why we should not accept such stories at face value. It is interesting to put the various versions of the anecdote under the microscope to examine how the facts are corrupted. For example, in order to fit the theory that opera singers of yore behaved artificially on stage, it is important for Tubeuf to describe the sword as “fake” (thus he shamelessly embellishes the already questionable Gaisberg version). At this point, it is apparently no longer conceivable that Battistini would make a gift of such a sword, so he is made to wave it in the air like a marionette. None of this rings true, of course, but it corresponds so well to what we have been led to believe practically no one would think of questioning it. The same article by Tubeuf contains other insidious remarks like “it was Battistini’s bad luck to live . . . before a time when singers were required to act, to express themselves with something other than the voice.”115 As though Battistini had made a career by the skin of his teeth, as though he acquired his fame by default! On the contrary, it is our own era that instituted the routine,

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in so-called avant-garde productions, of having singers stand motionless for the duration of an aria, or having two singers stand at opposite sides of the stage during a love duet, on the pretext of freeing the stage picture of all redundancies. Again, the claim that Battistini was a poor actor rests on nothing more than misguided fantasy. What one should question is the visceral need of some modern critics to corrupt the beautiful, to falsify the truth. Otherwise, how to explain the remarks in the following contemporary reviews of Battistini’s performance in a Bucharest production of Ernani? In Don Giovanni he was all elegance and grace, all the nonchalance of one who knows how to extricate himself from any difficult situation with seeming effortlessness. As the Don Carlo of Ernani, he had a better chance to deploy his superb vocal resources and show us the powerful singer that he is, the high calibre artist, on the level of the most celebrated baritones of our time: Faure, Lassalle, Maurel. Do you remember hearing Maurel five years ago in this same role of Don Carlo? He was superb, but I do not hesitate to say that Battistini showed himself superior to his illustrious predecessor. Hence the long series of ovations, curtain calls, and encores at the performance last evening. From the moment Battistini entered, in the second tableau of the first act, the audience (who had filled the house down to the last seat) was gripped by the magisterial manner in which he sang his first piece, after which they shouted “Encore!” as one. But the enthusiasm mounted even higher after “O sommo Carlo!” sung with peerless mastery. The famous artist, giving in to the public’s wishes, repeated this magnificent page of Verdi’s score, and one wondered what one should admire more: the sublime music or its incomparable interpreter.116

Another review of the same performance states that, in the role of Don Carlo, Battistini was “not great but stupendous.” (The length of this review is revealing: it contains the classic ingredients that would inevitably turn up in subsequent reviews of Battistini, but we must neither lose our objectivity nor let ourselves become inured to the ever-renewed enthusiasm.) The voice of this artist has such penetrating charm that the more one hears it, the more one wants to hear it. It is a sensation unsurpassed by even that of the breeze floating through a garden filled with flowers, but watch out! The breeze can change into the north wind and accelerate to a hurricane. Don Carlo-Battistini, looking like a Velasquez [sic] portrait come to life, enters by surprise to speak of love to Don Silva’s pretty ward. His voice and grandeur are attuned to his passion. His tone is amorous, but when Ernani appears he unleashes a cyclone. A vile bandit his rival? Rage erupts, and the tenderness in his voice changes to thunder. Battistini sang and acted this scene masterfully. The entire audience hung on to his every utterance. He

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Chapter 2 reminded me of Giraldoni and Gardoni, the stars of the Salle Ventadour during the Second Empire. The second act contains the famous romance “Lo vedremo,” . . . the touchstone of Verdian baritone solos. But it doesn’t sing itself. One needs two things: an imposing presence and voice. M. Battistini possesses more than sufficient of both. Looking superb in his rich costume and red wig, his profile evoking the face on a Charles the Fifth medallion, he poured his wrath on his rebellious subject who does not wish to hand over his guest to the king. What voice, what fullness of voice in the phrasing! When he suddenly beholds Doña Sol [i.e., Elvira], with what tenderness does his love reawaken! This finale, which almost always passes unnoticed, was so vividly enacted that it raised the roof. The enthusiasm seemed to have reached its peak. “Lo vedremo” had had to be encored, and so did the second finale. Every opera has a highlight, and Ernani’s is the septet [“O sommo Carlo”], but first there is the tomb-scene monologue. Charles the Fifth, before entering Charlemagne’s vault to wait for the choice of successor as emperor, invokes the shade of the great monarch. This passage is grandiose. It requires a voice that is deep, wide, ample, warm—in short, one that befits the situation. I believe the late Charles the Fifth would have been proud of his double that evening. Thanks to Victor Hugo, Verdi, and Battistini, the septet could only be fabulous; it always succeeds, but all the more so with such a singer. It was encored, as one might expect, and still the audience wanted more. The more they heard, the more they wanted, because they knew that afterwards there would be no more Battistini. The house was in tumult, with foot-stomping, clapping, and shouting of the artist’s name.117

Another Verdi opera in which Battistini made an indelible impression was Rigoletto. Said one critic, [To say that] Rigoletto is one of the most brilliant roles in M. Battistini’s repertory might surprise, since the same might be said of any of his other roles, and without the slightest risk of error. However, thanks to its dramatic situations, Rigoletto proves particularly inspiring to the artist, as it provides him with a vast field of opportunities to exploit his voice and acting talent. That is why he so impresses his audiences in this role. He impresses not only because of the exceptional beauty of his baritone, with its unusually extended range (including all the baritone notes and all the tenor notes), velvety timbre, and amazing blend of sweetness and energy; he also impresses because of the beauty of his execution and phrasing. What feeling he gives to “Voi congiuraste!” and “Cortigiani!” From his first entrance to the last note he sings over the lifeless body of his daughter, he keeps his audience breathless; now soothing in the tender duet with Gilda, now raising goosebumps with melodies full of emotion, such as “Miei Signori!” or “Piangi, fanciulla!”, now stunning with a wave of passionate indignation, as in “Sì, vendetta!”118

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Last-minute changes were common occurrences for troupes engaged by opera houses for one season at a time, and we have noted that Battistini was capable of singing a different opera almost every night of the week. Luisa Tetrazzini recounts in her autobiography that once in Russia (probably in early 1899), after having prepared to sing a Barbiere di Siviglia, she was informed that she would have to sing Rigoletto instead. She of course knew her role but had not revisited it for some time and feared she might sing a mediocre performance that would compromise her reputation in Russia. Disconcerted, and inclined to cancel, she nevertheless sought the advice of colleagues Masini and Battistini. Both encouraged her and assured her that they would do everything they could to help her and allow her to shine. Their support under those perilous circumstances proved successful, and Tetrazzini did not forget the gratitude she owed to her two charming colleagues.119 A press notice of around the same period mentions Masini and Battistini together and confirms the kindness of the two friends. Messrs. Masini and Battistini, who are taking part today in the grand concert of Italian opera artists, are donating their honoraria to a young Russian singer, M. Arno, to provide him the means to go to study in Italy. M. Arno was on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater for a year but has had to leave it. M. Masini, impressed with his voice, decided with the help of M. Battistini to do him a favor. This conduct toward a Russian singer by Italian artists is kind indeed and does them honor.120

We have now covered the majority of the Verdi operas that Battistini embarked on before the turn of the century (Macbeth was still to come), though there were other works in his repertory that we shall now explore.

ITALIAN, GERMAN, AND FRENCH ROLES Toward the close of the nineteenth century, the general disinterest on the part of audiences and critics alike in “vintage” operas (with the understandable exception of Mozart) was matched by a coolness toward the “modern” repertory, such as Andrea Chénier or even Tannhäuser. Note, for example, the subtle put-down of the music in this Russian press comment about Battistini’s performance as Gérard in Giordano’s opera, in which the baritone “acted [the role] to perfection, but all his great vocal art could not alter the audience’s opinion of the music he had to sing.”121 It is rare for a single artist to be so willing to explore both the contemporary and the classic repertories in order to expand his audiences’ horizons;

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hence, any unfavorable press comments about the music must not have discouraged Battistini. A few days later, the same newspaper was back on the attack. M. Battistini enacted perfectly the role of the ardent Republican Gérard, the former servant who rises to power. I have nothing to say about the vocal aspect of the performance; suffice it to mention that composers are lucky to have at their disposition such artists who can rescue their weak creations. In the role of Gérard one could discern how flexible and varied Battistini’s acting talent can be, something not ordinarily noticed when listening to his beautiful voice and singing. May God give every dramatic artist the ability to draw on his acting resources to the masterful extent that Battistini deploys them in Chénier, from beginning to end.122

One detects already the beginnings of an appreciation for the work, though it would seem that the hypothesis made earlier in connection with Levik—according to which this too-beautiful voice could distract some listeners from appreciating its true dramatic potential—has some basis in fact. These two qualities might be analogized to stand for the subject and the manner of dealing with it, like substance versus form. Viewed from one perspective, the intrusion of form diverts one’s attention away from meaning. Thus for Battistini the beauty of the voice seems distracting to those who expect only a dramatic effect. Mistaking this dichotomy for an absence of theatrical ability simply reveals a lack of artistic insight by those incapable of making the distinction. Every critical judgment reflects just as much on the critic as it does on the object of the criticism. This is too often overlooked when one pores over old reviews, particularly the unfavorable ones, of an artist of the past. In March of 1903, Battistini told an Odessa newspaper (the Novosti) that he admired the role of Gérard and hoped the composer would add an aria for him to insert into his performance, a request that he repeated to the Italian Messaggero of 2 September 1909—alas, without results. It is also interesting to read how one Russian critic recognized Battistini’s ability to make Wagner enjoyable to those who otherwise remained indifferent to him. It cannot be said that our Opera patrons welcomed the music of Wagner with open arms. It seemed that the bulk of the audience had come only to hear M. Battistini, who had already made an excellent impression on the public as Wolfram during a recent season at the Aquarium. Besides Battistini the performance held no appeal for many of the patrons of Italian opera. It must be reported that yesterday, too, the Wolfram stood out from the rest of the cast, as on previous occasions. Naturally, the artist had to encore his second-act solo and the Hymn to the Evening Star.123

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A few years later, when Tannhäuser had entered the standard repertory and critics became more sensitive to its style, they began to question Battistini’s way of singing it: Certainly, for Perfect Wagnerites, [Battistini’s] Wolfram cannot please, for he sings too well, and they only expect an emotionless performance. We do not contest the fact that Battistini sings Wolfram “à l’italienne,” for Wolfram represents elemental, chaste, and ideal love—the lofty sentiment. Wagner himself found nothing better to express it than rich and harmonious melody of the Italian variety. Hence we see no reason why this divine music should be declaimed in a dry manner, like a recitative, when its very nature demands that it be sung, and only sung. Even German singers at Bayreuth, that cradle of Wagnerian music, do not declaim but sing the role of Wolfram. If the current German school, created from Wagnerian music and its style, has killed true singing and transformed today’s singers into declaimers, it in no way follows that a beautiful performance such as Battistini’s does harm to Wagner’s style or betrays his music, at least in the role of Wolfram. It goes without saying that, musically, Battistini interprets his role in ideal fashion, especially the famous Hymn to the Evening Star. It is the height of artistic expression, full of poetry and beauty, the kind of spiritual beauty that constitutes the heart and soul of music. The dramatic side of the role is brilliantly detailed; it preserves that purity and elevation of soul that is Wolfram’s, personifying clear, platonic love. Battistini’s costumes are the best, not only for their richness but for their period-style rightness and their remarkable harmony of colors.124

The interpretation of Wagner’s operas was then undergoing a change, as illustrated by the resistance of conductor Felix Weingartner, the eminent Wagnerian conductor and great admirer of Battistini, to the declamatory stiffness and academic slowness of tempi imposed by Cosima Wagner. After a visit to the Bayreuth Festival, Bernard Shaw did not hesitate to report to his Wagnerian readers why he could “scoff . . . at so impressive a celebration[.] I reply that Wagner is dead, and that the evil of deliberately making the Bayreuth Festival Playhouse a temple of dead traditions, instead of an arena for live impulses, has begun already. It is because I, too, am an enthusiastic Wagnerite that the Bayreuth management cannot deceive me by dressing itself in the skin of the dead lion.”125 Five years later, Shaw thought that singing at Bayreuth was in decline. Good singing there is merely ‘glatt,’ obviously an effeminate, silly, superficial quality, unsuited to the utterances of primeval heros. The notion that this particular sort of smoothness is one of the consequences of aiming at

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Chapter 2 beauty of tone and singing in tune is apparently as strange in Germany as the notion that it is more truly virile to sing like a man than like a bullock. . . . This inveterate carelessness of intonation is only partly due to bad method. It is true that German singers at Bayreuth do not know how to sing: they shout; and you can see them make a vigorous stoop and lift with their shoulders, like coal-heavers, when they have a difficult note to tackle, a pianissimo on any note above the stave being impossible to them.126

Two of the French operas in Battistini’s repertory also deserve our attention in terms of the controversy they stirred up. First, Hamlet: There is a certain difference between Shakespeare and . . . Thomas. When Hamlet is played by Rossi, Salvini, Maggi, there still remains something to say about Shakespeare. But when Amleto is sung by an artist like Battistini one can speak only of Battistini, without knowing what to think of Thomas. The unfortunate thing about Thomas’s work is in fact the reputation it has in France as a masterpiece, which, when exported, seems very flimsy and heightens expectations unnecessarily toward a work that is really neither good nor totally bad, one that belongs to the most thankless category of creation. Basically, although Thomas’s Hamlet does not abound in superior qualities, its faults are nevertheless not all that serious. It is a “passable” opera, which would probably suffice for any other opera, set to any ordinary libretto. But who can imagine a passable Hamlet, faced with a passable Claudius, Gertrude, or Ophelia? This degree of clever tailoring, dressing the Shakespearean figures in a certain amount of musical elegance, is in fact an irritating factor. Everything is neatly arranged and polished to a high sheen, but how far we are from the original! These characters are duly adapted to the solemn cortèges and operatic parades never lacking in the works of Thomas and well display the elegance of his musical trappings; but when it is time for the drama to unfold, his inspiration never rises any higher than these banal figurines. What strikes one more than anything in Thomas’s opera is the emptiness of the music. It rings forth and echoes grandiloquently, but it sounds hollow, counterfeiting tragic pathos. Such an impression is produced in spite of all the picturesque scenic effects and the impact of the Shakespearean elements. . . . All of this cold rhetoric brings to mind the Danish prince’s “Words, words, words!” The librettists make Ophelia go mad for love, but if only that love found deeper expression in the music! Where can it be found? In the duet with Hamlet in the third act, or in the trio with the mother and her son in the fifth? There, as elsewhere, one finds much craftsmanship but little genuine creative energy. The composer manifests an apathy, a senile

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circumspection, where youth, enthusiasm, and passion are called for. His lyricism as well as his dramatism at the most crucial moments never manage to overcome their shortcomings. So what is left? Of Shakespeare, nothing; of Thomas, very little. And yet there remains a great deal: the art of Battistini and Pacini. Without these two artists, the public will forget Thomas’s work. But what artists! Whatever the composer divested of genius from Shakespeare, Battistini restores religiously and respectfully. Without exaggeration, one can say that this famous artist’s Hamlet is not only sung but also acted “à la Rossi,” for we all remember the sound of the celebrated tragedian’s delivery, how his lines in the scene with the ghost smacked of operatic recitative. That noble diction, that degree of artistry in his enunciation, in which nothing was uttered without feeling, that expression in every beautiful, noble, and elegant line; that art of song that never expresses sincere emotion with raw realism, that breath of poetry emanating from the very being of the hero—everything evoked profound impressions manifesting the heights attained by Battistini’s talent.127

Another reviewer of the same production, while finding Thomas’s opera “tedious,” declared that Battistini through his “sublime art” nevertheless deepened and stylized his colossal part. His marvelous performance absorbs the listener to such an extent that at present it is almost difficult to devote any attention to the composer’s musical invention, in short, the value of the composition. One is irresistibly drawn into the performer’s conception with each phrase—not its substance but his way of executing it. One admires the brilliant acting, the refinement of his aesthetic taste. There was one quite unexpected moment yesterday that proved to the listeners the grandeur and bravura of Battistini’s talent: when, after the Brindisi, the audience demanded an encore, the artist jumped back into the piece with amazing boldness by singing the difficult cadenza, without asking the orchestra for the correct pitch, and then arriving at the reprise with surprisingly accurate intonation. Few singers are capable of such feats, which require absolute mastery of the voice and extraordinary musical artistry—gifts bestowed only on exceptional beings.128

The above press notices seem to indicate a general consensus about the mediocrity of Thomas’s adaptation of Hamlet. A few years later, at a benefit performance in St. Petersburg, judgments became less harsh. Nothing was missing from the usual ovations [for Battistini], neither the unanimous applause from the enthusiastic house, greeting the entrance of the prestigious baritone for a full ten minutes, nor the orchestral fanfares, nor the many expensive gifts, gold and silver crowns, and flowers; gigantic

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Chapter 2 baskets and wreaths too numerous for all to fit on the stage. There were countless encores and curtain calls. And the performance was very interesting; the beneficiary in the role of Amleto brought out all the beauty of his voice, prodigious in its force, flexibility, and tenderness, as well as in that admirable gift of bel canto of which he is master. It is above all in the Brindisi that one can appreciate the exquisite finesse of his phrasing, the variety and richness of his expression; he truly makes a little vocal masterpiece out of it. He had to repeat it, as well as the “Essere non essere” and the great fourth-act aria, which completely electrified the audience.129

The following year, as soon as [Battistini] made his entrance, the sad picture of the Shakespearean hero appeared before the audience. The pale, sickly, mercurial face; the indecisive movements; the vehemence and the abrupt shifts between the tenderest pianissimo and the tragic forte; the fitful recitatives; it all expresses the doubts and suffering of inconstancy, anxious hesitation, and continuous mood changes of which the characteristic features of the character consist. The artist completed his amazing dramatic portrayal with a great number of musical nuances, which gives him an undeniable superiority over the method of play actors, for it offers a broader and more complete representation of this complicated character. It is difficult to identify the artist’s most successful moments, because the entire performance surpassed the greatest expectations. We might only cite the Brindisi, which earned prolonged applause and was encored. A crown of laurels was presented to the artist.130

Also in 1902, Battistini sang his first Werther, a role originally written for tenor. Vaida-Korolevich and Levik both disapprove of this incarnation in their memoirs. The former emphasizes the awkwardness of seeing the part of a fragile youth of nineteen played by a solid man of forty; she adds that Battistini was the exact opposite of the Goethe hero and that he stopped performing the role after this unfortunate first attempt—which is incorrect, since Battistini sang it frequently for several years. It may be noted that the Belgian tenor Ernest Van Dyck, the creator of the part, was physically rather stocky, and Guillaume Ibos, who sang the Paris premiere in 1893, had nothing melancholy about him. If we were to name all the artists who became famous in roles that seemed unsuited to them, it would amount to a long list, but does not the artist’s talent have something to do with it? Thus, time has not confirmed the matter-of-fact point of view of our two chroniclers, even though its simplism periodically reemerges in the guise of common sense regained, but fortunately does not prevent a Flagstad or a Björling from making a career.

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In our own time, we have seen, for example, in a film where the big screen exposes the smallest wrinkle, a Domingo in the second half of his career portraying Don José (who is supposed to be barely more than a teenager) and Raimondi singing Escamillo at an age when real toreadors have long been retired. And what about the universally celebrated Werther of the sixty-something Alfredo Kraus? Levik develops his thesis on different grounds, claiming that Werther cannot be a baritone, just as Lensky cannot be a bass or Boris Godunov a lyric tenor. Obviously, this is a matter of opinion; what is really at stake is the artistic ability of the singer.131 But it should be pointed out that insisting that Werther be sung by a tenor is not necessarily the view of Massenet, who, after the Vienna and Paris premieres, did not feel he had the voice he was looking for and considered transposing the role for Maurel. He abandoned the idea when he encountered Ibos and gave him the French premiere. But immediately afterward, not entirely convinced, he wrote to Albert Carré that he was still looking for “the” Werther.132 To prepare the discussion of this subject, it is indispensable that we evoke one of the interpreters of Werther not usually mentioned, even though he sang the London premiere (one year after the Paris premiere), a tenor who began his career as a baritone, and dear to Massenet: Jean de Reszke. Naturally, the success of the work in performance depends a great deal on the artist who plays Werther; and Massenet is certainly fortunate in Jean de Reszke, whose performances as Werther and Romeo last week were masterly. His grip of these two parts is now extraordinarily firm and intimate: he is in the heart of them from the first note to the last. Not a tone nor gesture has a touch of anything common or cheap in it: the parts are elaborately studied and the execution sensitively beautiful throughout, the result, aided by his natural grace and distinction, being in both operas an impersonation not only unflaggingly interesting, but exquisitely attractive. His voice leaves nothing to be desired: at the beginning of the evening there is the slightest possible fur on the first two or three notes; but it wears off at once, and leaves him in the most confident possession of all his forces. In Werther there are several formidable declamatory passages, accompanied by the full power of the orchestra. He attacks these with triumphant force, and next moment is singing quietly with his voice as unstrained, as responsive, as rich in quality as if it had been wrapped in cotton for a week, instead of clashing against Massenet’s most strenuous orchestration with a vehemence that would put most tenors practically hors de combat for several minutes. He seems to me to be at the height of his physical powers, and at the same time to have perfected his artistic integrity, if I may so express myself, my meaning being that he is now magnificently in earnest about his work and undivided in his attention to it.133

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Shaw’s critique might lead one to think that in Jean de Reszke (who also sang in Hérodiade and Le Cid ) Massenet had found his ideal interpreter. At forty-four, de Reszke had just broken in his Werther in Chicago and the Metropolitan Opera before performing it in London. In 1902, he retired from the stage to devote himself to teaching. Massenet eventually adapted the role of Werther not exactly for baritone voice but for Battistini exclusively. It was therefore not a matter of transposition, as Vaida-Korolevich and Levik incorrectly assert (even though they were both singers and should have understood the difference, though perhaps neither knew the original work intimately enough). Certainly in the case of the solidbaritone Maurel, Massenet would have had to concoct a transposition, which is probably what made him resist the temptation, more than the singer’s age (since Maurel would have been the same age as Battistini when the latter sang the part). With Battistini, Massenet was able to avoid the problem. But a review of his performance notes that the composer “has not rescored the opera to correspond to the change in tessitura, resulting in the orchestra’s seeming sometimes too loud. The high tenor surmounts it naturally, so it was surprising that a baritone, by his vocal power, could be heard over this too-loud accompaniment, particularly that of the wind instruments.”134 It can be instructive to compare this observation with what was written about Jean de Reszke in this regard. Not only did this new arrangement call for a clear, flexible voice that was capable of nuancing and sustaining the high tessitura (too high for the usual baritone), but it needed a strong voice. It needed the voice of Battistini. According to Ibos, Massenet was displeased over a certain vulgarity of tone that Ibos manifested in the part of Werther during rehearsals,135 quite the opposite of the just-cited remark by Shaw concerning de Reszke’s portrayal: “Not a tone nor gesture has a touch of anything common or cheap in it.” Therein lies probably one of the key reasons for Massenet’s enthusiasm over Battistini’s ardent, poetic, unvulgar interpretation, which can be heard in his 1911 recordings of excerpts from the opera. To turn Levik’s argument around, it would be perfectly justifiable to maintain that the sad and plaintive Werther should be assigned to a baritone, with a darker voice and slender, elegant physique; whereas a robust, soaring tenor brings a warmer sensuality to the part, often in a stocky, well-padded frame, far from the intellectual ascetic of Werther. The role demands the noble bearing, the refinement of phrasing, and the heavenly pianissimi typical of Battistini and calls for his visionary approach, his ability to communicate the absolute. This opinion is even expressed in a contemporary press review. At the Costanzi Battistini was Werther. He is justly proud to proclaim that he is the only baritone capable of enduring the weight of this role. The

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composer’s transposition, far from ruining the piece, gave it even more originality, replacing the loud brilliance of the tenor voice with simply the softer, more subdued baritone sound more in keeping with the faded color of these trappings. This transformation, effected as an after-thought, and which differed from the composer’s first ideas, is a stroke of genius. I have much admiration for tenors when they determine to sing the notes of the score without changing this or that to suit their taste; however, we must admit that they represent an anomaly. Only the baritone can emit the tones that move and grip the heart and soul of the listener. That explains Battistini’s effect on the public. Having doubled his efforts to deepen his natural stage ability through meticulous, persevering study, he is at once, in the eyes of the crowd, the tragic actor and the great singer.136

With the composer’s approval, Battistini performed his baritone Werther in Poland and Russia in 1901–1902 and in Spain in 1906. Of course, some reviews were mixed, such as this one after the Polish production. I understand perfectly Massenet’s temptation to dedicate the role of Werther to a singer as exceptional as M. Battistini, but I think he committed an error of aesthetic judgment. Werther, that sentimental, daydreaming adolescent, requires the timbre of a tenor voice on stage; he is not convincingly natural when sung by a baritone, even one with a timbre as ravishing as Battistini’s. The same goes for the part of Lensky in Onegin. Credit must nevertheless be given to M. Battistini, who accomplished everything within the realm of possibility to give the role of Werther its essential impact. As always, this marvelous voice and artistic singing deserved the greatest praise and justly provoked the audience’s loud approbation.137

However, the majority of the Russian press reviews were enthusiastic. A critic who attended the St. Petersburg premiere felt “the composer was right to revamp the title role for Battistini. No one sings better than Battistini; and van Dyck, the first to sing this opera in St. Petersburg, suffers by comparison.”138 Similarly, Werther, performed by artists of the calibre of Battistini and Arnoldson, takes on heightened interest; there is the profundity of feeling and subject, especially in the part of Werther, which is larger and greater than that of Charlotte. We have so often seen these two artists in tragic and semi-tragic operas that are beneath their talent. How nice it is to see and hear them in an opera with a subject that is simpler and closer to real life. True talent manifests itself equally in the biggest and the smallest things. Battistini was such an interesting Werther that the audience couldn’t help feeling the same way they did when they read the Goethe novel. He sang so well that one can only approve of Massenet’s decision to rework the part of Werther for

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Chapter 2 him. Tenderness and force, feeling and spirit, were all found in the performance by Battistini.139

In Odessa, audiences used to hearing a tenor Werther were infinitely curious to see their famous guest, Battistini, in this role. The baritone Werther performed by an artist of this power surpassed all expectations. It was a perfect portrait, artistically impeccable, a man of true and deep suffering, a living Werther. . . . The two high points were Werther’s second-act aria, “Come dopo il nembo,” which he had to encore, and especially the celebrated Ossian verses in the third act, which sparked a storm of enthusiasm and had to be sung four times, pressed by the delirious house. The death scene was also very beautiful, imbued with the best realism. Battistini received many flowers and wreaths and was bombarded with flowers and bouquets at the end of the performance. On the ribbon of one of the wreaths we read the dedication, Al Werther sublime, vero ideale interprete di Goethe, al sommo Battistini. The theater was completely sold out several days before the performance; receipts attained the maximum 3,148 rubles.140

At least one critic in Odessa, while somewhat fine-tuning the tenor versus baritone issue, was still convinced that replacing the tenor with a baritone, even with a voice as pleasing as Battistini’s, could only be disadvantageous to the opera as a whole. In this case, habit has a lot to do with it; otherwise the performance of Werther by a baritone might please us more, and it is possible that, after hearing M. Battistini, we might develop a distaste for tenor Werthers. They say that’s what happened in Warsaw, where M. Battistini was the first [baritone] to sing Werther.141

Another review of the Odessa performances adds considerably more detail to the profile. In the character of Werther, as Goethe painted him, there is a certain duality. He is as much a sentimental, languorous, passive soul who is content to have a pink ribbon snatched from his beloved as he is a violent and demanding lover whom platonic love leaves unsatisfied and who threatens to kills himself because, at the crucial moment, Charlotte locks the door. At the opera, too, I believe I see two Werthers: the sighing, weeping, and indecisive soul of the opening acts, then the proud and bold nature of the ending. Usually, all performers attempt to tone down this duality. The tenor van Dyck remained clearly lyrical right up to his last sigh, whereas Anselmi on the other hand was fire and flame right from the start.

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Battistini approaches it differently. He tries to preserve the duality indicated by Goethe, at least that is how I perceive his understanding of the character. At the beginning of the drama, his Werther seems an abstract idealist, a cool-headed man who sees in Charlotte a kind of distant princess, even when she marries and has children. His worldly and passionate streak emerges slowly, but it becomes urgent, and in the famous sofa scene he is a true lover, entirely inflamed with his passion and aware of no law but his obsession. The death scene is considerably shortened by Battistini; he sings almost not at all and does it like the last page of a poignant tragedy. He is right. The long, drawn-out agony was rather inartistic and hardly credible. But always the finished artist, he knew how to combine truth and histrionic beauty. His death scene is perfect; in my opinion he is admirable in this scene, and not at all banal. The fusion of artistic beauty with understood requirements of real life form the distinctive feature of Battistini’s talent. As for his singing, nothing new could be said. Werther is an eminently lyric opera, and as a lyric artist, Battistini is currently unrivaled in Europe. Anyone who has heard him perform the Ossian stanzas will not accuse me of exaggeration. The changes made by Massenet for Battistini are not considerable; here and there, a note is changed a little and lowered, but the design is preserved throughout, and there is not one transposition. Even with the modifications the role remains extremely high, and we are of the opinion that no baritone but Battistini would dare sing it. He alone can maintain an extraordinary piano on the highest notes; without this precious quality, the score would appear too loud, too high, and would lose its sweetly lyrical character.142

In a 1910 Warsaw production of Werther, Battistini was “the magnetic force that subjugates by the creative force of his talent.”143 Since Battistini recorded two excerpts from Werther in 1911, it is possible to form our own conclusions about his performance. In these valuable documents, the romantic, inflamed, sensitive temperament comes across with great intensity. So what was all the critical fuss about? Undeniably, the music sounds different, but the tenor version still remains for those who prefer it. If the melodic line of “Ah! non mi ridestar (Pourquoi me réveiller)” in particular loses a bit of its flavor in the spot that avoids the ascent to the A-sharp, there are new benefits that we can appreciate in this version, which capitalizes on the character’s darker side. “Ma come dopo” makes all the more impact, of the kind few tenors can muster. Battistini recounted on more than one occasion the circumstances of the adaptation, as in this interview for the Odessa press. I am not an admirer of modern opera, but Werther is an exception. Personally, the music of this opera charms me, and I find the title role very fulfilling to

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Chapter 2 perform. When I met Massenet two years ago in Paris, I expressed my enthusiasm for his opera. The composer then revealed his willingness to rework the tenor part for me, and he presented me with the gift of a new score with the flattering dedication: Au grand artiste Mattia Battistini, son reconnaissant et bien charmé Massenet. For me, it was a royal gift. I have already sung Werther in St. Petersburg and Warsaw. I sing it with immense pleasure and consider this opera the masterpiece of modern art. The popularity Werther enjoyed in Odessa proves the public’s musical discernment. You will understand how much I love this opera and am willing to sing it for the kind public of Odessa when I tell you that I turned down the invitation to sing Rigoletto in Rome before the emperor of Germany and the king of England. I have devoted a great deal of time studying Goethe’s [Sorrows of Young] Werther, and, considering that Werther is an idealist, he pleases me as much as Hamlet. I see them as kindred spirits. . . . I interpret Werther’s death scene a little differently from other singers; I sing out less and try to focus on the text.144

A few years later Sigrid Arnoldson declared that she, convinced that the role of Werther would suit Battistini, had suggested to the composer that he adapt it for him.145 Had she heard about Massenet’s dissatisfaction with tenor performances of the part? Battistini always said that his favorite opera was the one he was performing at the moment. This was no offhand remark but the expression of a deep commitment that allowed him to attain the kind of impact on the public manifested in the press. But Werther occupied a truly special place in his repertory, and he was very proud of it. The adaptation did provoke scandal in some quarters, however, as illustrated by this 1907 letter to Il Figaro from a Frenchman on visit to Rome. May I be permitted to inform you of an extraordinary event I have witnessed? I recently attended an incredibly bad performance of Werther at the Teatro Costanzi. I’ll pass over the lamentable mediocrity of the singers; but what really went too far was that the artist assigned to the role of Werther was a baritone and that he did not sing one note—literally, not one note— of Massenet’s score. The paid claque applauded like crazy, but the spectators in the loges and orchestra level protested and many people walked out. Are such massacres permitted, and is there no way of bringing an impresario to his senses? . . . [signed] Eug. Revel, assistant manager of Théâtre du Cercle d’Amis d’Aix-les-Bains.146

A short time later, the Italie published this response to “the Werther question.” A Frenchman passing through Rome, after attending a performance of [Werther], has expressed his dissatisfaction over it in a letter published in Le

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Figaro. Among other uncomplimentary remarks, he stated that the artist assigned to sing the role of Werther was a baritone and that he sang not a note, “literally, not a note,” of the score; that the spectators in the loges and orchestra protested, and that many people walked out. A wonderful opportunity to attack those artists who massacre works by arranging them, cutting them, and dressing them up to their taste, without any respect for the composer’s wishes! A singular opportunity to make them pay for their triumphs! . . . Unfortunately for the person who wrote the aforementioned letter, the truth is quite different. As an assistant manager of a theater, he should have known that Massenet himself wanted to change the tenor role to baritone, and that he wanted to make this change not for any anonymous baritone but for Mattia Battistini (whom the caustic critic doesn’t even mention). Here in fact is what can be read on the flyleaf of a copy of the Werther score belonging to the artist: “Score expressly prepared for Battistini. J. Massenet, his great and appreciative admirer. Paris, November 1901.” Does that settle the matter? Moreover, those who, like I, attended the revival at the Costanzi heard no protests and saw no enraged audience members leaving the auditorium. The opera, which had been given previously at the Adriano, would have been no surprise to the audience. The public admired the moving portrayal of the suffering hero, whose soul was well captured by Battistini. He had to encore the second-act duet and the Ossian stanzas. Thus things stand clarified, and the only remaining point of discussion that remains to be issued is the diploma of ignorance that a disgruntled spectator has earned for himself. But I maintain the opinion about Battistini that I have expressed on other occasions: he is admirable in the role of Werther. . . . We are grateful to him for having safeguarded the integrity of the dreamer and tender adorer of Lotte, and we applaud the words that Massenet addressed to him on the thirtieth of last month, after the performance at the Costanzi: “Dear friend, admirable collaborator, your telegram reached me this morning . . . far from Paris. I press you to my heart enthusiastically.” [signed] R.N.147

Battistini himself did not bother to react in print; he could look at his photo of Massenet that the composer had dedicated to him: “To our admirable Mattia Battistini! To Werther! Paris 1906, Massenet.” But the best proof of the composer’s satisfaction was his subsequent arrangement of the role of Athanaël (in Thaïs), this time originally written for a baritone range too low for Battistini. Of course, there was the inevitable criticism, but public reaction ultimately justified the modifications. Among the numerous operas that Battistini performed, it was not unusual for an initially cool reception to transform into the greatest enthusiasm, from Pagliacci to Werther, from Tannhäuser to Maria di Rohan.

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THE 1902 RECORDINGS The very earliest Battistini recordings seem to date from 1898, with “O tu bell’astro” from Tannhäuser (other titles might eventually be discovered). The Warsaw recordings he made in 1902, small seventy-eight rpm red-label discs, are precious collectors’ items. The circumstances in which Battistini agreed to record his voice remain a mystery. What could a singer at the dawn of the twentieth century have thought of such a primitive invention? It is quite likely that he regarded it as no more than an act of charity, a service that would have little impact on his career, and certainly not the medium that would permanently document the quintessence of his art. It is true that Battistini was interested in technical innovations—the automobile, aviation, the cinema; but how could he have taken seriously, at least in those early days, such an imperfect method, on discs that could only accommodate a few minutes of music, imposing questionable cuts and the reduction of the original instrumentation to mere piano accompaniment? And an upright piano at that! What kind of results must he have expected when he saw the piano perched precariously on a riser behind him (so that both voice and accompaniment could be on the same level as the horn), without his being able to see or be seen by the pianist when he took a breath? The artist was then obliged to sing over an accompaniment barely audible to him, his own voice deafening him by the sound of it echoing inside the horn into which he had to stick his head, moving away from it only in forte passages. Under these conditions, it was impossible to avoid imbalances, impossible to stop to make adjustments without ruining the recording process. These nightmarish conditions explain much about the musical sound and interpretation we hear on the records. And Battistini’s 1902 Warsaw discs, if not quite the equal of his 1906 efforts, are among the best ones of the day. What did contemporary record listeners think of these discs? The great Russian bass Alexander Kipnis, interviewed in later life, remembered that on records Battistini’s voice “never came out the way it sounded. His voice was so beautiful, you cannot imagine. The most beautiful voice there was. And his records don’t give you a shadow of his real quality.”148 Kipnis also admits that the live voice of Battistini was beautiful to the extent that, confronted with such an example of perfection, he even considered ending all further vocal studies. And yet, in 1913, a Russian newspaper article states that “the gramophone gives the exact measure of the voice and its expressivity, thanklessly indicating all defects in diction, timbre, and style. Listen to the gramophone records of Battistini and you will comprehend the immense superiority of his art compared to that of other singers. No one will surpass Battistini; one can listen and admire but never hope

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to equal him. It would be like contemplating a mountain peak from a belvedere and trying to touch it with your finger.”149 If one reads carefully, these two opinions are not all that contradictory, because they each deal with a different aspect of sound reproduction. The critic does not really refer to the voice in all its technical capacity but rather with regard to its powers of musical interpretation. If the gramophone spotlights defects of timbre, it is not said that it reveals all its beauty; timbre is here associated more with expression, style, and diction (and, one could add, phrasing, tempo, and embellishing). It is likely that the comments made by Kipnis regarding the recordings referred to the characteristics of Battistini’s voice that had amazed him so, years before, in the theater: its radiance, its smoothness, and its size, which the recording medium somewhat diminishes. It is a luminous, sonorous voice, with neither a thick nor a heavy timbre. Nor does the voice imply an overt sexuality, as the case with many later baritones, but rather, sensuality in the extreme. Remember that Levik, not prone to praising Battistini unconditionally, acknowledged the stunningly rich harmonics in his voice, adding that they seemed to resonate in the hall even after he had closed his mouth. The voice draws its carrying power from these harmonics, the concentration of which is called the “formant” (between 2000 and 3000 hertz for male voices, an area that the ear is particularly sensitive to). The extent to which this range of harmonics can be replicated affects the power of the timbre, not its character. Even if the recording process reproduces the timbre more or less faithfully, in combination with the sound of the hall and the channeling effect of the acoustic horn, it obviously cannot do justice to the voice at its full volume. To some modern listeners, Battistini might sound nasal through today’s loudspeakers, whereas according to contemporary reports it had not the slightest tendency to be so. This lack of the full spectrum of harmonics is due to the early recording process, which closely resembles the absorption of any singer’s harmonics projected into his nasal passages without the soft palate correctly raised. Kipnis must have been struck by the recording’s “boxy” sound.150 In any case, should one ignore the Parthenon for its not having survived intact? Let us try to imagine this sunny, brilliant voice as it is described by contemporaries; let us hope that the advances in the sound restoration of seventyeight rpm records will allow us to get closer to reproducing the magic of Battistini’s voice. Nevertheless, by accustoming oneself to the sound of old records one can gain a better appreciation. We know that Battistini soon got in the habit of removing his jacket, necktie, collar, and shirt to put himself more at ease when making a recording. Some will find it amusing that this elegant singing could have come from

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a man half-dressed, while others will admire the artist who knew what he had to do to achieve the results he wanted. If his clothes prevented him from breathing properly, or from feeling at ease, why should he have kept them on? No gramophone fan would know the difference. The first titles he committed to disc were pages from Don Giovanni, Il barbiere di Siviglia, Tannhäuser, Faust, The Demon, and Eugene Onegin, plus three songs.151 The absence of any Donizetti or Verdi will no doubt surprise. Does it indicate Battistini’s lack of confidence in the process? Probably not, because that would mean he attached less importance to the titles he chose to record, which cannot be the case. We would conjecture that the selections decided on emphasized lyricism over drama and that they involved fewer dynamic contrasts, which was preferable for the records, which could then be cut more consistently loud, thus minimizing audible surface noise. In 1902, Battistini was forty-six, and his “Champagne Aria” (“Finch’han dal vino”) will amaze the listener by its youthful sound and playfulness and by the smile in the voice, light years away from the fierce, menacing approach usually applied today. His care in articulating the notes might also come as a surprising contrast to today’s general rule of speeding headlong over them. A few of his variations might shock the purist, though they shouldn’t in light of what we know about the composer’s own modifications to the Count’s aria in Le nozze di Figaro when he adapted it for a high baritone. This is far from Francesco D’Andrade’s crowd-pleasing version, often included in anthologies and thought to be exemplary.152 D’Andrade liked to sing it faster than anyone (“faster” for him being a synonym for better!). As we know, such manipulation of the voice affects the timbre and rushes the phrasing, both of which combine to create the artistic impression perceived by the listener. D’Andrade’s timbre, the product of an imperfect vocal emission, has a lackluster quality, a roughness in direct contrast to Battistini’s caressing sonority; it is no wonder that the D’Andrade interpretation sounds so perfunctory. But enough about D’Andrade, whose artistry hardly compares to that of Battistini! Rarely is an aria so short that it could fit twice on one side of a seventyeight rpm disc. But it does here, with the participation of a few applauding fans (their numbers reduced, of course, for technical reasons) who demand an encore, thus evoking the sort of reaction Battistini’s singing provoked in real life. Thanks to this little scene, we have the privilege of hearing Battistini’s speaking voice, telling the pianist “Again!” in a charming, honeyed tone, very different from the pretentious tone that many a young artist of today would probably adopt in order to sound like an opera singer and impress those around them. Of course, our first impulse is to laugh, but that merely reflects our own embarrassment, our unease in the face of someone who expresses delight without feeling the need to cloak it in seriousness. What rule of practice

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should prohibit us from enjoying a performance so fresh and playful? (Notice that at the end of the aria Battistini omits the laughter that so many of today’s baritones like to indulge in here, alas!) Battistini made only one recording of the “Champagne Aria,” but he made three of the “Serenade” (“Deh! vieni alla finestra”), the third of which was among the selections chosen for his final recording session in 1924. In the 1902 version, he sings it without any of the “hush-toned” effects that modern interpreters typically employ, which tend to convey a mood of sadness, detachment, or indifference. Battistini casts a bewitching spell in this piece through his amazing breath control, flexible phrasing, and limpid tone, his expressivity being closely linked to the technical mastery of a vocal potential. His use of rubato here, an organic part of the melody, will remain almost unchanged in the later versions. He substitutes a lovely dolce F-sharp for the final cadence (in 1913 he sang it as written, while in 1924 he crowns the piece with a forte high F-sharp).153 To illustrate the spellbinding effect of Battistini’s singing in this number, Palmegiani relates that one evening after a performance of Don Giovanni the governor general of Warsaw, Dmitri Antonovich Skallon, went to congratulate the baritone and jokingly warned him, “Your performance of the Serenade is an offence against public morals; there should be a law against it.”154 It is sometimes healthy to reevaluate the way we expect familiar classics to be performed. For instance, in “Largo al factotum” from Rossini’s Barbiere, a warhorse for all baritones of the day, the ascent to the high G on “Là, là, là, là!” has become such common practice that no one would doubt its authenticity. We even regard it as a criterion for a great performance, and since Battistini does not do it, his reading is automatically deemed inferior. Another excellent opportunity to denounce the excessive liberties of golden-age singers! Unfortunately, Battistini sings the passage as written (though it is seldom done so). One might be taken aback by the ad libitum on “Tutti mi chiedono, tutti mi vogliono,” though it would be hard to find greater fault with that indulgence than with others’ more hackneyed touches. In other words, to criticize Battistini’s liberties in this aria would wrongly imply that all the other variants to which we have become accustomed are obligatory. Comparisons with the score reveal that Battistini avoids the higher variants here, even though he tends not to shy away from them in other pieces, to an extent that makes one wonder: did a concern for preserving tradition steer Battistini toward the variants of the earliest famous interpreters of the role, who were usually bass-baritones?155 Yet his version sounds much more roguish than the current norm, because the singers who succeeded him and with whom we are most familiar generally have a darker voice, even a “villainous”-sounding timbre. Who is closer to the spirit of the original? The coda’s acceleration is

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dizzying, but not performed exactly according to today’s procedure: Battistini glosses over the words, which gradually melt into a liquid flow. No doubt it is the effect intended by this kind of writing, in which meaning dissolves amid the repetitive, musical sound, becoming comic. The high G is brilliant, resonant, and unforced. A few years later, after a performance of Barbiere in Poland, Battistini was described as perhaps the greatest contemporary interpreter of [Rossini’s Figaro]; certainly greater than Pini-Corsi and others—more Italianate, closer to the spirit and intentions of Rossini than Demuth (that Viennese singer of whom the capital on the Danube is so proud). [Battistini] brought to our stage such an exalted level of artistry that, within its context, all were changed and uplifted. Time sped up, a vital energy penetrated the skin and nerve-endings of his colleagues onstage and in the orchestra; the performance became so gay, so alive and sparkling as champagne, that it recalled that masterpiece of a Barbiere that the Italians know how to achieve on their own turf. Battistini was so alert and had such verve, and acted with all his vitality and sang so divinely, that the public demanded encores of all his arias and all his recitatives. And when the soprano performed a trill of the kind our baritones usually avoid, Battistini accepted the challenge and sang a trill so beautiful, one had never heard anything like it. Whereupon the audience’s enthusiasm transformed into an ovation unlike anything ever experienced in our theaters.156

What could be more unlike Rossini than Wagner? Battistini had the privilege of meeting, if not the former, at least the latter, and receiving his compliments. In his 1902 recording of Wolfram’s “Hymn to the Evening Star” (sung in Italian as “O tu, bell’astro,” preceded by the recitative “Forier di morte”), the stark piano accompaniment does not prevent Battistini from achieving a vigorous, shining incantation—uncommonly grand, yet without neglecting the finer touches. Those who feel it betrays the spirit of the composer are ignoring its inherent beauty. The aria is transposed up a tone, as are the two later versions (both with orchestra). When Battistini sang Valentin for the first time in 1882, twenty years before recording “Dio possente,” Gounod was still alive, as was Jules Célestin Devoyod, the greatest interpreter of the role besides Sir Charles Santley. It is interesting to note that Battistini learned the first, French version of Valentin’s aria. Dieu clément oh Dieu d’amour! En quittant ma belle patrie, J’abandonne ma soeur chérie. Ah, veillez sur ses chastes jours, Faites que l’ange fidèle

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La couvre de ses blanches ailes, Soutienne ses faibles pas Et ne la quitte pas! Et le jour de la grande bataille Je veux être des premiers combattants, Couvert de lauriers et tombant sous la mitraille, Je pourrai mourir heureux et content. En exhalant mon dernier soupir, Je n’oublierai pas de la bénir En priant encore pour elle! Dieu clément. . . . Quand sur la terre je lui dirai adieu, Faites que je la retrouve dans les cieux!

This prosodically impossible version was promptly replaced by the celebrated “Avant de quitter ces lieux.” Not even that text is ideal, however, and the penultimate line (“O roi des cieux, jette les yeux”) has a better version, once adopted by the Paris Opéra (in the days when strict observance of the score was less in force): “O roi des cieux, daigne exaucer mes voeux.” The main theme’s recapitulation frequently sounds too low in the voice for most baritones, after so many high notes and all the soaring passages in the middle section, thus one often hears Italian baritones sing “Dio d’amor” up an octave (C–D–E-flat), as in the recording by Magini-Coletti. Battistini jumps the octave only on the C. Of course, he also sings the final two notes of “lo pregherò” an octave higher. Rubinstein’s The Demon is a less famous commodity in the West than Gounod’s Faust. In Russia, however, it was highly popular, which is probably why “Deh! non plorar” figures among Battistini’s first recordings. This is the well-known “Do not weep, child” aria that Battistini was invariably forced to encore in the theater. He was not the only singer to make a recording of it: Tartakov (1860–1923) had made one the year before, and in subsequent years stars like Chaliapin, Ruffo, and Giraldoni followed suit. It might be inappropriate to include Levik among these famous singers, but one cannot ignore the recording he made of it, if only in consideration of its particularly Russian tone. It is a conscientious effort, noticeable less for the unevenness of his voice (basically not all that bad) than for the dismaying lack of expression, which strikes one as ironic, given Levik’s quest for the right emotion in the singing of others. Battistini sometimes sang this aria in Russian (always with the same immense success), though, no doubt for practical reasons, he chose here to record it in Italian. The other Russian composer to whom Battistini chose to pay homage on his first recordings is, of course, Tchaikovsky, via the famous aria of Onegin,

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“Kogda bi zhizn domashnim krugom” (sung in Italian as “Se dell’imen la dolce cura”), which he recorded only this one time. Remarkable are the nostalgic tone and the creamy smoothness of the voice—especially in the two ascents to high F in the middle of the aria, which so often sound laborious. The final F is sung the octave up, on a long-held pianissimo that contemporary critics described. The three songs (D’Alvarez’s “La mantilla,” Denza’s “Occhi di fata,” and Tosti’s “Ancora”) are all ravishingly sung. Battistini, who was probably played some early acoustic recordings prior to his being convinced to make some of his own, must have been aware of the limitations of the process and realistic in his expectations as to how his voice would sound on these records. From what is known about his artistic integrity and his desire to pass along an example of his art to younger singers, to posterity, one can well imagine the interest he must have had in this novel invention. That he waited another four years before renewing the experience, however, suggests that he was very unsatisfied with the results of these earliest records. Nevertheless, they already give us a good idea of his singing style and tone, even if the timbre and the volume are not very faithfully reproduced.

NOTES 1. Novoé Vrémia, 8 [i.e., 20] February 1903. (Add twelve days to Russian and Polish newspaper dates to obtain the corresponding day on the Western calendar.) 2. Messaggero, 2 September 1909. 3. Battistini, in reference to Maria di Rohan, quoted in Listok (Kharkov), 20 April 1902. 4. La Libertà, 29 November 1879. 5. La Libertad, 22 May 1881. 6. Daily News, 16 June 1887. 7. The Scotsman, 16 November 1905. 8. The World, 19 June 1906. 9. The Times, 30 June 1906. Eugene Oudin (1858–1894) sang the first Onegin in London in 1892, fourteen years earlier. He died in his dressing room at Queen’s Hall following a concert. 10. Journal of St. Petersburg, 14 February 1901. 11. Yanina Vaida-Korolevich, Mémoires d’une chanteuse d’opéra. 12. See Leoncavallo’s letter to Arturo Toscanini, dated 7 September 1915, reprinted in Franco Armani, ed., Toscanini e la Scala (Milan: Edizioni della Scala, 1972), 338. 13. Novoé Vrémia, 1 January 1895. At this early date, Pagliacci had not yet been paired with Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana. To fill out the evening, what better way to please

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the public than to offer a work that everyone knew was eminently suited to Battistini’s incomparable talent? 14. Novoé Vrémia, 3 January 1895. Contrary to what the reviewer states, Garulli was not the first Canio; he sang the role only after Fiorello Giraud had created it. 15. Novoé Vrémia, 28 January 1901. 16. A. Polinski, Courrier de Varsovie, 25 February 1905. 17. Rossija, 8 January 1902. 18. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 8 January 1902. 19. Revue Méridionale, 17 May 1902. Mazzantini (1856–1926) studied music for a time and is said to have declared, “In Spain one must be either a tenor or a torero.” 20. Sergei Yurevich Levik, The Levik Memoirs: An Opera Singer’s Notes, trans. Edward Morgan (London: Symposium Records, 1995), 352. 21. Védomosti (Kharkov), 19 April 1902. 22. Listok (Kharkov), 15 February 1903; Novosti (Odessa), 22 March 1903. 23. Ontro (Kharkov), 12 February 1914. 24. Levik, Memoirs, 121. 25. Feodor Chaliapin, Man and Mask: Forty Years in the Life of a Singer, trans. Phyllis Mégroz (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1932), 22. 26. Chaliapin, Man and Mask, 22–23. 27. Chaliapin, Man and Mask, 38–41. 28. Chaliapin, Man and Mask, 60–61. 29. Reynaldo Hahn, Thèmes variés. 30. Mario Podestà, from the unpublished manuscript of a projected autobiography. 31. Podestà, manuscript. 32. José Luccioni, quoted in Jean Goury, ‘‘Feodor Chaliapin,’’ Collection Les cahiers d’Opéra. 33. Herman Klein, “The Art of Chaliapin,” The Musical Times, 1 November 1921, 786. 34. Listok (Odessa), 27 February 1903. 35. Quoted in James A. Drake, “Kipnis Speaks: An Interview with Alexander Kipnis,” The Opera Quarterly 8, no. 2 (summer 1991): 77. 36. Levik, Memoirs, 123. 37. The World, 13 May 1891. 38. The World, 22 July 1891. 39. José Luccioni, quoted in Goury, ‘‘Feodor Chaliapin.’’ 40. Journal de Varsovie, 23 December 1902. 41. La Stampa, 9 November 1928. 42. Cited by J. Gluski, Kurjer Polski, 13 November 1928. The “strophes” are the Demon’s second-act romance “Ne plach’, ditya” [Do not weep, child]. 43. Gino Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato (Milan: Carlo Barbini, 1914), 93. 44. Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, 116. 45. Gazette (St. Petersburg), 12 February 1898. 46. Courrier du Matin, 13 April 1895.

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47. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 22 January 1897. 48. Gazette (St. Petersburg), 31 January 1898. 49. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 22 February 1900. 50. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 22 February 1902. 51. Novoé Vrémia, 21 February 1895. 52. Novosti, 30 December 1897. 53. Novoé Vrémia, 12 February 1898. 54. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 28 December 1899. Does one detect a bit of irony in the reviewer’s comment about the second aria? 55. Grajdanine, 30 December 1899. 56. Novosti (Odessa), 17 May 1902. 57. Listok (Odessa), 17 May 1902. 58. Listok (Odessa), 18 May 1902. 59. Listok (Odessa), 31 May 1902. 60. Novosti (Odessa), 12 March 1903. 61. Novoé Vrémia, 8 February 1901. 62. E. Embé, Jougenoé Kray, 14 February 1914. 63. Courrier du Théâtre, 9 January 1899. 64. César Cui, review of The Demon in Novosti, 10 January 1899. 65. Gazette (St. Petersburg), 12 January 1899. 66. Novoé Vrémia, 19 January 1899. 67. Novoé Vrémia, 28 January 1898. 68. Novoé Vrémia, 18 December 1898. 69. Narad, 18 December 1898. 70. Revue Méridionale, 12 March 1902. The reviewer goes on to say that Battistini had to encore Onegin’s first- and third-act solos. 71. Listok (Odessa), 12 March 1902. 72. B. Janowski, Kiev Journal, early April 1902. 73. Kiev Journal, 1 April 1902. 74. Kiev Gazette, 2 April 1902. 75. Listok (Kharkov), 22 April 1902. 76. Courrier du Matin, 29 April 1895. 77. Courrier du Matin, 26 October 1895. 78. Courrier du Matin, 7 November 1896. 79. Gazette (St. Petersburg), 29 December 1896. 80. A. Polinski, Courrier de Varsovie, 13 December 1903. Mario Ancona (1860–1931) had a major international career. He was Marcello in La bohème at Covent Garden in 1899 with Melba, De Lucia, and Journet. Aristodemo Sillich recorded two excerpts from Ernani with Battistini in 1906. 81. Contrary to the popular belief that a complete dramatic realization precludes vocal excellence, Battistini’s recordings indicate that he did not lack for anything in the latter department. 82. Reichpost, 5 November 1913. 83. Journal of St. Petersburg, 10 February 1901. 84. Novosti (Odessa), 16 March 1902.

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85. Novosti (Odessa), 24 March 1903. 86. Jougenoé Obrazrenié, 24 March 1903. 87. Journal Polonais, 8 March 1896. 88. Warsaw Daily Journal, 9 March 1896. 89. Courrier du Matin, 13 November 1896. 90. Warsaw Courier, 1 November 1896. 91. Courrier du Matin, 3 November 1896. 92. N. Tchetchott, Kiev Gazette, 27 March 1902. 93. Listok (Kharkov), 20 April 1902. 94. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 3 January 1898. 95. Novoé Vrémia, 16 December 1897. Regina Pacini (1871–1965) was the unstellar Elvira of the performance; she was criticized for her “lack of style.” Alessandro Bonci (1870–1940) was the tenor who yielded the spotlight to Battistini (Bonci made a recording of “A te, o cara” in 1905). 96. J. B. Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992), 190. 97. Novoé Vrémia, 31 December 1895. 98. Petite Gazette de St. Petersbourg, 1 January 1896. 99. Warsaw Journal, 27 March 1896. 100. Bernard Shaw, “The Opera Season,” in The Scottish Art Review, September 1889. 101. Gazette (St. Petersburg), 8 January 1896. 102. Le Fils de la Patrie, 9 January 1896. 103. Novoé Vrémia, 22 January 1897. 104. Reichpost, 5 November 1913. 105. La Gazzetta da Tarde, August 1881. 106. Novoé Vrémia, 20 December 1899. 107. Courrier du Matin, 30 November 1897. 108. Vedomosti (St. Petersburg), 21 December 1896. 109. Vedomosti, 6 January 1899. 110. Novoé Vrémia, 17 January 1899. 111. Courrier du Matin, 9 November 1896. 112. See André Tubeuf, “Viva Mattia!” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 112–13 (September 1988): 195. The same basic story is also in Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics, 191. 113. Cited in Fred Gaisberg, The Music Goes Round (New York: Macmillan, 1942), 95. 114. Alfred Fischof, quoted by J. Gluski, Courrier de la Pologne, 13 November 1928. 115. Tubeuf, “Viva Mattia!” 195. 116. La Roumanie, 10 November 1899. 117. L’Indépendance Roumaine, 11 November 1899. The critic confuses Velasquez and Titian. Leone Giraldoni (1824–1897), who retired from the stage in 1885, was a baritone schooled in the French style and the father of baritone Eugenio Giraldoni (1871–1924). Tenor Italo Gardoni (1821–1882) was a Parisian favorite. 118. Courrier de Varsovie, 25 November 1896. 119. Luisa Tetrazzini, My Life of Song (Philadelphia: Dorrance, 1922), 130–32.

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120. Novosti, January 1897. Another of the artists whose career Battistini helped launch was Maria Moscisca, with whom he made several recordings in 1912. 121. Novoé Vrémia, 8 January 1898. We have already made reference to the St. Petersburg public’s initial dislike of Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci, which Battistini ultimately managed to popularize. 122. Novoé Vrémia, 12 January 1898. 123. Novosti, 10 December 1896. 124. Novoé Vrémia, 16 April 1901. 125. Bernard Shaw, “Bassetto at Bayreuth,” The Star, 1 August 1889. 126. Shaw, The World, 1 August 1894. 127. Gazette Polonaise, 26 March 1896. This and other contemporary press notices seem to indicate a general consensus about the mediocrity of the operatic version of Hamlet. Thomas died in early 1896. In November 1890, he had given a photo of himself to Battistini (reproduced in Palmegiani’s book), signing it: “To Monsieur Battistini, my eminent interpreter, souvenir and fellowship.” The tone is a bit formal, though one supposes that the composer’s advanced age prevented him from writing something more chummy. 128. La Parole, 26 March 1896. 129. Journal of St. Petersburg, 4 February 1901. 130. Listok (Kharkov), 20 April 1902. 131. Levik’s opinion that Werther must be sung by a tenor is comparable to insisting that Rossini’s Figaro be a high baritone to capture his brio, or that Mozart’s Figaro be a bass to convey his humanity and friendliness. In the early twentieth century, Mozart’s Figaro was regularly sung by baritones and Count Almaviva by basses, because baritones, wanting to add another star part to their repertory, thought they could legitimately claim Figaro if they had already sung Rossini’s Barber. Every era sees comparable practices: what will future generations think of today’s countertenors who take on roles originally conceived for castrati or haute-contres? 132. Letter from Massenet to Albert Carré. 133. Bernard Shaw, The World, 20 June 1894. 134. Listok (Odessa), 13 April 1903. 135. Guillaume Ibos, Notes sur le chant. 136. Chronique Théâtrale, January 1907. 137. Rossija, 5 January 1902. 138. Novoé Vrémia, 4 January 1902. 139. Novoé Vrémia, 5 January 1902. 140. Listok (Odessa), 12 April 1903. 141. Novosti (Odessa), 13 April 1903. 142. “Dissonance,” Listok (Odessa), 16 April 1903. 143. A. Polinski, Courrier de Varsovie, 13 March 1910. 144. Battistini, interviewed in Listok (Odessa), 11 April 1903. 145. Prager Tagblatt, 4 June 1909. 146. Il Figaro, 24 January 1907. 147. L’Italie, [February 1907].

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148. John Harvith and Susan Edwards Harvith, eds., Edison, Musicians, and the Phonograph: A Century in Retrospect (New York: Greenwood Press, 1987), 95. 149. Novoé Vrémia, 13 December 1913. This article is cited in Fracassini, probably with the encouragement of Battistini, and seems to concern the recordings made after 1902, from 1906 to possibly 1913. 150. The Spanish marquis Augustin Figueroa (a distant relative by marriage of Battistini, and whose mother studied singing with Julián Gayarre and sang with Battistini), told me in a conversation that he remembered having heard Battistini in person on several occasions in Madrid and that he had “a warm and powerful voice. . . . His voice was similar to his physical frame, tall and voluminous. The recordings,” he said, “reproduce the splendor of his voice imperfectly. When I listen to [his voice on records], I, who heard him in real life, perceive more clearly what others have difficulty perceiving.” 151. The unpublished excerpt from Simon Boccanegra often attributed to the 1902 sessions probably dates from 1906 or, perhaps, even 1911. 152. D’Andrade’s 1908 Lyrophone recording can be found in the EMI collection Les Introuvables du Chant Mozartien. 153. The cadential differences among the three “Serenade” recordings suggest that Battistini may have varied his encores in the theater, to avoid monotony. The same F-sharp, sung forte, can be heard in Giuseppe De Luca’s 1902 recording; in De Luca’s second recording of the aria (1907), he scales the high note down to a pianissimo. 154. Francesco Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni (Milan: Stampa d’Oggi, 1949), 152. Skallon is the same opera-loving official involved in the Ernani anecdote. 155. Famous Figaros prior to Battistini included, after Luigi Zamboni (1767–1837, the creator of the part), Pellegrini (1774–1832), Galli (1783–1853), and Tamburini (1800–1876), not to mention Lablache (1794–1858). 156. Littérature et Art, 4 March 1908.

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oday it is difficult to imagine the kind of celebrity Battistini enjoyed during his lifetime and the unbridled enthusiasm that he inspired in his fans, who would even go so far as to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and keep it as a souvenir. It was the kind of fame one now associates with the movie star or the rock-and-roll singer. It was a consequence of his great power of seduction, a sort of magnetism that emanated from the artist when he performed; indeed, he was a superstar phenomenon. There was a time when the “star system” was thought to have ended, when the actor or singer hid his personality behind the role (a belief that recurs periodically, in fact). Some think there is a lesson to be learned from Chaliapin: the artist sacrificing his ego through total self-effacement in the various characters he portrays to an extent that the public no longer recognizes him. In any case, Chaliapin himself never went to quite such extremes as to lose himself totally in a part; he never lost control of his acting or the ability to gauge its effect on an audience and on the performance in general. The genuine superstar (like Battistini, Caruso, Chaliapin, etc.) is not the artist who plays himself in every role he sings, nor is it someone who always performs in the same way (as his detractors might claim). It is someone whose strong personality shines through every moment of every role, like an eternal truth. Although this fact might be bad news for some composers (mostly in the modern era, for we know it posed no problem for Mozart, for example), they must admit that a work does not exist until it is performed, and to be performed it needs interpreters, which means that the composer must be willing to share the realization of his score with the singer. Undeniably, a great artist increases the potential of a work’s success as much as a mediocre one decreases it! The singer has a hand in the re-creation of a work, because it is through his 155

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understanding and interpretation, first in his mind and then through his instrument, that the music is conveyed to an audience. At that moment, when the singer’s artistry captures the public’s attention and unleashes its enthusiasm, it is as if the singer is the inventor of what he performs. The narrow minds of today fear such displays of ego; no matter how brilliant the individual performer, they would rather he conform to the accepted standard. The greatness of an artist goes over their heads and makes them uncomfortable; deaf to the musical creativity of the interpretation, they would prefer to ignore that dimension and, with score in hand, listen for the “mistakes.” This does not apply as often to today’s newspaper critics (most of whom are incapable of reading a score) as to people like record producers who censure the artist in the recording studio, or to conductors who insist on “sanitizing” the score by doing away with certain traditional variants that have accumulated over time. Battistini’s popularity reached a certain peak by 1903, the tenth anniversary of his first appearance in Russia. But first, we should have a look at some of the most memorable recitals he gave in the years leading up to that date. A concert for his benefit in St. Petersburg in 1895 resulted in the kind of ovations that our theaters have not seen in a long time. They started by making Battistini encore almost every phrase he sang. After the Hymn to the Evening Star, they brought out an impressive array of wreaths, a magnificent basket of flowers, bronze statuettes of horses signed by Lanceret, on behalf of the students of the Mines Corps. At the end of the performance, a crowd of about 250 students (from the Mines Corps, the university, etc.) approached the stage, stood on the chairs, and began cheering Battistini with enthusiasm. Some waved their handkerchiefs, others applauded; the most ardent fans began to throw their hats on to the stage, and we’re afraid several of them must have had to return home with a hat other than their own. Still not content, the students crawled on to the stage and hoisted Battistini on their shoulders, to his great amazement. The noise and the joy that filled the hall were beyond description, and it went on for a long time. Finally, Battistini resolved to sacrifice one wreath and began to distribute its leaves and branches left and right. . . . The enormous wreath disappeared in a matter of seconds, and one lost count of the number of times the artist was recalled.1

Such a reaction to an opera singer’s performance is practically unheard of among today’s audiences, but it was very much a part of the Battistini phenomenon. Those who prefer to imagine that the golden-age singer maintained a respectable distance from the public cannot bring themselves to admit Battistini’s monumental impact on the crowd as well as on his fellow artists, nor can they acknowledge hearing it on the recordings. They perceive it as demonstrative and ostentatious, something that offends the ear and threatens

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their security. Hence they choose to make fun of a singer who “provokes with his divine voice an utter tempest of enthusiasm.”2 Citing two or three laudatory reviews hardly does justice to the kind of success enjoyed by Battistini. Here, a wealth of citations is in order, to give an idea of the frequency and length of the ovations for the King of Baritones. Concert by M. Battistini Having heard this admirable artist many times, we went to this event with perfect confidence, in the belief that our review would be completely favorable and not provoke the performer’s displeasure in the least. In the world of music there are artists about whom so much has been said, whose talent has been discussed in such detail, that the critic cannot avoid repeating himself. The name of Battistini unquestionably belongs to this category of performer. The fame he enjoys is due to the beauty of his voice and to his polished technique, which makes [the voice] an obedient instrument for the free expression of Art. Undoubtedly, M. Battistini sings perfectly well, but the most refined artistic interpretation does not depend only on the physical make-up of the voice; it is closely linked to intimate human qualities and, consequently, it seems unlikely that even a highly gifted artist can perform and bring to life, so to speak, all the various musical creations equally well. On Tuesday we had the opportunity to witness the undermining of such a viewpoint. Of the rich program performed by M. Battistini, two selections stood out for their poetic interpretation: Valentin’s aria from Faust and Renato’s romance from Un ballo in maschera. The artist’s voice sounded marvelous in these two compositions: serene and tender in the Valentin aria, soulfully expressing chivalrous bravery and boundless affection of the brother for his beloved sister; and, in Renato’s recitative and romance, a state of profound suffering, with occasional bursts of rage and a feeling of wounded honor. It seemed not that the artist was performing famous works he had studied but that the music emerged from his own feelings, in accordance with his psychological state at the moment. That is precisely the highest goal of any artistic performance. Next he sang with utter elegance the arioso from Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore, which gave the artist a chance to show off his ethereal pianissimo. In the Epithalamium from Rubinstein’s Néron Battistini enchanted us with the beauty of his broad cantabile. It is impossible to list all the arias and songs that he performed with extraordinary kindness at the insistence of the audience. One of the Neapolitan songs was distinctive for its rhythmic verve and expressive characterization. In our opinion, the principal qualities of M. Battistini’s singing are: (1) knowing how to extract the beauty of the very substance of a musical idea; (2) mastery of breathing; (3) amazing declamation, avoiding all the crude accentuation peculiar to the disciples of the modern school; and (4) ease of

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Chapter 3 dynamic contrast, artfully combining a sweet mezza voce with other colorations, from soft to loud. The reception of the audience, which filled the hall to capacity, can be described as an incessant ovation that attained colossal proportions of enthusiasm toward the end.3

This review, like many others, shows how Battistini caused critics to go beyond compliments and to reflect on fundamental issues (“It seemed not that the artist was performing famous works he had studied but that the music emerged from his own feelings”). This quality of bringing forth the deepest aspects of art is something that not all performers, not even the greatest, are able to claim. Most merely demand a positive appreciation of the skill and intelligence of their work. To extract beauty and communicate it: now, there is a typically Battistinian notion with which few singers concern themselves. But there is another point that merits consideration, which brings us back to the Demon affair of the encore in Russia in 1893: at the beginning of the above-cited review, its author lets slip the fact that Battistini was not one to let critical judgments go unquestioned, and that he did not hesitate to criticize in turn the judgment of those who wrote negatively about him. Some six years later, nothing had changed, as the following review of a concert appearance he made in Odessa while on tour with the Castellano troupe reveals. There are no two opinions concerning Battistini; people with the most widely different tastes in music all, without exception, recognize him as a great artist, a talent of the first order, unique. . . . During the concert, undistracted by any scenic business, we were able to concentrate purely on the artist’s vocal abilities. He sang amazingly, marvelously. A superb and original voice with an enchanting timbre; phenomenal flexibility in the control of the tone; an infinite degree of nobility in the phrasing; deep understanding of the works performed; all combined with an admirable simplicity and an exquisite sense of timing all make Battistini one of the best of all modern singers. The program put together by Battistini was eclectic in nature; it was clear that the artist wished to expose the public to music of different eras and schools. Thus we heard Lotti (seventeenth century), Verdi, Massenet, Gounod, Wagner, Leoncavallo, Tosti, Denza, and even some popular Italian and Spanish songs. It was a marvelous event. The audience behaved in a noisily enthusiastic way and were even (I would say) ever so slightly cruel. The adoration was too insatiable, too demanding; too many encores were requested, and the poor artist, yielding to the frenzied clamor of the crowd, had to sing three concerts instead of one. I heard the incomparable Signor Battistini at his concert in the Salle de la Nouvelle Bourse. It was hardly a concert, but a monstrous ovation for the

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benefit of the celebrated artist. Forced by the implacable public to triple his program, he ended up fleeing the scene: to escape from the overenthusiastic crowd, surrounded by an escort of male and female admirers, Battistini slipped into the first carriage at the door (which unfortunately was not his). But what a marvelous, matchless singer! What substance, what rich nuance in the way he handles his colossal voice, from full throttle down to the most subtle effects. Its range is immense, and all through this voice of velvet, this caressing timbre, it seems to sparkle with millions of sequins! During his concert the artist proved brilliantly that he excels in all genres, that no difficulty exists for him, that in his throat all becomes perfection. Opera arias and popular tunes intermingled. . . . The audience was left breathless, conquered, as though having drunk a magic potion, and right from the opening numbers, from the Pagliacci prologue. Naturally, the Demon to be performed this evening will provide the occasion for more encores and give the possibility of another triumph. It will be the swan song of the opera season. Battistini will bring it to a close, and what a brilliant close!4

THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY YEAR As mentioned earlier, the year 1903 marked not only the tenth anniversary of Battistini’s ten consecutive seasons of singing in Russia, but also the twentyfifth anniversary of his operatic debut (he probably little suspected in 1903 that he had yet another twenty-five years of his career ahead of him). Strictly by the calendar, the anniversary fell in the spring, but his admirers could not wait that long to begin celebrating. Battistini would remember the events of this year for the rest of his life. In January, Battistini opened the Italian opera season in St. Petersburg with Rigoletto. The season opened very ceremoniously: an audience of the elite filled the loges and front orchestra seats. All the admirers of true bel canto were present. From the artistic point of view, the performance was worthy of our overseas nightingales: Olympia Boronat and Mattia Battistini appeared in the setting in which our fortunate public was accustomed to seeing them in the most glorious era of Italian opera. Mme Boronat and the King of Baritones received the warmest of receptions. In their duets these two artists achieved the kind of aesthetic delights that our connoisseurs of true vocal art do not often experience. The high point of the evening was waiting for our incomparable Rigoletto after the third-act aria. We shall not soon hear as fine a performance of this aria from other baritones of our time: “Cortigiani!” made us think of the superb Cotogni of yore, of whom Battistini is the unique successor.

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Chapter 3 The laurel crowns and flowers presented to this artist, who is so doted upon by the admirers of his ravishing voice, were a gauge of the audience’s appreciation for those moments of delight.5

Although the Traviata that immediately followed was almost postponed due to Battistini’s indisposition, “his artistry was so great that no one noticed anything wrong. Battistini’s voice was as beautiful as ever.”6 Indeed, Battistini had caught a cold; nevertheless, the Traviata was considered one of the best performances of the season, thanks to two artists who proved masters of their roles: Battistini and [Francesco] Marconi. Their voices filled the hall of the Aquarium with marvelous resonance and harmony. Such a richness of sonority and expression moved the audience to applaud them both in turn at great length. Not only the uninitiated, who can’t always verbalize their appreciation, but also the connoisseurs were impressed. A good number of famous singers were seen sitting in the loges, and one could see the greatest approval on all their faces. In all the solo work, one heard the finesse of a brilliant technique and perfect schooling. The nervous dramatic energy with which Marconi performed Alfred and the harmonious shaping of the part of old Germont created a mix of admiration and amazement throughout.7

Still in January, performances of Il barbiere di Siviglia and Faust ensued at the Aquarium. As Valentin, Battistini “upheld his nickname of King of Baritones, which he claimed by storm. His voice, which charms with its sweetness in the broad cantilena at the beginning of ‘Dio possente,’ becomes like a trumpet call in the middle section, so strong and vigorous it is.”8 After Les Huguenots and another Faust, Battistini had “his usual great success in the role of [Eugene] Onegin. . . . He had to sing the [last-act] aria four times.”9 Next came La traviata, Carmen, and a Ballo in maschera in which he had to encore both of Renato’s arias. The month of February kept him just as busy, first with Rigoletto. On his first entrance, Battistini was greeted with applause that lasted more than five minutes. All of his solos were bravoed, but what happened after the third act cannot be put into words. The whole house noisily demanded the repetition of the duet, the stage director read aloud the anniversary greetings engraved on a silver plaque, the stage was piled high with gifts, flowers, and wreaths. A shower of flowers fell from the balconies, in a way that one could say, literally, that Battistini’s path was strewn with roses and laurels. The audience could not calm down, recalling its favorite all during the intermission, leaving him no time to change costume for the fourth act. The ovations returned after the opera was over. An old piano was hauled out on stage to the accompaniment of which Battistini had to sing the aria

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from The Demon. The Battistini fans went crazy; in short, the triumph was complete.10

It is in this context that one must understand the comment by the Russian tsar (at whose coronation Battistini had sung in 1896) cited by Fracassini and Palmegiani. When conferring on Battistini the medal of the order of Saint Stanislas, the monarch anticipated the reaction of those who might have been surprised to see the honor bestowed on a foreigner, and a singer besides, by saying, “Who could deny it to Battistini?”11 A fan letter published in the St. Petersburg press declares that Battistini “serves Art like a real priest, with strictness and objectivity, religiously preserving the legacy of [his] predecessors.”12 It seems amazing to us today that Battistini’s conscientious devotion to the art of bel canto in no way kept him from becoming popular. A final Lucia di Lammermoor gave Boronat a chance to shine, although even then it was Battistini who earned the warmest reception. The greatly celebrated artist gave us in Lord Ashton’s rich melodies a last great artistic thrill. In the famous sextet, the remarkable performance of which produced a great impression, one could again admire the rare perseverance and skill of the technical mastery of the magnificent baritone Battistini. When, for example, Mme Boronat seemed to have no strength left and sang only mezza voce when the sextet was encored at the noisy insistence of the audience, the voice of the baritone triumphed in its unalterable richness of tone and harmony.13

As many of his colleagues attested, to sing with Battistini meant going beyond one’s normal capacity and having to sing considerably more music, with all the encores. Battistini needed a challenge to keep surpassing himself, perhaps to conquer his stage fright; encores helped him in that respect, so he liked to be able to give them. Need we describe the immense success and ovations bestowed on our favorites? The artists were so kind that they accommodated those who did not want to leave the auditorium with a little concert after the opera was over. Mme Boronat sang the duet from The Barber of Seville with M. Battistini and “The Nightingale” by Alabieff; and M. Battistini sang the Demon aria and the arioso from Eugene Onegin.14

Battistini then went to Kharkov for another successful series of performances. After reviewing the triumphs of Gemma Bellincioni, it is impossible not to pay like tribute to the King of Baritones, M. Battistini. With a joyful heart, I am ready to give him my hearty admiration, voiced entirely in terms of

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Chapter 3 enthusiasm, amazement, and appreciation; at the same time I sense the weakness of human language and the difficulty of expressing in words the feelings that a true artist awakens in us. It is a kind of ecstasy of the soul. In short, soaring high above the boring prose of everyday existence, one sees in the distance the first ray of daybreak, and the soul thrills and glows at the sight of the rosy light of that dawn, transfigured toward a new and better life, full of uncertain but sweet hopes. . . . There are no words that can express what Battistini has given us! If our enthusiasm could be transformed into flowers, the artist would have been in serious danger of suffocation beneath a flowery avalanche. . . . But let us arrange all those flowers into a single crown in tribute to the best of human sentiments: appreciation. Yes, heartfelt thanks to the artist for the short but precious moments of true artistic delight that will forever remain a luminous souvenir in the soul, never to be forgotten. M. Battistini is visiting us for the second time. Last spring, he appeared on our stage for the first time with M. Castellano’s Italian troupe, which was then well established and disciplined. M. Battistini then sang only seven performances, but he nevertheless managed to display the diversity of his talent in all its glory, showing that he was capable of everything: tragedy, comedy, seriousness, humor, sadness, gaiety. The impression back then was more homogeneous, since the whole cast sang in Italian. Recently, M. Battistini appeared with the Russian troupe, which produced an everconfusing mixture of languages. But, what is worse, M. Battistini had to sing with an orchestra unable to handle the most elementary rules of harmony, rhythm, and ensemble-playing. Battistini’s supporting casts were not on the same level; the chorus was simply bad. And if, in spite of everything, M. Battistini made a great impression, it must be attributed to the colossal force of his talent. To our great regret, M. Battistini appeared in only three roles: Rigoletto, Onegin, and Valentin. In addition, at the last performance on 16 February, M. Battistini sang the prologue from Pagliacci, a scene from Un ballo in maschera, and the Demon aria “Deh! non plorar.” It is hard to say which role he did best. His Valentin was the ultimate in perfection, in the sense of energy and expressive power. The way he sang the climactic phrase of the Pagliacci prologue was irresistibly captivating. What a marvelous voice this artist possesses, and what a velvety timbre! And how deftly he handles his voice in all registers! Such diversity in his vocal shading, such simplicity and nobility of expression! His singing and acting are so artistically close-knit; his histrionics always natural and beautiful; and at the same time this top-drawer singer creates such fully drawn, living, artistic portraits in every one of his roles! As they did last spring, all of M. Battistini’s appearances provoke a storm of enthusiasm. It has been a long time since we have heard such shouts and applause in our theater.15

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The first part of the above article gives way, as usual with Battistini, to reflections on art, its goal, and its effect. As we have seen, Battistini, more than any other singer, tended to inspire such digressions. “Ecstasy of the soul” should not be regarded as a vague compliment, but as a real experience shared by all listeners. It must have heartened Battistini to read such praise and know that his particular approach to music was appreciated. For there are artists who obtain desired success, but who are not appreciated by their fans in the way they intend. Although we scoff today at the idea of two operatic characters singing in two different languages, it should nevertheless be remembered that the procedure, no matter how unfortunate or indefensible, obliges the listener to enter more deeply into the work of art. Indeed, it requires one to relate what one hears and sees on a deeper level of comprehension, through a sort of abstraction of the meaning, thereby heightening the purely musical impact. Today, of course, such a consideration is deemed unacceptable. In Kiev, beginning in February, Battistini sang a series of performances beginning with Rigoletto. Ordinarily, for their debuts artists prefer roles in which they can display all the facets of their artistic talent. From that standpoint, it must be admitted that M. Battistini’s choice proved successful: he brilliantly surmounted the problem of this lirico-dramatic role, not only by his marvelous singing, but also by his immense dramatic talent. A perfect technician and thoroughbred singer, M. Battistini handles his rich instrument with matchless skill, like a keyboard that obediently responds to the subtlest touch of the fingers. Achieving stunning effects with his round tones and caressing mezza voce, tenor-like in lyrical passages (as when he addresses Gilda in act 2), the artist amazes us with his dramatism and energy in the passages requiring force (end of act 3), when his powerful voice fills the hall like a tidal wave, maintaining the same force and sonority even in the farthest corners of the house. What passion and temperament he brings to the finale of act 3 (“Si, vendetta”)! The artist put so much life into it that the piece was encored by popular demand. The dramatic aspect of the performance left nothing to be desired. Battistini painted it with numerous psychological nuances that add to the entire creation of the tragic figure of the luckless buffoon. The artist, at first received relatively coolly by the audience, became after the second act and after the end of the performance the object of great enthusiasm and loud ovations.16

The descriptions of Battistini’s voice and the interpretation have a familiar ring, while the report in general reinforces what we read in other reviews of

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his Rigoletto. At the end of February, Battistini returned to prove himself the “perfect” interpreter of the title role of Tchaikovsky’s most popular opera. The exceptional qualities of this artist’s technique and voice are universally recognized by all who have had occasion to write on the subject. It can therefore be stated that the question is closed in the opinion of the public and the press. Suffice it to acknowledge the great interest that the name Battistini always attracts, independent of the role the artist appears in, whether in the Italian bel canto repertory or any other. This time, we shall content ourselves with remarking the unique artistry with which M. Battistini manages effortlessly to find the beauty in the part of Onegin, written without giving the interpreter the possibility to shine through purely vocal means. Nevertheless, M. Battistini can conquer his listeners and enchant them merely by performing the notes on the page, precisely because of the crystalline purity of his musical artistry. Up to the famous “Non c’è più dubbio” (sung four times), M. Battistini kept his voice in check, at practically a continuous mezza voce—but with so many rich nuances and vocal beauty (for example, in the monologue in the third scene, embellished by its drawn-out notes)! All of this art cost M. Battistini no more effort than a simple conversation costs an ordinary mortal. The work of the breathing apparatus remains invisible to the spectator, similar to a motor that performs the most essential task.17

The remark about the apparent facility of Battistini’s vocal technique comes as no surprise, though it does merit our attention. To sing effortlessly is not as easy as one might think; one must work at it. Some singers of another type deliberately use the manifest difficulty that they have in singing to give expression to the character they are portraying; such artists are incapable of singing effortlessly, nor do they want to. The invisibility of the breathing mechanism mentioned in the above review signals a very specific vocal technique, a subject that we shall have occasion to discuss in more detail later in this book. The first week of March found Battistini no less active in Kiev. This week, M. Battistini sang three roles in three consecutive days (3-4-5): Renato (in Ballo), the Demon, and the Barbiere Figaro. Such an assortment proves the variety of the artist’s repertory, and at the same time each of these roles was performed, vocally and dramatically, to perfection. The degree of interest awakened by one or another consequently depends not just on the singing but also on the breadth and depth of characterization they offer the performer. In this regard, the first pales alongside the other two. Renato, it is known, has but one remarkable moment in the sense of Italian bel canto, the famous air in front of the portrait (“Eri tu”). As expected, M. Battistini displayed a ravishing, very personal legato; it was like the song of a cello beneath the stroke of a velvet bow, ideally sweet and caressing.

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From the first phrase, the artist successfully avoided routine: he pronounced the opening words with force, then passed to the tender cantilena which he sustained to the end, varying it more with expression than with dynamics, hence without aiming for excessive loudness. But during the encore, in the last section, M. Battistini drew on an ever-so-heightened vocal breadth; overall, this artist manifests a great ability in this kind of reinforcement, which he saves for his encores. In the role of the Demon, M. Battistini offers a sui generis portrait, inspired by a tendency toward a particularly poetic interpretation of the fallen angel. It is toward this ideal goal that all his rich scenic and vocal resources are directed, including the make-up, the fluidity and harmony of his stage movement and attitudes, and the general tone of his performance. This is a being who does not retract from his demonic force under the influence of the new passion. The irresistible sweetness of that passion becomes a sure means to attain the desired goal. The impetuous and powerful demonstration of earthly passion does not come out fully until the end. M. Battistini performs the separate moments with Tamara in the last scene in an extraordinarily brilliant manner, at the beginning and end of the duet, but especially in the energetic monologue against the nun’s chorus. The Italian Demon performs this great scene with the revisions made for him by the composer himself. The first words in the cloister cell are a tone higher and are followed by several effective “finishing touches” at various moments. From the Demon to Figaro is quite a leap, but when doing comedy M. Battistini feels like a fish in water. . . . He is an authentically believable Barber, close to the original southern temperament, so well known to the artist. The mobility of the voice is combined with a light gracefulness of gesture, joyful mimicry, and radiant smile.18

As we have already had occasion to note, Battistini intentionally sang his encores in contrasting ways to keep the performances interesting. Before the modern recording era, singers tried to avoid boring their audiences with identical repetitions in da capo arias, strophic songs, and of course encores. Rubatos and embellishments were affected as well. But Battistini did not limit himself to musical changes; he also varied his acting, gestures, and poses. Next, Battistini traveled by rail to Odessa, where his silver anniversary was celebrated a third time. In spite of the early-morning arrival of the train from Kiev, a large assemblage had gathered at the station to greet the eminent artist. Among them were the impresario F. Castellano, the conductor Pribik, representatives from the city’s musical societies, and a good number of the artist’s fans. . . . After Odessa, the famous singer will be going to Rome. He is engaged to take part in two or three gala performances scheduled during the visit to Rome by Kaiser Wilhelm II. He has also received an invitation to sing in

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Chapter 3 Paris, where he will perform several roles in French, notably perhaps Hamlet. “I have not yet chosen my French repertory, and it will indeed be the first time I sing in that language. I still have to work on it a while. I have more engagements in May. . . . Then, Spain beckons, where I can do some hunting or horseback riding.” Mascagni is currently completing a new opera about Marie Antoinette, with a role for Battistini. Where and when he will appear in this premiere, he does not yet know. We asked the artist if he will be coming back on tour to Russia next year: “I have not yet decided,” he answered, “but if I come, I will not fail to visit Odessa.”19

Unfortunately, the Paris engagement did not materialize, and another fourteen years passed before Battistini sang there. As for the Mascagni project, Battistini had to give it up. Of his performance in Linda di Chamounix the Odessa press reported: The celebrated artist prepared [the role of Antonio] with such care and performs it so dynamically, that it makes a profound impression on the audience. The scene of the curse was striking. In the first act Antonio has a lyric aria [“Ambo nati”] in which Battistini enchants, as much by the beauty of his timbre as by the beauty of the feeling he puts into it. In the same act, M. Battistini has another opportunity to shine through his vocal artistry, notably in the duet for Antonio and the prefect. Although there is no subsequent solo work for Antonio except in dialogues and ensembles, M. Battistini does not cease to dominate the other artists with the superiority of his voice and the perfection of his singing. M. Battistini was no less interesting on the dramatic level. In act 1 he sings with sincere indignation the phrase “Perchè siam nati poveri, ci credon senza onor!” [Because we are poor, they think we are without honor]. And how natural and touching is his acting in the farewell to his daughter in the finale of the same act! But the high point comes in the act 2 scene when Antonio appears, in tatters, in the elegant Parisian apartment where Linda has settled with her fiancé, the viscount Carlo: not recognizing his daughter, he begs her for help. M. Battistini brilliantly expressed the unhappy father’s shifting sentiments when she confides in him, from initial distrust to the sudden flash of paternal love, tinted by the thought of his daughter’s apparent dishonor, only to change to rage and indignation. It is regrettable that the great impression produced by this scene had to be disrupted by the ovations that were given M. Battistini, thus interrupting the dramatic flow and proving, yet again, the public’s lack of artistic cultivation.20

The last lines diminish our pleasure in reading this review. Must the public be preached to, must its enthusiasm be dampened with the spoilsport critic’s repri-

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mand? Cannot such feelings be allowed to overflow, and should we really regret that there wasn’t less of it, so as to maintain the orderly flow of the performance? As we have seen, the reluctance of the public to come and hear “oldfashioned” works such as Linda di Chamounix did not discourage Battistini from doing them. Since one of his aims was to expand the repertory, he certainly would not have complained about an audience’s enthusiastic response to Donizetti. To achieve such a reaction, when an entire segment of the audience had hesitated to attend in the first place, must have thrilled him. Interestingly, in the more modern La Gioconda, the baritone’s role of Barnaba was called by one critic “too short, too episodic, and [it] does not give enough freedom to the talent of M. Battistini.”21 But another felt his Barnaba greatly resembled Iago; it’s the same black character, the same predominance of recitative. The artist who incarnates Barnaba must know how to declaim, be expressive, and possess dramatic talent. Voice alone is not enough; the role demands an artist from head to toe, precisely one like Battistini. Hence this production suited him to perfection. Every phrase is sung with the right expression, with the appropriate gesture. Feeling of the degree so admirably cultivated by Battistini allows him to avoid crude effects, and one must regret that the public, accustomed to the vulgar or forced performance of the big numbers by other artists, is not always capable of appreciating the polished interpretation of Battistini for what it is. . . . The monologue [“O monumento”] . . . was sung by Battistini with extraordinary intelligence and subtlety. In the concluding phrase . . . he pronounced the word opia [spy] with an expression of extreme disdain, revealing that Barnaba is not just a villain, but a villain who understands the true depth of his baseness. The second-act barcarolle, which others habitually sing with great effort, is sung by Battistini with astounding lightness and facility. The scene that produces the greatest dramatic effect, the final encounter with Gioconda, made a great impression, to our deep regret, disturbed by a comic incident. M. Battistini had shut the door forcefully when he entered, and when he had to exit quickly, the door wouldn’t reopen. When the artist gave it a vigorous shove, the entire sidewall collapsed. . . . Such are the technical refinements of the Russian Theater!22

In the same issue, there appeared an interview with Marisa Galvany, a version of which is cited in the Fracassini book (minus the comparison with Darclée and Pacini, which put Battistini in a delicate position). It is inconvenient for me to sing in the Russian Theater, . . . but on the other hand I have the good fortune to sing with Battistini. I consider Mme

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Chapter 3 [Hariclea] Darclée to be the greatest singer in the world and Mme Pacini the best light soprano, and it gives me the greatest pleasure to hear them sing, but this delight cannot compare with the feeling I have on listening to Battistini. I do not think the public is ready to appreciate this giant in the way that a singer can. One is simply dumbfounded by his virtuosity, and one would like to tell him “Grazie, Maestro.” Yes, Battistini is a teacher to us singers. He is even more valuable to us than one of the last representatives of the old school. If Battistini were to vanish, the old school of singing and bel canto would vanish with him. Modern composers would exercise their reforms even more, and the repertory would be composed of nothing but operas that aim for superficial effects.23

Even at the beginning of his career, Battistini was considered the last representative of a vanishing school of singing, and he would continue to be regarded as such. Indeed, it would be observed in the first half of the twentieth century that singing reached its apogee with Caruso and other singers of his generation. Although it is not unusual to encounter statements about the decline of musical standards, it is nonetheless astonishing to read one like Galvany’s, made so early in the century, since we generally associate such complaints with the rise of later avant-garde composers such as Stravinsky and Schoenberg. Of course, all music sounds better and stimulates the imagination after it has become familiar: hence the concept of repertory and oral tradition. Contemporary music of any era does not have this advantage when it is first performed; it needs great performers to realize its full potential. At the same time, not all music exploits the potential of the human voice to the same extent. There is obviously another side of the coin: the work that gives the singer the greatest possibilities for self-expression demands a great artist to make the music interesting. In any case, the interpreter soon loses confidence in a work that uses the voice as a mere accessory to the music, and this is reflected in the performance. It might be said that every generation of experts complains of a singing crisis, the definitive loss of a school of knowledge or a technique. It is easier to praise the qualities of artists who are dead and gone than it is to evaluate the up-and-coming singer. Yet it is a verifiable truth that certain singers of yore had vocal skills beyond the reach of their successors. To give but one example, Battistini’s high pianissimi seem just as inexplicable as they are today unequaled. Next came repeats of Il barbiere di Siviglia and Onegin, followed by a gala evening that included an abridged Faust. The composite performance given as a benefit for [impresario] Castellano produced the kind of incomplete, mixed impression that all pasticcios do, except for the main focus of the performance, the three acts of Faust given

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expressly for Battistini. He offered us a magnificent incarnation of Valentin, full of realism, truth, and physical beauty. Everything Battistini does has a truly amazing simplicity about it. Artistic boundaries are never overstepped, the aesthetic feel of the performance is never disrupted. On his palette there is no room for cheap, gaudy colors; his effects are not crude. Everything is harmonious and balanced; the image appears before us entirely filled in, and the impression it produces strikes deep, in spite of an utterly deplorable entourage.24

Battistini’s turn at a benefit came at a performance of Un ballo in maschera. After [Renato’s] first-act aria, he was presented with several crowns and bouquets. But the real celebration began after the fourth [?] act. The beneficiary, whom the audience recalled ad infinitum, throwing little bouquets and crowns, received from his appreciative Odessan hosts an enormous silver platter with the inscription “To the incomparable M. Battistini, to the unique and matchless singer, in remembrance of unforgettable artistic delights” and a deluxe album with silver cover inscribed: “To the divo of all divi, to the king of baritones Mattia Battistini, from his impresario F. Castellano” . . . At the end of the performance the audience stayed to give the famous artist another long ovation, forcing him to sing the aria “Deh! non plorar” from The Demon, accompanied by piano.25

In April, at a five o’clock postvespers service in a Catholic church, Battistini sang Stradella’s “Pietà, Signore” and Gounod’s “Ave verum.” “The church was filled to the point where many who had come had to remain outside. . . . The marvelous voice of the genial artist had an extraordinarily solemn resonance. . . . His inspired singing moved many people to tears.”26 A few days later, Battistini sang a joint recital with Mme Mendioroz in the Salle de la Bourse, known for its poor acoustics. His program included some Wagner and Massenet, as well as some Russian and Spanish numbers: “In view of his desire to give the program an international flavor, I was pleased that for his encores, M. Battistini chose to maintain a certain coherence. After the Ruslan aria, he encored with Pique Dame; after the Flying Dutchman aria, he encored with the Hymn to the Evening Star, etc.”27 The next day, because of Battistini’s great success with the Odessa public, Castellano organized two additional performances, this time in the Municipal Theater. The troupe has had a complete success all along, and the performances with Battistini have all been sold out. For next year, M. Battistini has signed a contract with M. Castellano for fifty performances at a fee of 1,000 rubles each and four benefits. The duration of the contract will be five months, and during that time the troupe

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Chapter 3 will perform in the cities of Vilna, Kiev, Kharkov, Odessa, and Moscow. Fans in St. Petersburg are left with a feeling of sadness and envy. For now, after Odessa, M. Battistini is returning to Rome where he is engaged to sing at the [Teatro] Argentina for the visit of august personages in the Eternal City.28

The “two additional performances” arranged for Battistini were Werthers. M. Battistini performed the title role perfectly and sang the famous Ossian verses (“Ah! non mi ridestar”) with much fire and expression. M. Battistini repeated this aria three times. It is difficult to say in which scene this gifted artist produced the best impression. His singing and acting, combined with his surprising mimicry and convincing make-up, make a profoundly artistic impression overall.29

The Odessa press also covered the last concert before his departure from the city, as follows: Today, on the noon train, the King of Baritones is leaving us. He will first make a stop at Warsaw before returning to his home. The day before yesterday he was given a noisy and enthusiastic farewell during the benefit concert in the Salle Pushkin, where the ovations for the magnificent artist seemed to go on forever. He sang, encored, sang and encored again, at the insistence of the public. The encores stopped being encores, and the repetitions could be counted by the dozens. Finally, the King removed his gloves, stepped down toward the footlights in the middle of the stage covered with flowers, and said in a loud voice, precisely, and in Russian: “Spassibo, do svidania” (Thank you, goodbye). The explosion of the new ovation cannot be described: Battistini spoke Russian!!! It fanned the fiery enthusiasm of the hall, because the Odessans, proud of their native talents but always ready to accept someone as their own if he distinguishes himself from the crowd, saw at that moment a confirmation of their wildest dreams. Just as they have long since acknowledged the tenor Anselmi as a native of Warsaw, so they now consider the famous baritone an Odessan. “See? Do you hear how he speaks Russian? I always said he was one of ours. Such a celebrity can only be an Odessan! And how many times has he sung for nothing, for the benefit of various non-profit organizations in Odessa? He sang for the Italian Charity Society, the Temperance Society, and the Pushkin Refuge, all out of the goodness of his heart. The receipts of the concerts he gave were enormous and provided a substantial offering to these institutions. The day before yesterday, for example, fifteen tram cars were needed to transport the public home after the concert, and surely, for at least the next fifteen years the inhabitants of the city’s outskirts will re-

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member this remarkable event: when Mattia Battistini in person appeared between the third and fourth tramway station. . . .30

Then, to close the season, Battistini made a stop in Warsaw to give another of his many benefit concerts, this time for the needy students of the conservatory. The program consisted of arias from Der fliegende Holländer and Tannhäuser, Le roi de Lahore and Hérodiade, Torquato Tasso and Maria de Rudenz, the Pagliacci prologue, Paisiello’s “La Molinara,” and a group of Tosti songs, including “Ideale.” Battistini could leave with the reassuring feeling of duty accomplished, with the lifetime satisfaction of having been able to touch his public by making them feel the beauty of music as he felt it.

SIESTA IN SPAIN Early in 1903, a St. Petersburg newspaper published an account of Battistini at rest, in one of the havens the artist reserved for himself. On February 6, the favorite of the Petersburg public, Mattia Battistini, celebrated on stage in Rigoletto the tenth anniversary of his artistic career in St. Petersburg. In seeing the countless gifts and wreaths, in listening to the perfectly written speech, I could not help thinking about the great influence his personality has on the Art of Singing. Is that not what all the enthusiastic ovations are about, rather than his velvety voice? And I cannot help but describe the picture of the recent past, when, at the insistence of Mattia, I went to see him in Spain, in the province of La Mancha, so evocative of Don Quixote, or rather Cervantes. There, near Manzanarès, in the Membrilla countryside, in a luxurious chateau with atrium, Mattia was relaxing from his European triumphs, spending most of his time hunting and “managing” his adjacent property. His wife and his niece made up the family of my friend. He came to meet me in Madrid, and after a minute inspection of the city and going to see an awful bullfight, we departed for Manzanarès. But Mattia proposed that we first make a stop in Aranjuez, where he had a little hunting lodge. Except for a few solemn-looking but courteous guards, we were almost always alone. But I didn’t get bored: Mattia’s usual gaiety and animation never left him during our hikes in the rocky cliffs in the tropical heat; when he rose in the morning, at the first colorful streaks of dawn on the mountain peaks; and during the modest supper by the hearth in the little guardhouse, when the hunt kept us away from the main house. Great friend of nature and a connoisseur of the colorful chiaroscuro in the mountains, Mattia would suddenly marvel at the sight of a poetic landscape and heartily break into song. His voice would then echo in the mountain gorges, while the trackers and I applauded like an audience, forgetting the foxes and

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Chapter 3 especially the snakes, one of which also came to listen to Mattia and slid within two feet of him, before we blew its head off nearly at point-blank. Smoking was one of Mattia’s main pleasures, which he always avoided during the music season, and watching him inhaling the smoke of his cigar with such gusto delighted me. We headed toward Manzanarès and, from there, to Membrilla. The alcade (a friend of Mattia’s) came to meet us at the station, and in Battistini’s carriage, pulled by two big mules, we traversed a long village. Mattia’s chateau was on the borders of the village and was surrounded by a high stone wall sheltering a little garden, which the artist tended with the greatest patience, not an easy job given the dry soil. Inside the house, tastefully and comfortably furnished, it was cool, especially in the atrium where a fountain trickled. The hospitality and friendliness of our host were unbounded, as was his gaiety. The monks in the neighboring monastery, indispensable members of every Spanish family of property, could be heard saying the rosary, which did not prevent them from breaking out in laughter after hearing Mattia tell the new jokes he brought back from his northern travels. My friend’s study interested me greatly. Besides vocalizing, he spent many hours there studying his roles, meditating on his approaches to character, not only on how to sing them—and thereby I understood the secret of how Battistini always attracts the attention of his audiences and holds them captive. It is the result of a meticulous psychological analysis of each role, developed and polished down to the tiniest detail. We had many conversations about the Russian operas he was preparing, and it was evident that he desired not only to sing Onegin but also to become him. He had me tell him all about life in Russian society of the 1840s, its ideals and aspirations. During our excursions on horseback or by carriage, Mattia usually came back to his favorite subject, the study of the character of his roles, and one constantly sensed the artist in him. Artist that he is, body and soul, he organized in his home a national torchlight ball. The long files of dancers, caballeros, and señoritas of Membrilla with tambourines and castañets evoked scenes from Carmen. The dance rhythms alternated between passion and gentleness, and Mattia, wearing his sombrero, admired the tableau he created, immersed in the world of stagecraft. He felt a similar thrill inside the walls of the old cloisters we visited, marveling at the magnificent frescoes and paintings. And it is precisely this interest in all of life’s manifestations, combined with a profound erudition and exhaustive study of the minutest details of his roles which not only places Mattia Battistini on a pedestal, but also assures this distinguished gentleman-artist an ever-brilliant future and the undying sympathy and love of the public.31

A few years later, this same text was reprinted almost word-for-word in the Fracassini book, but with some deletions: the negative remark about the bull-

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fight, the killing of the snake, the laughter of the monks. The revised version is thus cleansed of whatever might have shocked readers the first time around. Descriptions of the sumptuous party costumes and gifts fill the vacant space, as well as the following revelation: “A gourmet and wine connoisseur, [Battistini] usually preferred light meals, composed mainly of vegetables and a small glass of red wine. Such will power is unusual among our [Russian] singers, because of their Slavic nature. Was this the secret of the admirable baritone’s velvety timbre?”32 Only in Fracassini’s version is ownership of the Membrilla estate attributed to Dolores, Battistini’s wife. Her portrait seems credible, and consistent with other eyewitness reports, yet it is frustrating in the sense that it confines itself to generalities. The natural discretion of the artist would have made him reluctant to provide more detailed information on his private life. At any rate, taking everything into consideration, this text shows that Battistini’s whole life was devoted to singing and performing. His artist’s calling apparently left him little time for mundane affairs. To a certain extent there remains little to discuss about Battistini the man other than his artistic passion and the role it played in his life, even during moments of relaxation.

ROME AND LONDON Battistini continued to tour, earning success after success in Italy, Poland, Russia, and England. One especially remarkable event was a Maria di Rohan at the Teatro Adriano in Rome in the autumn of 1904. Three words sum up last evening’s performance: Battistini returned triumphant. It must be admitted, Donizetti’s score does not appeal that much to Roman audiences, who, like most of today’s listeners, are wrong to neglect the great glories of Italian music. Of those glories, Maria di Rohan (despite its age) is one of them for its third act alone, marvelous in its inspiration and dramatic power. But yesterday the great attraction of the evening was, if not the work itself, the appearance of Mattia Battistini in the role of the Duke of Chevreuse, a part cherished by all the great baritones, beginning with Ronconi, who created it in June 1843 at the Kärntnertortheater in Vienna. And the Roman public was not in the least disappointed in its expectations. Battistini was, in every sense of the word, magnificent. Beginning with his masterfully sung sortita, this Duke of Chevreuse was able to communicate to his large audience at will the most vivid emotions of his art; a delicious singer who controls his voice to perfection, whether in the moments of

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Chapter 3 expansive melancholy or in the more passionate sections; delivering the recitative with continual deftness and variety, bringing out the character with all the finesse of his superior intellect. Battistini appeared in the full light of a perfect scenic illusion; the elegance of his person and costumes, his easy deportment, and the coherence of his characterization, everything was in old-fashioned harmony—that is, in the style of the famous masters of the lyric stage of yore. Unfortunately, ultra-modern opera roles in fact aim only to belittle the already very limited talents of our singers of today, by stereotyping the characters and personalities of the interpreters in the pettiest way. For the genuine strong-willed artist wanting to create new roles, how wide a gap there is between the old repertory and the modern, and how grateful we should be for the conviction of artists like Battistini who still cling to the vivid characterization as the noble and distinguished aim of their constant efforts! In his role of Chevreuse, M. Battistini is on the level of the best of his golden-age predecessors. Unfortunately, his colleagues were too deficient in tradition to prevent unbalances from showing. Mme Emilia Corsi, however, did her best in the title role . . . [She] is a highly intelligent artist, impassioned in the final scene, but she could not make up for her musical shortcomings; she is, like so many others, a victim of the current method, which is no method at all.33

Here we encounter another statement unfavorably comparing the new school of singing against the old bel canto tradition, written at the very time in history when the art of singing was supposedly at its apogee! As always, the scheduling of the operas Battistini sang was as diverse as the numbers of a recital program, and the triumph of Maria di Rohan allowed him to pick another classic that he wanted to sing, Hérold’s Zampa. The reaction to the work was a mixture of reserve and puzzlement. Apparently those in the audience who knew nothing about Hérold, and who came expecting to hear an opera composed along ultramodern lines, were strangely surprised to hear a score whose age could be detected in between some magnificent pages (so often imitated in the French repertory). But alongside the outdated features, what richness of color in this simple context, what feeling, what grace and spontaneity of melodic inspiration! As for the score’s quality, suffice it to say that for well over half a century it has been in the repertory of French and German theaters. Unfortunately, last evening everything went terribly wrong: singers, chorus, orchestra, scenery, and stagefright compounded the difficulties, except for Mlle Corsi, who had a few good moments; the rest appeared substandard around Battistini, who was magnificent in his role. If the evening went well at all and ended with applause, it was thanks only to him, to his ex-

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quisite artistry, to his ability to impress the public. The second-act barcarolle, the tune that launches the last duet (which Battistini encored), could not have been done more tastefully, and throughout the evening the bravura of the actor matched that of the singer.34

The role of Zampa was originally composed for tenor, although baritones soon claimed it as their own. Maurel performed it at La Scala in 1889. A few months following his Roman triumph, Battistini sang the work in Warsaw. The music of Zampa, like a fine wine, gets better with age: it is still melodious, full of life, action, and peculiar charm. Hopefully it will be heard with pleasure not only by us but by our children as well. Since its inception, no famous baritone has made this brilliant role his own like Battistini has done. He gave one of his magnificent creations that only an exceptional artist and singer can conceive. How rare his qualities have become in this day and age! No one has sung the drinking song, the famous act 2 aria, or the marvelous last-act love song better than Battistini. The acting, the scenery, and the sumptuous costumes contributed to the overall irresistibly appealing presentation. And there was no lack of applause. The lion’s share of the work naturally came from Battistini, who was obliged to encore the most beautiful numbers of the score.35

Despite the attention Battistini brought to it, Zampa did not become a repertory staple, but the success he had with it caused him to make a recording of “Perchè tremar?” the following year. The summer of 1905 brought a well-deserved, if not totally work-free, vacation. Battistini took this time to prepare for the late August premiere in Rieti of an opera by his nephew, Goffredo Cocchi (1872?–1909), entitled Per la patria. In the autumn, after a Barbiere in Madrid, Battistini found himself in London (eighteen years after his first trip there). It is hard to tell if he was as successful this time as he himself claimed to be. It is unlikely that London gave the King of Baritones the same kind of reception he experienced in St. Petersburg, Warsaw, Odessa, Rome, or Madrid. He must have bristled when reading the reaction to his Rigoletto by the British critic who wrote that “we witnessed (I will not say enjoyed) the rather unusual spectacle of the repetition of the end of the third act.”36 Another observed that in the scene with the courtiers he caused such extraordinary enthusiasm that the end had to be repeated. This is, indeed, a rare honor to pay to a new-comer. However, Signor Battistini should be informed that in this country people who are (or think themselves) the arbiters of the musical elegances do not approve of encores in opera.37

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Not even when Battistini returned to London the following spring was the then more sophisticated audience willing to relax its standards: “Though a grand season audience is too well brought up to encore the end of the third act—as the autumn public did—it was obvious that [the baritone] made a very profound impression.”38 Battistini may not have been able to make quite the same impact on the English as he did on the Russians when he sang The Demon, but what his biographers describe as a distant reception (not really accurate, since the public was indeed on the verge of violating its holiest principles) must have been a deep disappointment to him. The decorum the critic alludes to smacks of the complacency that Battistini was trying to rid his audiences of by creating an exceptional moment, an artistic event worth remembering. It amounted to a rejection of his hospitality, an insult to a certain extent. Nevertheless, there was no hissing, not even an indifferent silence, simply a lot of prolonged applause that failed to gratify the artist. To be scrutinized in such a manner—to be publicly called to order like an undutiful lackey who fails to appreciate being merely tolerated by the upper class—must have wounded him deeply. Certainly in Russia he had first conquered the public before becoming the idol of the intelligentsia; if there were still a few individuals who could not appreciate him unconditionally, the artist nevertheless felt the solid support of the majority in all circles. In any case, he took his Rigoletto, whose success was incontestable but disappointingly lukewarm, back to the continent— beginning with Rome, where his jester was called “incomparable . . . combining all the elements of his innumerable gifts and artistic qualities. Applauded throughout the opera, the leading baritone of today had to encore every phrase, every effect, and managed to fanaticize the public with the aria ‘Sì vendetta,’ sung as only he is capable of doing.”39 Another critic felt that in Rigoletto, as in all the operas he undertook, Battistini may have surpassed himself. A matchless performer in the opinion of both composers and dramatists, he stamped upon the public all the feelings he expressed with an incomparable grandeur and variety. His voice, his gestures are impeccably linked to the character. He goes from irony and boastfulness to the most delicate degrees of tenderness, to the most fearful explosions of rage, to the most poignant expressions of despair. And never one flaw, never one hint of weakness. The actor and the singer form a whole that no difficulty can throw off track, that nothing can make falter. He was made to encore his act 3 curse “Si vendetta,” which electrified the house, but it was in the finale, perhaps, that he showed all his power, and it was very beautiful.40

After the usual visit to St. Petersburg, it was back across the Channel to Covent Garden, with the same opera. This time the London press reported that Battistini

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achieved a notable and personal triumph; his acting was of a rarely sincere order, and he succeeded in bringing out all the grimness and tragedy of the part [of the jester] in a superlative degree. He reached his highest, perhaps, in his appeal to the noblemen in the third act, where his anguish and despair, no less of his acting than of his singing, were intensely moving. Indeed, his singing was exceedingly fine throughout, and never for a moment did he condescend to any sort of trick work, or to any frivolities in the use of his voice. The breadth and the largeness of his tone, combined with its richness and its appealing sentiment, made an ensemble of the highest artistic value.41

Another London periodical affirmed that the Covent Garden Rigoletto was a most important event—the rentrée of Signor Battistini, who sang Rigoletto to Mlle Alda’s Gilda. . . . Signor Battistini repeated his success of last autumn, singing the music as he alone can sing it, and making light of the difficulties of the exceedingly exacting “Cortigiani vil razza,” while the voice-colour which he so effectively employs is a lesson to many of his less accomplished brethren.42

At last, evidence that London really did recognize Battistini for what he was worth! And what a pity that Battistini never recorded “Cortigiani!” But other precious bits of information about the musical aspects of his Rigoletto do survive. With Signor Battistini as Rigoletto, Verdi’s opera probably will prove a draw as often as the syndicate decides to give it. Not only does “la gloria d’Italia” sing with ease the most difficult portions of the music, but he interpolates from time to time notes which most baritones are forced to use sparingly. Thus, in the soliloquy, “Pari siamo,” he introduces a G into the final phrase, “è follia,” and without using the helpful portamento, while in the second “all’onda” he interpolates an F-sharp which might be in the middle of the voice so full and round is the tone. Especially neat, too, are the ornaments which he occasionally introduces—the appoggiatura, with which he embellishes the word “veglia” in the phrase “Ah! veglia o donna,” alone is worth coming any distance to hear!43

Don Giovanni with Battistini brightened the Covent Garden seasons in both 1905 and 1906, the second time with Emmy Destinn, Enrico Caruso, and Marcel Journet. And, as an anecdote would have it, for “Fin ch’an dal vino,” Battistini had the traditional stage tea replaced (at his expense) with real French champagne.44 Eugene Onegin, La traviata, and Aida were also on his Covent Garden schedule in 1906, whereas in 1905 Faust was the only other opera he performed there, with a stellar cast under the direction of Leopoldo Mugnone.

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Chapter 3 It was a full house yesterday . . . for Faust, performed for the first time this season—not surprisingly, since the cast was one of the finest ever to do Gounod’s opera in London. Queen Alexandra and the King of Greece occupied the royal box with Prince Nicholas and Princess Victoria. . . . Mme Melba sang more brilliantly than she has in years, her voice as clear and fresh as ever. Signor Zenatello likewise sang Faust admirably, while Signor Battistini effectively demonstrated that his reputation as the most eminent Valentin of his day was well deserved. Signor Didur, as Méphistophélès, was admirable in the first act, though in the garden scene and in the serenade he was slightly inclined to overact.45

Battistini’s success in London as Valentin is significant, since the role was one of the calling cards of Sir Charles Santley some forty years before. Bernard Shaw draws a vivid portrait of the creator of “Even bravest heart may swell.” [Santley] may be said to have created Valentin in Faust, as it was considered a minor part until he made it a leading one; yet I heard him, when he was about forty, play it in an unfinished, hail-fellow-well-met way even to the extent of rattling off Dio possente at the rate of a hundred crotchets per minute or thereabouts; and though he was tremendously in earnest in the death scene, the earnestness was by no means fully incorporated with the part.46

Shaw had a very precise idea about how Gounod’s Valentin should appear, a type seldom encountered in our modern productions of Faust. Goethe’s Valentin is a blunt and rather ruffianly medieval soldier, with all the indignant insistence on the need for virtue in other people which a man would naturally have after studying human nature in the course of helping to sack a town or two. His last words are a quaint combination of a regret that he cannot get at old Martha to blacken her eyes, with a reminder to the Almighty that a brave soldier is about to exercise his right of going to heaven. Gounod, who has no turn for this sort of realism, made Valentin a saint and a martyr; and the ideal actor for a true Gounod performance of the part is a dreamy and pathetically beautiful youth with a pure young voice. Jean de Reszke, when he sang baritone parts, and was eighteen years younger and some thirty pounds lighter than today, was far more moving and memorable as Valentin than Maurel is now, though Maurel acts with great power, and reconstitutes the medieval soldier in spite of Gounod’s teeth, or than Lassalle, who, conscious of his merits as a singer, avoids invidious comparisons by the quick-witted expedient of not acting at all.47

In his description of Gounod’s Valentin and what Jean de Reszke brought to the role, Shaw with his skepticism and sharp wit gets right to the heart of the

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matter; his approach shows the difference between art and life, how the work transforms the character, and the quality of the transformation. Battistini apparently approached the role from the same angle, to judge from this Russian press notice. As usual, Battistini astounded the public. The role of Valentin is not large, and might even be called secondary, but how the talent of Battistini transfigures it must be seen. . . . His performance is a model of artistic perfection, a true and rare masterpiece of vocal and dramatic art. Shunning all vulgar effects, Battistini sings the aria “Dio possente” with infinite nobility, but also great simplicity, without a trace of mannerism, without rushing the tempo in the middle part, without abusing ritards—in short, just as it was conceived, then composed, and as it should be sung, taking into consideration that it is a prayer, not a bravura aria, which other interpreters too often forget. And what force, what realism, in what ideal proportion in the duel scene! When he prepares to fight with a confident smile, Valentin tests his sword’s flexibility; we see before us the roughneck-soldier type of yore. Assuredly, Faust would have lost the fight if Mephisto had not helped him out. The death scene is done with terrifying realism. Those who see it, even only once, will never forget it. Struck by the fatal blow, Valentin falls, then tries to get up to reach his sword with trembling hand. His eyes glaze, his breathing becomes labored, but in one supreme effort he gets back on his feet, takes a few steps toward Marguerite, and, while pronouncing his malediction, falls back down like a tree struck by lightning, or like a strong lion shot unawares. In this scene, Battistini produced the grandest of impressions, unleashing a tempest of applause. Someone in the audience exclaimed, “If only we could all die a death as superb as that one!”48

Indeed, in Battistini’s lifetime, Faust was more widely admired than it is today. Among French operas, Gounod’s Faust is certainly the one that attracts the most enthusiasm in Italy, as much for the freshness of its melodies as for the deft construction of its libretto. After becoming a staple of the world repertory, its scenic attractions have to a considerable extent lost their edge, and the charm of its arias has somewhat vanished. Now, for it to be endurable, it demands a superlative performance, of the kind that is difficult to achieve. This was understood by the management of the Costanzi, who raised the level of the production with the presence of Mattia Battistini, the Prince of Baritones. Thus the public received the work enthusiastically when they saw him in the guise of Valentin. The whole audience knew of the great artist’s triumphs at the Liceu in Barcelona these last few weeks, when his divinely harmonious voice was greeted with many long ovations. He gave extraordinary depth to this

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Levik relates how he invited Battistini to come to the theater to hear him sing, and how disappointed he was when he found out Battistini was free only the night he was to sing Valentin, “not the Demon or Rigoletto as I would have preferred.” He was then surprised when the great baritone expressed keen interest and asked him whether he sang the aria in the original key, told him the great Devoyod “considered Valentin to be one of his most interesting roles,” and described all the nobility and bravery of the character. Levik somewhat flippantly observes that this was “the only occasion when I heard or read of any Italian singer’s aesthetic judgment on a role performed.”50 Could Levik have been serious? Certainly he must have known that Battistini himself sang Valentin and did not consider it a negligible part. The anecdote simply provides a means for Levik to state smugly how Italian singers succeed through the superficiality of their approach, and to imply its universal truth, by making the exception the rule. We might add that the classic Renaissance design of Battistini’s Valentin costume was inspired by the paintings of Albrecht Dürer. Its decorative frills make us laugh today, but all baritones of the time would have dressed similarly for the part. In early 1906, along with Faust, Battistini sang Un ballo in maschera at the Costanzi. We must admit that the greatest success of the evening was Mattia Battistini. He surpassed himself, and the ovations eclipsed perhaps all that the Prince of Baritones has received up to now. After the aria “Alla vita che t’arride” the applause broke out, went on, increased until shouts of “encore!” rang out. Battistini repeated the aria, with that artistic power and dramatic perfection that only he possesses. A triumph in the duet with [the soprano] De Lerma, again in the aria “Eri tu,” at once tender, caressing, and poignant. He took his listeners through all emotions, giving incredible shading and depth to key passages. A genuine ovation thanked him; a laurel crown was presented to him, and never was it so well deserved.51

Two years later, in Warsaw: Battistini is the Last of the Mohicans of Italian bel canto, which since the eighteenth century enchanted Europe nonstop until the advent of Wagner. The old-school performers of the music of Mercadante, Bellini, and

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Donizetti have vanished, and the new singers look the other way, toward a music where the orchestra plays a greater role than the voice. Therefore, we are doubly delighted to have heard an artist ideally blessed with the art of song. It takes many elements to form the living masterpiece that Battistini is, and he possesses all of them on the highest level: admirable vocal cords, whose perfect emission will touch every heart; dutiful breath control that makes him the master of every phrase he sings; the highest degree of musical cultivation that one can imagine; and an infallible, impeccable sense of taste that always charms. And such richness of tone color, so creamysmooth and subtle; such mezza voce, such flexibility in florid singing, such a miraculous trill . . . One could be accused of going overboard with the praise even by telling the absolute truth, but the qualities of this gentleman exceed the scope of a newspaper report. I especially like his Renato [in Ballo], a monumental creation. What a magnificent figure we see before us! Every step, every movement, every gesture indicate a powerful man, accustomed to giving orders. And along with that, a sense of balance, natural and exquisite behavior, an incredible talent for playing the part. When the action heats up, so do the histrionics, but they never descend into exaggeration. Every detail is carefully planned, yet remains entirely right and natural.52

Again, Battistini is described as the last representative of the bel canto tradition. It is unusual for an artist to be so deified during his lifetime and for his artistic ideals to earn such deep appreciation. Verdi was the composer whose music Battistini sang most often, and one certainly cannot deny the success he enjoyed in his various incarnations of Verdi roles, or his contribution to the dissemination of his operas. In the years leading up to World War I, Battistini’s engagements took him to the far corners of Europe, from Barcelona and Seville to Vienna and Prague, from Berlin to Parma and Milan, from Warsaw to Moscow and St. Petersburg. It is during this politically turbulent period that Palmegiani situates an exchange of dialogue that allegedly took place the day after a certain grand duke had escorted Battistini home in his coach. “I commend your courage.” “What courage?” asks the King of Baritones, dumbfounded. “You really ran the risk of being shot. It was not until I’d returned to the palace that I realized how clearly this carriage displayed two large imperial coats of arms. . . . You understand, if some terrorist had taken it into his head to act . . . in the night . . . well, goodbye Battistini. But we made it!” And he laughed.53

As for Battistini, he never looked back on the event without a shudder. In late 1910, during one of his infrequent engagements at La Scala, Battistini brought

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back his Simon Boccanegra (which he had first sung in Milan in 1890) in a run of fifteen triumphant performances. Mattia Battistini: a name and a program, an artist and an institution, a personality, but also a glory. Milan has been waiting for him for twenty years. After he has toured and retoured the continent of Europe to universal acclaim, we find him today even more youthful and more expressive than ever. For the occasion, they have revived Simon Boccanegra, inconceivable without such a star. In fact, in such an opera it is not enough for one artist to carry the performance: the entire cast must be on the same high level. It requires complete perfection. Noble deportment, polished singing, incisive diction and phrasing, penetrating eyes, imperious gestures, authoritative acting: these are all the things one must possess, or rather should possess, to perform the Doge. And all of them are found in the person of Mattia Battistini. In addition, he has the passion of a lover, the affection of a father, the pride of a despot, the audacity of a leader, and the spirit of forgiveness. Everything that the character of Simon requires, Battistini conveyed. In every act and every scene, he proved himself equal to the demands of the drama and the music. But it was especially in the great Council Chamber Scene, invaded by the restless populace, that he attained the highest level of nobility. In that scene, Battistini was truly great: through his lofty characterization, dignified acting, noble gestures, and intense acting. . . . In the Golden Chronicle of La Scala a page was written last evening that can be called historic.54

It is interesting to compare the above commentary with what was reported when the same production of Boccanegra was done a few months later on the same stage, but with another baritone. Simon Boccanegra, which was sung earlier this season by the illustrious Battistini, has just been done by Giraldoni, well known to the Milanese public as well as to the Scala audience. It was said on this occasion, and with some justification, that Battistini represents the most classic school, whereas Giraldoni is an artist of the modern school. Battistini impresses with his velvety voice, masterful artistry, the beauty of his portamenti, his singing a fior di labbro, and amazing breath control. Giraldoni sought his effects through different means: essentially, with forceful and sometimes violent articulation—efficacious, certainly, but often at odds with vocal correctness. Ultimately, this performer subjects his interpretive intentions to his vocal means, whereas Battistini, on the other hand, as worthy representative of the noble art of interpretation, assumes his responsibility as a singer, never losing sight of style and technique.55

This description of two opposite aesthetics is developed quite cleverly. Although at first it seems to underestimate Battistini’s qualities, it depicts the ex-

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pressionist style even less flatteringly when it describes what singers who try to be spontaneous are forced to sacrifice. An aesthetic controversy was brewing at the start of the twentieth century, yet it seems clear that, in the field of singing, Battistini was the most eminent representative of a tradition that was under attack from all quarters. The new wave of inferior creativity bursting onto the scene was reduced to challenging the very notions of perfection, beauty, and art in a desperate attempt to achieve legitimacy.

THE RECORDINGS, 1906–1913 The 1906 recording sessions in Milan are generally believed to have occurred in the early part of November—on the twelfth of the month, perhaps, with another session the following day. This is plausible, though there exist two documents written in Battistini’s hand listing the titles recorded and the matrix numbers of the discs, labeled “Impressione ottobre 1906.” To narrow the date down a bit further, one should know that a contract between the singer and the Gramophone Company Limited (Italy) was signed on 24 October and filed on 26 October under the number 5697, volume 1538. That would leave a little less than a week to accomplish the recordings before the end of the month, if they were indeed made in October. On the other hand, the agreement dated 24 October, signed by the director of the record firm in Italy, Kenneth Muir, projects completion of the project toward the second half of November. The 1906 group constitutes one of the most extraordinary successes of Battistini’s recorded legacy, as much for its choice of material and the performances as for its technical quality. Unfortunately, the technical process did not thereafter improve in such a way as to permit us to hear Battistini’s voice in its different shades of timbre, size, and volume reproduced more and more faithfully every time; indeed, the 1911 recordings are quite inferior. Fortunately, the 1912 set is of high quality, while in the 1913 group the voice sounds as though it is at the end of a tube, and so on. Beginning in 1906, Battistini’s accompaniment was overseen by Carlo Sabajno, a fine conductor and a good friend of the singer. The recording producer Fred Gaisberg relates that “before signing his gramophone contract, he insisted on a special Battistini label to distinguish his records from those of all other artists.”56 Some might interpret this fact as evidence of his eccentricity . . . until they learn that Patti already had her own pink label, Melba her fuchsia, Caruso his red, and Ruffo his dark green. Interestingly, the old-school singers chose light colors, but the new singers preferred darker ones. Battistini picked a bright orange that might be described as

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buttercup, a warm, luminous shade that evokes his tone color particularly well. The angel engraving a groove with his plume above the title and name of the interpreter is silver. The discs themselves are thick, measure thirty centimeters in diameter, and their very appearance would have signaled high quality to the prospective buyer. The duet “Là ci darem la mano” with Emilia Corsi was the last excerpt from Don Giovanni that Battistini would record. In the line “Io ti voglio sposar” during the introductory recitative, his insertion of a breath before the word “sposar” might raise some eyebrows; some might even point to it as proof that Battistini took his breaths without regard to meaning or syntax. Here, however, the breath clearly emphasizes the Don’s innuendo and hypocrisy. Purists, beware: Battistini ends the recitative with an amazing piano high F-sharp! What certainty do we have that Mozart never heard it sung that way or with other such interpolations, or that he expected his notes to be sung precisely as written? Manuel García the Younger’s 1847 Traité complet de l’art du chant discusses the matter of style as it might have applied to such music in an era not long after Mozart’s lifetime. Luigi Bassi, who created the role of Don Giovanni, lived until 1826, and Manuel García’s own father (born in 1775) also sang the part. García fils gives much advice about the sort of embellishments that an educated singer would have been expected to incorporate into a performance (note that it was not a matter of liberties tolerated but a mark of accomplishment), including several possible variants for this very passage—one of which is a jump to the high F-sharp. The duet proper is full of warmth, charm, and seductiveness, aided by a tempo that gradually speeds up, pulling Zerlina irresistibly toward temptation. From Mozart, one of the most famous composers, we turn to Hérold, one of the lesser-known ones, even though his 1831 Zampa was quite popular in the nineteenth century. In Battistini’s recording of an excerpt from this opera (“Perchè tremar”), one hears the well-intoned low D-flat. It deserves our attention, because the majority of the low notes we hear on Battistini’s records sound rather weak (as many commentators are quick to point out). At extremes of his range one notices that later on, when he is about to attack a high A-flat, he seems to back away from the horn. And the same low D-flat in the repeat of the same phrase loses its color, resembling the washed-out low tones one usually hears on Battistini’s records. It is possible that the singer did not bother to prepare such low notes when focusing on his highs, but it remains no less a fact that he was capable of singing low notes with all the necessary richness of tone. In the Guillaume Tell aria we even hear a full-bodied low C, which not all Verdi baritones possess. Nevertheless, just as Bugatti motorcars were designed for speed and not for cruising (as their inventor Ettore

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Bugatti liked to say), it is not at low range but high above the staff that Battistini’s voice shines. Alfonso (in La favorita) was another of Battistini’s signature roles. When he recorded “A tanto amor” in 1906, he was (at age fifty) still at his vocal peak, as one might gather from the following review of a 1909 Prague performance. When it concerns old Italian operas, we have become accustomed no longer to ask what is being sung but who is singing. Yesterday Battistini gave a magnificent answer of the question in Donizetti’s Favorita. His personality dominated the entire opera. He was King Alfonso, genuinely the king as both singer and artist. The whole role is perfectly conceived; one could hardly say more than that, and all criticism should cease before an artist of such quality. One does not analyze such singing, one delights in it. This voice is astounding, like a precious Guarneri cello played by a master musician. The soul that projects tones such as these must be a lofty one; a musical phrase from this gullet speaks more than any singing treatise. Such noble timing of every note, delicious evenness in all registers, and incomparable breath control! The great third-act aria sparked a storm of applause, a tempest ending in a shower of flowers! A southern atmosphere filled the house: all Italy sang in this throat.57

Is “A tanto amor” really such a showpiece? In the opera, the number is actually cast as a trio, composed in a way that makes it possible to extract Alfonso’s solo line and perform it as an aria. It has no vocal acrobatics, no loud high notes. The great effect Battistini made with it seems to have been due to his tone, variously described as noble, oxygenated, shimmering, calm, smilingly nostalgic, and of a generous, magnanimous temperament. But the achievement of all this requires not only exceptional musical intelligence but perfect placement of the voice; otherwise the plainness of unornamented singing tends to expose the singer’s vocal limitations, resulting in the uningratiating, cardboardish tone so characteristic of post–World War II baritones. On Battistini’s 1906 recording (he would make another in 1924, to be discussed later), notice the beautiful fortissimo i on the word felice during the melody’s reexposition, with the interpolation of an F-sharp in place of the written D. Another much-praised item among the 1906 recordings is “O Lisbona!” from Donizetti’s Don Sebastiano (one wonders how much of this praise is due merely to the rarity of the piece). Battistini’s spellbinding timbre and phrasing have never been equaled by other baritones who attempt this piece, even if the recording gives only a hint of the enchantment that contemporary audiences actually heard in the theater (he sang the role of Camoëns in a production of the work at the Teatro Costanzi in Rome in April 1911).

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Another work that Battistini had few opportunities to perform was Berlioz’s La damnation de Faust. But the success he achieved in it appears to have encouraged him to record Méphistophélès’s aria “Voici des roses” (which he sings in Italian, of course). This piece often proves problematic, especially from the technical standpoint. So many baritones sing it with a colorless, hushed timbre. Occasionally a light baritone gets through it by delicately shading the tone and proceeding on tiptoes, but it is not a drawing room melody. The other challenge involves characterization: the music falls flat when the singer tries to convey a larger-than-life devil. The irony of the “Song of the Flea” or the raillery of the “Serenade” are more obvious features of a diabolic portrait, but certain challenges remain for the interpretation of the elusive “Rose Aria.” Assigning a chaste or perhaps purgative solo to a villain is a typically French stroke, and the performer who fails to integrate this essential element into his conception misses the style of the role. Battistini here offers a sublime interpretation, neither singing it daintily nor stifling his manly tone. The line is spun in supernaturally long breaths, allowing the listener to contemplate human life from a heavenly vantage point. Note the splendid ascending portamento when the phrase seems to be coming to an end. It is a pity that Battistini did not see fit to record Méphistophélès’s other two solos (he sang the “Song of the Flea” at score pitch, the “Serenade” down a minor third); perhaps he thought the “Rose Aria” best showed off his vocalism.58 Also in the 1906 series is an unexpected excerpt from Martha, “Il mio Lionel.” Flotow’s opera is better represented on seventy-eight rpm disc than one might think: Edouard de Reszke and Pol Plançon, Melba, Gigli, and many others cut notable recordings of its arias and ensembles, quite popular of yore. The unsigned program notes to the first volume of Pearl’s CD collection of Battistini’s recordings (GEMM CD 9936) erroneously speculate that, because “Il mio Lionel” is not found in the German score, it must be an aria di baule (perhaps not by Flotow) that Battistini sang whenever he performed the opera. In fact, the aria is printed in the Italian score at the beginning of the fourth act and can also be found in published anthologies of favorite numbers from the opera. To accommodate the limited playing time of a seventy-eight rpm side, Battistini sings only the first verse of the piece. In 1906, Battistini sang Ernani no more often than in any other year (he was slated to do the opera in Barcelona a month after his recording sessions), so his decision to record the essence of his role of Don Carlo (in five excerpts, not all of them predictable choices) was probably motivated by his desire to leave an anthology of his art. In the much-acclaimed, unrivaled “Vieni meco,” one can hear his limpid, youthful-sounding pianissimo, as well as a striking crescendo. “O de’ verd’anni miei” allows the voice to shine quite differently, through a variety of expressive means. “O sommo Carlo” is certainly the finest

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of the five titles, exuding tragic grandeur right from the beginning; Battistini evokes the atmosphere of the tomb and the memories associated with it without undue emphasis. The voice seems inspired, iridescent, in calm suspension. Notice the beautiful sound on virtudi, and the brilliance of the high notes stems from his perfect control between registers, even in subtly shaded passages. After a resonant E-flat, the voice rises to a radiant high A-flat, probably the most beautiful on record. Was Battistini the first to interpolate this high note, attempted by every baritone who succeeded him? The voice emerges from the choral ensemble with imperial authority, and the excitement he generates seems to infect all his supporting colleagues. One needs to listen to this recording several times to discern the magic of this voice that commands a full-toned pianissimo and an effortless forte, all the time communicating a sense of grandeur and bravura. Battistini also recorded in 1906 Renato’s two arias from Un ballo in maschera. “Alla vita che t’arride” displays nobility and flair, while “Eri tu” (one of the most beautiful of Battistini’s recordings) is a combination of rage, nostalgia, and the inner sadness of friendship betrayed. If in certain passages Battistini’s clear voice disconcerts those who have come to expect a dark timbre, surely they cannot deny its supreme, unsurpassable beauty. Battistini sings the low A of “avveleni per me” up an octave. It must be said that the low A is badly placed for a high baritone, as one always hears an awkward register shift here. Titta Ruffo, despite a darker timbre that would lead one to expect strength in the lower register, takes the same high alternative in his 1915 recording. Many other baritones, on the other hand, force themselves to respect the low note.59 Certainly Battistini, who recorded the version he sang in the theater, must have felt it was useless to emit a sound that would not carry sufficiently in the opera house and that disrupted the expressive flow. One must not be hasty to condemn such a procedure. A written note is not necessarily singable or well chosen. Verdi prided himself on not writing for any singer in particular, even when he knew their vocal capabilities, but by proceeding thus, while obliging the singers to perfect their technique and outdo themselves, it is sometimes difficult to avoid pitfalls. In any case, here is an excellent example in support of the argument that singers should not be enslaved to the written score. Compared to most all other recorded versions of “Eri tu,” Battistini’s stands out for the poetry and solar energy it exudes, transporting the listener to heights of artistic jubilation. The others (with the exception of De Luca’s) sound more conventionally somber and moody, allegedly befitting a Verdian heavy. Obviously, those who expect the classic reading to reflect precisely this dark coloration will not be won over by the Battistini recording, no doubt considering it too “light.” Nevertheless, several commentators (including

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Lauri-Volpi and Palmegiani) have rightly pointed out its ethereally sublime quality, unparalleled in the reflective middle section (“O dolcezze perdute”). In Battistini’s performance one understands the need for the flute accompaniment, which sounds inappropriate when juxtaposed with a dark, granitetimbred baritone (one wonders, why not an oboe instead?). Here the voice turns to crystal, losing none of its body at the pianissimo level. Nor does the lightening of timbre interrupt the flow of air; the voice maintains its roundness, fullness, brilliance, and support. To conclude this survey of the 1906 recordings, a word about the piece titled “Bella Italia” (beginning with the words “Or limpida m’appare”), extracted from the 1905 opera Per la patria by Battistini’s nephew, Goffredo Cocchi (and not the eighteenth-century Neapolitan composer Gioacchino Cocchi, as Frank Granville-Barker writes in the booklet notes to the seven-LP Battistini anthology released on EMI). The work was performed at the Teatro Costanzi in Rome as well as the Teatro Vespasiano in Rieti. Judging from this excerpt, the music is quite listenable, in the verismo style. To the best of my knowledge, the 1906 series was the only one not to include any songs. The 1911 recording sessions, still in Milan and scheduled over four days, comprised selections by nine of the great opera composers: Donizetti, Bellini, Thomas, Wagner, Verdi, Gounod, Massenet, Leoncavallo, and Puccini, of whom the last three were still living (and Battistini had met them). Accompanied only by piano, the charming duet from Donizetti’s La favorita “In questo suolo . . . Ah! l’alto ardor” shows for the first time how Battistini’s voice could blend with that of another singer (in this case, a mezzosoprano by the name of Tilde Carotini). Particularly noteworthy is the concluding cadenza, which is, not surprisingly, a bit more ornate than in the score. This is the only other La favorita excerpt Battistini recorded.60 The introductory recitative to Chevreuse’s act 3 aria “Bella e di sol vestita” from Donizetti’s Maria di Rohan (with orchestra, but sung without the cabaletta on this occasion) is marked by some amazing contrasts, seemingly improvised on the spot. It would be easy to accuse Battistini of not paying attention to the score here. But on close examination, one notices that the composer’s many dynamic, intonational, and tempo markings suggest precisely the kind of result that Battistini achieves. It seems Levik was particularly impressed by this technique and recognized it as comparable to what he so admired in his idol, Chaliapin. The aria proper recalls the lyricism of “Una furtiva lagrima.” The voice, drawing on the subtlest of expressive nuances, hovers between rage and tears, as in a state of utter emotional destitution. The cadenza (improved by Battistini) adds to the effect. As for the Bellini items, Riccardo’s cabaletta (“Bel sogno beato”) from I puritani was recorded three days after its cavatina (“Ah! per sempre”). Was the

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idea to record the cabaletta merely an afterthought, done at the baritone’s insistence? Or did some outside factor prevent the two solos from being sung and recorded in the same session? In these two excerpts (both with orchestra), Battistini shows that a respect for the style does not imply the adoption of an effeminate, evanescent timbre. The phrasing is firm, sometimes heroic, but not brutish. The cabaletta begins with a broad line and is not subjected to the usual cut. Notice how the singer uses portamento to link the “oh dolce, oh dolce memoria” coda to the main body of the cabaletta, a good example of the bel cantist’s long breath. The florid lines are exemplary, and the rubato never interrupts the flow of the line. In this performance, the music seems to take on its true dimension. Only one other version of Riccardo’s aria (but without the cabaletta) comes close to matching the quality of Battistini’s: Giuseppe De Luca’s 1922 recording. Its tone is quite different, however. Both baritones, having benefited from Persichini’s coaching, allow us to suppose that their teacher did not want them to produce carbon copies of a stereotypical interpretation, but to understand whatever they sang and to effect a synthesis of their vocal resources and artistic personality. Listening to either or both of these versions makes one feel one is hearing Bellini’s music performed precisely as it was meant to be. The style required for Bellini would certainly not be appropriate for Ambroise Thomas, and yet after hearing Battistini’s 1911 recording of “Come il romito fior” [Comme une pâle fleur] one understands why the composer reportedly liked Battistini’s interpretation of Hamlet above all others.61 In listening to any version of this piece by his contemporary Maurice Renaud, one cannot help noticing, among the good qualities, less subtlety and contrast. One might argue, justifiably, that Renaud was going for the melancholic detachment of the Shakespearean character, and that he achieved it well.62 But such an objective runs the risk of monotony or boredom, words that could never be applied to a Battistini performance! The hero’s discouragement is expressed in Battistini’s recording, but not to the exclusion of other emotions—far from it! The voice finds an infinite number of subtleties and colors to bring out the character, and the low register is quite resonant. But it is the other aria from Hamlet that attracts more notice: the brindisi, which shimmers with youthful ardor at a particularly brisk tempo. Avoiding a too-casual approach for this hackneyed number, Battistini builds up energy, which peaks in the vocalise on the motif enriched by a variant with a crescendo on high G, only to be linked in the same breath to the recapitulated theme—the most amazing example of this device, so characteristic of the singer. By comparison, Ruffo’s performance sounds labored and unmusical; there is nothing of Hamlet in his passionate temperament or his beefy voice. Worth noting on the Battistini recording: the switching of the accent on “o liquore.”

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For the 1911 series, Battistini chose to remake his “Hymn to the Evening Star” (this time with orchestra, but still transposed up a tone and performed in separate movements, as in the version edited for tenor), besides recording two additional excerpts from Tannhäuser. These three solos of Wolfram add up to a conception of the character and music quite different from what we are used to. There are those who would peremptorily call these performances unstylish and accuse Battistini of not understanding German music, but the openminded listener will find much to admire in them. As we have already seen, the desire to preserve a modicum of the dramatic context of an aria often led Battistini to record its introductory recitative, despite the time limitations of the seventy-eight rpm side. This practice leaves time enough only for one verse of the Traviata “Di Provenza.” At age fifty-five, with his iridescent timbre and creamy phrasing, Battistini paints a convincing father image in a role too often played unsympathetically, giving Germont père greater benevolence—an interpretation entirely in keeping with the music and the character. The tune of “Di Provenza” is often considered trite and monotonous, and to compare Battistini’s version of it with Ruffo’s is to understand why. The latter’s prosaic, academic approach is in utter contrast to Battistini’s subtle way of transforming the repetitive phrases into a tender rocking motion. Germont, the father who protects his children, and Valentin, the soldier who defends his sister, have a number of points in common. For his second (and last) recording of “Dio possente” (with brassy orchestra instead of piano), Battistini includes the introductory “O santa medaglia.” The high G’s are masterful, the middle section of the aria ideally heroic, belying the image of Battistini the salon artist specializing in sugary romances. Because of this aria’s popularity, it acquired a number of embellishments over the years; hence the first top G was often replaced by an E-flat even by baritones who could sing the higher note (like Magini-Coletti or De Luca). De Luca, in fact, opts for the E-flat in his 1919 Victor recording but goes back to the G in 1929. Battistini, however, confines himself to two minor changes: singing up an octave on the C of the main theme’s reprise and on the final cadence. If Battistini enjoyed singing Faust, he adored doing Werther. That he, a baritone, should sing the title role frequently meets with critical disapproval, giving rise to a number of misconceptions about the nature of the Battistini version and conclusions about how singers of the past performed their music in whatever way struck their fancy.63 In fact, Massenet was rather inclined to make more changes to the vocal line than he did, while Battistini deliberately chose to stick as close as possible to the original tenor version (thus Massenet had initially thought of converting the high F-sharp of the entrance phrase to a D). “Ma come dopo,” the first title recorded (on 2 June 1911), condenses two

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successive solos from the second act in order to fit them on one seventy-eight side. The impact Battistini made in the role of Werther is revealed here perhaps more completely than in the “Ossian Stanzas.” If one compares his interpretation with the classic—and very beautiful—Georges Thill recording, one is struck by the greater force of the Italian’s passion, which at the end settles into the stark calm of suppressed tears. On the same day, Battistini recorded the famous “Ah! non mi ridestar.” Obviously, this version is disorienting to the collector familiar with the original tenor aria, but after a couple of hearings, its fine qualities emerge: Werther’s oversensitive, cerebral nature is in the voice as well as in the new, highly effective contours of the melodic line. Guillaume Ibos relates how he felt this aria should be interpreted. Massenet wanted [the tune] sung fast, which made it sound a little like a song then in vogue (“Ta-ra-ra-boum di hé!”) It gave me that impression, and a critic from the Petit Journal made a point of emphasizing it. So I asked [the composer], “Do you want to hear how I think it should be sung?” “Yes, yes!” So I sang “Pourquoi me réveiller au souffle du printemps” at a much slower, more sustained tempo, in the style of a Romantic lied. “That’s perfect! Sing it just like that!” He had also marked pianissimo for the A-sharp on the closing “Pourquoi me réveiller.” “I am going to sing it for you the way I feel it, and instead of pianissimo, I will substitute a fortissimo; and on “au souffle du printemps” I will sing pianissimo in the first stanza, and fortissimo in the second.” “Very well,” [Massenet] said, and he entered the changes into the score immediately.64

Ibos is not always the most reliable of sources, and his record does not reflect what he describes. Nor do we find any trace of it in the records of Van Dyck, Anselmi, or Clément. On the other hand, it is exactly what Battistini does on his: the quiet, suspended F-sharp is unforgettable, the fortissimo note shattering. Battistini paid further tribute to Massenet with “D’acqua aspergimi” from Thaïs, a duet in the oasis scene, added by the composer for the opera’s 1897 revival. Battistini had first tried out this number with Ebbe Boccolini before recording it with Attilia Janni. In spite of its uniquely calm and tender mood, one cannot help regretting that “Voilà donc la terrible cité” was not recorded in its place. Just three years before, Battistini’s Athanaël was reviewed in the Warsaw press. Like all artists of the top rank, Battistini not only carefully studies the character he performs but often retouches and fills it in. He perfects the master’s work, as he did yesterday so admirably, by giving greater consistency and psychological truth to his Athanaël than either the composer or the typical performers have been able to. Yesterday he created a model, masterfully developing the subtlest nuances of the cenobite’s soul. With his

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Chapter 3 admirable gestures and facial expressions he expressed that which, alas, the music of Massenet does not express very clearly. He did not wait for the moment he returned Thaïs to the convent to fall passionately in love with her. From the moment Thaïs decides to seduce him with her carnal beauty, Battistini’s face expressed not a horror for this type of temptation but a violent and involuntary physical attraction. The tone became more and more intense until it erupted like a volcano in the scene of despair after the departure of Thaïs. It was human and genuine, much truer than the vague psychology of the Athanaël of Massenet and of other singers we have seen. As for the singing, everyone who knows the perfection of Battistini’s voice and acting will understand what he was able to make of the role of Athanaël.65

The Pagliacci prologue, recorded on two seventy-eight rpm sides, constituted another Battistini tribute to a living composer, Leoncavallo. The complex score markings are perfectly mastered and brought to life in a way that sounds spontaneous. When the voice adopts a limpid piano on “Un nido di memorie,” the emotional effect overwhelms the listener. And his parlando effects, indicated in the score but often unobserved by other singers, here give the music its true verismo stamp. Commentators often wonder who first interpolated the high A-flat and G at the end of the prologue; they certainly would not have been added by Maurel, whose range was limited. Jean Cabourg attributes them to Titta Ruffo,66 but the latter’s recording of the prologue was made the year after Battistini’s. Moreover, Battistini had begun singing the work only two years after the world premiere, several years before Ruffo embarked on his career, and there is no reason to think Battistini always performed it come scritto—hence, no reason to attribute the high interpolations to Ruffo. The Tosca excerpt, Scarpia’s solo in the first-act finale’s “Te Deum,” obviously posed a severe challenge in 1911 (note the cymbal crash, sans harmonics). However, to our ears Battistini comes across powerfully, his voice combining malevolence with jubilation. As a Warsaw critic reported a few years earlier: Battistini incarnates the role of Scarpia splendidly. It was only to be expected, for the role suits his voice and his art to perfection. It abounds in forceful dialogue and singing lines requiring subtle nuance, wherein (it goes without saying) Battistini is a consummate artist. As an actor, the role presents a greater challenge for him, but he emerged victorious, especially in the torture scene. He conveyed great dramatic strength as much through his voice as through his expressions. Where he excelled most of all was in the murder scene, enacted realistically and, at the same time, with great taste and dramatic intensity. As for his physical appearance, unfortunately it failed

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to emphasize the perversity and meanness of the ferocious Roman chief of police. A few touches of makeup here and there might have given Scarpia a more evil expression.67

The rest of the 1911 set comprises song material, beginning with Gounod’s “Le soir.” Battistini sings it with utter commitment, true to the romantic exaltation of the Lamartine poem, avoiding the gutless salon approach to which French mélodie is all too frequently subjected. Every word conveys its meaning in conjunction with, and not in spite of, the melody, and the ebb and flow of the music unfolds naturally. In the score, the third syllable of the word taciturne is marked diminuendo, seemingly interrupting the mounting crescendo, but Battistini saves the subito piano until after his voice reaches a forte level. Not that this effect would have posed any difficulty for him, of all singers: it was certainly a deliberate choice. (Renaud sings the passage identically in his 1901 G&T recording, a performance that is otherwise less polished by comparison.) Battistini sings the E-flat up an octave on “qui ne doit pas finir,” the high pianissimo gradually fading into golden silence. The other songs all deserve mention. There are four by Tosti: “Amour, amour” (sung in French); the sublime “Ideale,” which he later rerecorded for Fonotecnica; a caressingly beautiful “Serenata” (popularized via the Patti and Melba records); and “Non m’ama più,” bathed in melancholy. The two Rotoli songs (“Mia sposa sarà la mia bandiera” and “La gondola nera”) are infused with romanticism. Last but not least are Denza’s “Culto” and Quaranta’s “O ma charmante.” In the latter, the reexposition of the melody is notably taken at a slower tempo and gradually brought up to speed. Today, it seems unlikely that the operas of Meyerbeer will ever regain the popularity they enjoyed until roughly the turn of the twentieth century. Part of the reason for their initial success was due no doubt to their spectacular scenic elements. Nevertheless, they required singers with exceptional vocal and dramatic capabilities such as those possessed by Battistini. The virtuosity in the three excerpts from L’Africana that he recorded in May 1912 is amazing, the vitality and variety of tone unequaled. These three recordings (“Figlia di regi,” “Quando amor m’accende,” and “Averla tanto amata”) seem particularly successful; the voice and its gleaming timbre ring out with great immediacy, even if the music itself strikes us as inferior. Just a month before Battistini made these records, a critic had this to say about his performance of Nélusko. The artist performs the vocal part of his role with care, or rather, through him the intelligent listener delights in the singing most of all. . . . The voice was clear and fresh, the melody flowed easily; all the pianos were velvety smooth. There was a highly dramatic emphasis to the famous artist’s interpretation, and in the fourth-act oath scene this dramatism attained its peak.

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Chapter 3 Battistini’s acting is characteristic and deeply felt; the gestures invariably corresponded to the words, and vice-versa. Some of the darker effects are uncouth and violent, though never to the point of affectation. The impression produced on the public was considerable.68

Battistini’s interpretative powers assert themselves no less effectively in the recitative leading into “Resta immobile” from Rossini’s William Tell, where he strikes just the right emotional tone with his voice flowing, in quasireligious suspension, and a crescendo on the penultimate syllable of “Guglielmo.” A comprehensive image of the hero appears before us in this short passage. The aria itself blends vocal suavity and revolt, tenderness and fierceness, all without resorting to sentimentality. Battistini never simplifies the phrase or the feeling: he enriches it. A year before he made this record, he was applauded in Rome for his marvelously patriotic and heroic William Tell. His voice, which he knows how to fine-tune to perfection, worked wonders. At the end of the big third-act scene, he was the object of an interminable ovation and had to repeat the aria “Resta immobile.” . . . Battistini [is] not only the defender of the healthy tradition of Italian singing but also an admirable and genuine tragedian, with a matchless talent.69

Among the 1912 harvest are three Donizetti recordings, including two excerpts from Linda di Chamounix. The aria “Ambo nati in queste valle” is sung majestically, with superb expression. As always, Battistini seems uninfluenced by any studio restrictions or conditions. It is quite common to attribute the dullness of many of today’s opera stars’ recital albums to the absence of an audience that responds and encourages. Indeed, the editing techniques of modern studio recordings damage the musical and dramatic coherence of the performance, not to mention the rapport between the singer and the recording director, who observes with score in hand like an examiner relegating the artist to the role of student, in a manner hardly conducive to the flowering of artistic expression. The duet “Un buon servo del visconte,” with Maria Moscisca, is a remarkably fine performance; Battistini at times holds the voice back, then lets it surge forward for a moment, inflecting every phrase with eloquent contrasts. Quite different in tone is his “Cruda, funesta smania” from Lucia, which paints a striking image of a soul in torment; Ashton’s rage permeates the aria from start to finish. This is Battistini not in his elegiac or amorous mode but at his most feverish and inflammatory, spitting venom with startling dramatic force. He seems to be answering the challenge this music posed at the time, in defiance of its out-of-dateness and vocal difficulty. Rather than fitting some

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preconceived mold, Battistini’s Donizetti records are all unique, each displaying the mood and expression appropriate to the specific selection. Of his Belcore (in L’Elisir d’Amore) and Malatesta (in Don Pasquale) there are, unfortunately, no recordings. We do find among this group, however, recorded samples of four important Verdi roles in which Battistini excelled. In “O mia Gilda” (the last-act duet from Rigoletto, with Moscisca) the voice sounds more youthful than one would expect. The interpolated closing high A-flat on maledizione has become standard. (In the early months of 1912 preceding the making of this record on 25 May, Battistini had sung Rigoletto, one of his most performed roles, in St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Odessa.) The duet from the second act of La traviata (again with Moscisca) includes the recitative “Madimagella Valéry?” and Germont’s “Pura siccome un angelo”—every word, every note delicately interlaced and tinged with aching melancholy; no other version comes near to matching the atmosphere of this wonderful recording. Just as extraordinary is Iago’s “Era la notte,” which Battistini transposes a semitone upward. His dynamic shading causes the voice to evaporate into the ether in a strangely ingratiating delirium, only to return with mad force; the effect is unforgettable, overwhelming. Maurel’s version sounds plain and good-natured by comparison. Finally, in “Pietà, rispetto e amore” (preceded by the recitative) Battistini conveys all the torment of Macbeth’s last moments without resorting to overexaggeration. He invests his timbre with great intensity and phrases with utter strength of conviction. It is sung at a quicker tempo than we are used to hearing today, and the cadential high A-flat, thrust with amazing force, is enough to stun any modern listener. One detects the echo of the impact Battistini makes on this record in the following press reactions to his 1911 Macbeth at the Teatro Costanzi in Rome. In full possession of his vocal resources, Battistini, in the effectiveness of his dramatic touches, absolute science of his vocal emission, and expressive tenderness of the utmost delicacy, was truly inspired. His singing is an entire lesson for the young school: a defense of good taste and a reminder of the grand, noble tradition that he incarnates in all its purity.70

And: Battistini was a Macbeth of impressive dramatic intensity, his acting uniquely effective. But it is useless to elaborate yet again on his consummate acting, admired for so many years now. In the banquet scene, when the silent, motionless ghost of Banquo appears and a wave of terror passes through the soul of the murderer, Battistini struck some visually powerful tragic poses; likewise in the third-act scene, when the insomniac king

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Chapter 3 visits the cave of the witches to learn his destiny. If it was the actor who triumphed in these scenes, it was the singer who asserted himself in an incomparable manner in the last act. The aria “Pietà, rispetto e amore” was encored following a wild ovation. There were many in the upper balconies who shouted for him to sing it a third time, which he did, with the same polished art and robust voice.71

Although today the music of Anton Rubinstein may hold less interest for us than that of the great Verdi, it was only right that Battistini record something for his Russian fans, and the composer (whom he had met) may have expressed a wish to see him add Néron to his repertory. Thus we have Battistini’s recording of Vindex’s mock Epithalamium “Imen! Imen!” [I sing to thee, divine Hymen!], from act 1 of that opera, accompanied by piano and sung with conviction. After his pleasant experiences singing Werther and Athanaël, Battistini paid homage to Massenet by recording “Vision fugitive” from Hérodiade (sung in Italian, and again with only piano accompaniment, played perhaps by Sabajno). The voice, with its grandeur and warmth, takes possession of this solo and fills it with life. The style is majestic and extrovert, intended to thrill to the maximum. Renaud’s 1908 Gramophone version (with orchestra) is considered today the definitive performance of this aria: the authentic French, the elegant phrasing, and above all the languorous sensuality combined with feverish passion make it undeniably the example of Renaud’s particular breed of romanticism. Compared to Battistini’s surer musicality, Renaud’s approach seems almost mannered, his phrasing less decisive and prone to drag. Battistini’s sundrenched voice rises to the final high G-flat effortlessly, whereas Renaud’s coup de glotte in the same passage is somewhat of a drawback. Nevertheless, even if Renaud’s voice was not as big as Battistini’s (according to his contemporaries, for it is not easy to detect the difference on records), the overall timbre of the French baritone makes an indelible impression in this music. One might add to the short list of authoritative versions De Luca’s 1919 Victor recording (in French, preceded by the beautiful recitative “Ce breuvage pourrait me donner un tel rêve”). A return to Pagliacci gives us a double-sided sampling of Battistini’s Silvio via the duet “Decidi il mio destin . . . E allor perchè?” (with Moscisca as Nedda), a deeply lyrical, moving performance. In a completely different vein are the three sides devoted to Nouguès’s Quo vadis? “Errar sull’ampio mar” ushers in the series, and the recording here manages to succeed in conveying the radiance of the voice. The score is marked à pleine voix, and full voice is indeed what we hear. Note the perfect passage from the i to the o on the word Dio, both vowels full and resonant, possible only when the voice is fully supported. Young singers should listen to this simple illustration of proper technique and try to duplicate the process. Even more surprising is the piano high

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A-flat on the word morirò. No Verdi baritone since has accomplished such a feat. The sound floats with utter clarity, possible only when the voice has not been forced and thus made to lose its support and suppleness. One might wonder why Battistini bothered to record such an obscure piece, therefore (without defending the genuine quality of the opera, which had a certain popularity in its time) let it suffice to say that the music was attractive enough to cause two other baritones to record it as well, but in the original French (“Errer à travers les mers”) and without interpolating the high A-flat: Henri Albers, whose voice was strong and wide-ranged, and the less gifted Armand Crabbé. The second excerpt from Quo vadis? (“O Febea pur essa”) makes for pleasant listening, while the third (“Amici, l’ora attesa è questa”) has an interesting story attached to it. Battistini was somewhat reluctant to sing Petrone [in Quo vadis?], a role that he felt was too small. He asked for an extra aria. Nouguès willingly obliged and composed him an additional solo, on the condition that Battistini would have the sole right of performing it. The piece is not in the published score, and the Parisian public never heard it performed.72

Two songs, a Schubert arrangement (“Delizia”) and Denza’s “Occhi di fata,” complete the 1912 series. The 1913 sessions, which took place from 25 to 29 May, included a remake of the Don Giovanni serenade, this time with a small instrumental accompaniment and with the ending sung as written. The indispensable rubato is still flexible, coherent. (In November 1913, after a performance of Don Giovanni in Vienna, the Kaiser bestowed the title of Kammersänger on Battistini.) It is rather surprising that Battistini waited until these 1913 sessions to record the most important aria from one of his greatest roles: “Vien, Leonora” and its cabaletta, “Dei nemici tuoi,” from La favorita (in 1906 he recorded only “A tanto amor”). Although the distant sound is less than satisfactory, it does permit a striking dynamic contrast that was perhaps the reason for the lowlevel solution. The aria is majestically sung, the cabaletta incisive and fiery. The voice and the performance make all other versions seem stiff and forced. The Lucia “Sextet” was recorded but, curiously, never released, and although the same opera’s “Soffriva nel pianto” duet (with soprano Calliope Sainesco) was released, no copy is known to exist. There is, however, a double-sided disc of another Battistini plum, Posa’s “Per me giunta” (and its preceding recitative) on the first side, and the death-scene cabaletta on side 2. The year 1913 was the centenary of Verdi’s birth, and, in the context of the celebratory performances at the Teatro Costanzi, Battistini recorded these excerpts from Don Carlo. “Per me giunta” is so beautifully inspired as to seem unsurpassable, the baritone’s ample voice embracing the listener

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with ineffable emotion (and yet, Battistini would record an arguably greater version of this aria in 1921). Because the singers of yore are so commonly criticized for having little respect for the scores they sang, it is worth pointing out that those very scores are full of indications that encourage the singer to take certain liberties: for example, fermatas (to signal cadential interpolations) or directives such as col canto (directing the accompaniment to follow the voice). Few of today’s singers bother to go beyond a literal interpretation of the notes. Hence when the score directs a tempo (as it does above the words l’estremo spiro in the Posa aria), one has to have strayed from the preceding tempo marking (as Battistini does) in order, at this point, to regain it. In the cabaletta (“Io morrò”) his pianissimo high G-flat that twice puts the melody on hold is astounding, and his dramatic inflection on “Ah! la terra mi manca” will haunt the listener long after it is heard. The following excerpt from a review of a 1913 Roman Don Carlo performance gives an idea of the effect of Battistini’s Posa on contemporary audiences. Truly, special mention must be made about the interpretation that Battistini gave of his character, certainly the most worked out and complex one in the entire opera. The Marquis of Posa is the most important and, indisputably, the most sympathetic figure in the tragedy. What a beautiful role it is, and the admiration that the audience felt toward him ultimately left the Don Carlo in the shade. But the Marquis of Posa is decidedly the real hero of Verdi’s opera; every episode, every scene serves only to emphasize his princely generosity and magnanimous character. Battistini, following patient and intelligent study, succeeds in bringing the great personage to life with impressive realism. The marvelous scene in which Rodrigo is felled by a mortal blow, obsessed with doing good until his dying breath, made such an impact—notably through the passionate and realistic inflections in the voice—that the audience remained overwhelmed by the shock; when the curtain came down, they gave the artist an unforgettably frenzied ovation.73

The 1913 sessions apparently included the Il trovatore “Il balen,” as well, but there remains no trace of the record (if indeed it was ever made). From that opera there is, however, an electrifying performance of the last-act Di Luna–Leonora duet (“Mira d’acerbe lagrime” and “Vivrà, contende il giubilo,” on two sides, sung with Elvira Barbieri). From Ernani we have “Vedi come il buon vegliardo” with Barbieri, Giuseppe Tommasini, and Vincenzo Bettoni, and from Un ballo in maschera there is a particularly successful “Ve’ se di notte” (again with Barbieri, Bettoni, and a few choristers).74 Valentin’s death in Faust, a scene that invariably elicited much press commentary wherever Battistini performed it, constitutes another two-sided disc.

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The accompanying chorus (obviously reduced, for technical reasons, to a handful of voices) sounds almost comical, but this strangeness is redeemed by Battistini’s deeply touching singing. The drama is so intense, it sounds almost like a tape of a live performance. A single song (recorded on the first day of the 1913 sessions) was published among this group: Tosti’s “Malia” (dedicated to the bass Edouard de Reszke), sung very prettily (and in the lower key).

NOTES 1. Novoé Vrémia, 4 February 1895. 2. Feuillet de Minsk, 20 February 1896. 3. Messager de Vilna, 23 February 1896. There are recordings by Battistini of all the arias mentioned by the critic in this article. 4. Listok (Odessa), 29 May 1902. 5. Védomosti (St. Petersburg), 8 January 1903. 6. Novoé Vrémia, 11 January 1903. 7. Hérold, 11 January 1903. 8. Listok (St. Petersburg), 15 January 1903. One can hear this contrast most clearly in Battistini’s 1911 recording of the Faust aria. 9. Journal of St. Petersburg, 23 January 1903. 10. Novoé Vrémia, 8 February 1903. 11. See Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato, 76; and Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 99. 12. Novosti, 8 February 1903. 13. Hérold, 10 February 1903. 14. Novosti, 10 February 1903. 15. Le Pays Méridional, 18 February 1903. Gemma Bellincioni (1864–1950), one of Verdi’s favorite Violettas, created the role of Santuzza in Cavalleria rusticana. A fine actress, she later founded a film company and produced a dozen films, including a Cavalleria rusticana. She was able to persuade Battistini to agree to take part in a film titled Donna Lisa. He had just filmed a scene from Thaïs with Carmen Melis and Bellincioni’s daughter, Bianca Stagno Bellincioni, for a film titled Le nozze di Vittoria, which opened with great success on 1 March 1917 in the Teatro delle Quatro Fontane in Rome, the singers performing live behind the curtain during the screening. Unfortunately, the Donna Lisa premiere met with several delays, the proposed synchronization process was deemed unmanageable, and Battistini never made any more films. 16. Gazette (Kiev), 26 February 1903. Battistini recorded “Sì, vendetta” in 1921. 17. Gazette (Kiev), 28 February 1903. 18. Gazette (Kiev), 8 March 1903. 19. Listok (Odessa), 12 March 1903. 20. Novosti (Odessa), 20 March 1903. Battistini recorded “Ambo nati” in 1912.

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21. “Dissonance,” Listok (Odessa), 22 March 1903. 22. Novosti (Odessa), 22 March 1903. 23. Novosti, 22 March 1903, quoted in Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato, 157–58. 24. “Dissonance,” Listok (Odessa), 29 March 1903. 25. Novosti (Odessa), 29 March 1903. 26. La Revue Méridionale, 5 April 1903. 27. Listok (Odessa), 9 April 1903. 28. Novoé Vrémia, 10 April 1903. 29. La Revue Méridionale, 13 April 1903. 30. Listok (Odessa), 18 April 1903. 31. Novoé Vrémia, 8 February 1903. 32. Fracassini, Mattia Battistini, profilo artistico illustrato, 148–53. 33. L’Italie, 26 November 1904. 34. Talchen, L’Italie, 10 December 1904. 35. Courrier du Matin, 4 March 1905. 36. The Morning Letter, 16 November 1905. 37. Crescendo, “The Opera,” The Star, 16 November 1905. 38. The World, 19 June 1906. 39. Messaggero, 24 February 1906. 40. L’Italie, 24 February 1906. 41. “The Royal Opera,” Pall Mall Gazette, 14 June 1906. 42. The Lady of Fashion, 21 June 1906. 43. George Cecil, The Lady of Fashion, 5 July 1906. 44. The Daily Telegraph, 9 November 1928. 45. Le Globe, 22 November 1905. 46. Bernard Shaw, “Santley’s Reminiscences,” The World, 23 November 1892. 47. Bernard Shaw, “Gounod’s Music,” The World, 22 February 1893. 48. Novosti (Odessa), 29 March 1903. 49. L’Italie, 8 January 1907. 50. Levik, The Levik Memoirs: An Opera Singer’s Notes. 51. L’Italie, 8 February 1906. 52. Courrier du Matin, 6 February 1908. 53. Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 135–36. 54. Unidentified source [December 1910]. 55. Rassegna Melodrammatico di Milano, 14 March 1911. 56. Fred Gaisberg, The Music Goes Round (New York: Macmillan, 1942), 94. 57. Dr. V. B., Prager Tageblatt, 1909. 58. Pol Plançon is one of the few singers to record a version of the “Rose Aria” that can withstand comparison with Battistini’s. 59. Among the baritones who recorded the low A as written are Mario Ancona (in 1907), Giuseppe De Luca (1902, 1907, and 1917), and Pasquale Amato (1914). In his 1957 RAI recording Ettore Bastianini is covered by the orchestra on the low A. 60. There are those who wonder why Battistini paired himself with such an unknown as Tilde Carotini. Was he afraid of being upstaged by a more famous singer?

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For the record: like Emilia Corsi (who sang with Battistini in a 1902 recording session), Carotini was engaged by the Gran Teatre del Liceu for the 1907–1908 season. It would appear that Battistini’s choice of recording partners stemmed from the desire to encourage young talent. 61. See Le Courrier Musical, 15 January 1918. 62. Renaud recorded “Comme une pâle fleur” on at least three occasions for the Gramophone company: in 1901 (with piano accompaniment), and in 1906 and 1908 (with orchestra). 63. Jean Cabourg, in “Werther et les 78 tours,” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 61 (March 1984): 8, states, “The baritone transcription of the title role is known to us through the records of Battistini, who was its dedicatee. Rather than a transcription, it must be referred to as a new rehashing, with Battistini’s own ‘variants’ added to those of Massenet. The result is surprising, worth listening to only for the brio of the interpreter.” Cabourg’s insinuation is groundless. Why would Battistini have added “variants” to a version that Massenet, a great admirer, most willingly chose to make especially for him? 64. Guillaume Ibos, cited in Georges Loiseau, “Notes sur le chant,” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 61 (March 1984): 93. 65. A. Polinski, Courrier de Varsovie, February 1908. 66. Jean Cabourg, “Discographies comparées,” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 50 (March 1983): 136. 67. Courrier de Varsovie, 3 March 1904. 68. Die Zeit, 27 April 1912. 69. L’Italie, 15 March 1911. 70. Corriere d’Italia, 13 March 1911. 71. La Tribuna, 13 March 1911. 72. Comedia, 14 November 1925. “Amici, l’ora attesa è questa” was probably not performed in Paris because of double casting. 73. Corriere d’Italia, 6 January 1913. 74. Bass Vincenzo Bettoni (1881–1954) had a distinguished international career.

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4•

Survival, 1914–1928

By 1914, as he approached his sixtieth year, Battistini had no more bridges

to cross—or so one is tempted to think—in terms of either success or vocal longevity (he had already been singing for thirty-six years). When war was declared, other singers his age would have retired—as some did, even for purely practical reasons. One might ask if people feel like being entertained during a time of such crisis. But for Battistini, art was not a diversion, whatever the masses may have thought of it. He knew it was the artist’s responsibility to preserve, fortify, and communicate culture, and the definition of culture is not a consensus of arbitrary choices assembled under the rubric of “good taste,” but rather the attempt and the ability of human beings to structure their visual or aural perception. Like any form of knowledge, art broadens the mind of the individual. Invention, discovery, and conquest exist on more than just a theoretical level and are not things that can be learned from reading a book. When the mastery of an art disappears, a whole tradition vanishes along with it. Even if bits and pieces are left behind for us to analyze, it loses its power to influence. As it has more than once been observed, that which is first considered too bold or chaotic in art often becomes the accepted standard later on. That is not to imply that all disorder soon becomes conventional, nor that the artist’s ability to broaden an audience’s intellectual capacities via repeated exposure makes creativity any easier. In times of war, defeat, and foreign occupation it is strange that many people who find it perfectly normal to go on leading their lives as businessmen, factory workers, or teachers expect opera singers to sentence themselves to silence. Some artists draw their energy from a need for celebrity, others from the desire to be accepted as an equal among their greatest peers, while others simply want to prove to themselves that they can, for 203

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example, perform a leading role (or even a small one) in a major opera house. Battistini’s motivation was different. He carried on his career in foreign countries during the war, giving benefit performances, often crossing borders at his own risk. Even though he owned villas in Italy and Spain, he did not choose to wait out the conflict comfortably at home or even to take advantage of the chance to take a vacation from work. Singing was his reason for living; sharing his art with others was, he knew, the best thing he could do. He needed the public’s affection, and he felt compelled to champion his concept of art. That compulsion did not, however, keep him from turning down offers that clashed with his principles: “Art has no country, but the artist does. And I feel doubly Italian, now that the Venetian countryside has been invaded by our enemies,” he reportedly said in 1917 when rejecting an engagement to sing Tannhäuser in Madrid.1 The war touched his life directly: although he was never wounded, he had the misfortune to lose two nephews on the battlefield. During this last phase of Battistini’s career his contemporaries remained as enthusiastic as ever about his singing. From this point on, however, the press reviews of his performances beg to be read in a different light. At the beginning of an important career, no matter how young the singer, critics report successes enthusiastically, without much detail other than to describe its unexpectedness. Later on, after a singer’s acceptance is assured, reviewers accept the general consensus as gospel and undertake to outline specifics. But in the later stages of a career superlatives become stale, the glory is no longer dwelled on. By force of repetition, critical praise begins to acquire a ring of insincerity and offers nothing new, until it is impossible to read it without expecting to find some sign of the singer’s decline. As he approached his fifty-eighth birthday, Battistini must have been pleased to read the following review of his performance in St. Petersburg in one of his favorite operas, Ernani. The huge theater of the New Opera was filled with people, and was soon literally shaken by a storm of enthusiasm inspired by Battistini’s Don Carlo. The applause he received made the walls rattle! Verdi’s old opera, written seventy years ago during the heroic era of the Risorgimento and totally forgotten today, has reappeared, enveloped in its ancient glory. Naturally, all the beauty and fascination of the performance was centered on Battistini, that inimitable bard who, in defiance of the passing years, knows the secret of staying young. Battistini overwhelmed the audience. Impossible to resist the ingratiating beauty of his singing, the velvet of his timbre, the incomparable richness of his phrasing. His entire person is the incarnation of aristocracy and nobility; every pose is grandiose and perfectly chosen. Where does this supreme beauty come from? From a superior technique and a passionate heart, sincerely in love with the melodies he sings. That is

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why the impression Battistini makes is so immense. One could not imagine a more perfect and more expressive rendition of “the rosy dreams of love” in the second act when he sings the famous “Vieni meco” to Elvira. He promises to entwine her life with roses, and from his throat persuasion flows caressingly. And then, suddenly, what a metamorphosis into Charles the Fifth! From a man absorbed in his violent love for Elvira, he transforms himself into a sovereign aware of his historic calling. The moving prayer before the tomb of Charlemagne [“O sommo Carlo”], the magnificent gesture of pardon and general forgiveness inspired by the great emperor’s shade: how beautiful it all is in Battistini’s performance! And how royal he is in the third act! How one would like to paint a portrait of him in each of his poses! “Vieni meco” and the entire third-act finale were encored, and the applause continued non-stop after the curtain fell; since Battistini does not reappear in the fourth act, the electrified audience did not want to let him go.2

In the Russia of 1914, singing an opera that extols the royal pardoning of conspirators must have seemed quaintly anachronistic. And indeed it was. Battistini, who had always insisted on having nothing to do with politics, eventually must have come to a rude awakening; surely he would have been devastated to know that he would never again return to Russia. He heard about the beginning of the atrocities of the Russian Revolution and tried for a long time to learn what happened to close friends whom he never saw again. It is understandable that, after becoming staunchly anticommunist, he viewed the spread of Italian fascism as beneficial, as a shield against “Bolshevik” barbarism. But Battistini did not live long enough to see how far this other extremist movement would go in Italy. Fortunately, he took steps to bring his natural son out of Russia and enroll him in a school in Rome. A more discreet move might have been arranged, if discretion was intended; it is unlikely that the pious Dolores, his wife, was unaware of this offspring, so it must be assumed she had a forgiving nature and knew that her husband had always longed for the heir that she had not been able to give him. In any case, the child did not remain in Italy for long: his mother, deciding she wanted to raise the boy herself, secretly went to Rome and took him away to England. That action caused the lovers to break definitively. The affair was not one of an innocent woman seduced and abandoned with the fruit of her sin, but on the contrary one of a rich and attractive young lady who had no doubt resolved to have the child of the greatest singer of the day without any intention of sharing in the decisions about his education. Soon thereafter she married an expatriated Russian. Palmegiani relates how one evening, following a performance of Werther, Battistini entered his hotel room and saw a woman lying on his bed. After

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double-checking to see that he had the right room number, he advanced toward the bed and recognized “Princess X,” who motioned for him to lie down beside her. The embarrassed singer muttered his excuses, indicating his fatigue, his reluctance to put her—or himself—in a compromising position. The princess called him an “imbecile” (with a Russian accent, says Palmegiani), and walked out of the room indignantly.3 The anecdote does credit to the singer’s moral character, if not to his masculine image. Might such an event have occurred around the time of the Russian Werther production of 1902, some two years before the birth of Battistini’s son? Or did Palmegiani confuse Werther with another of Battistini’s romantic leading roles, such as Hamlet or Onegin, which he performed in Russia in 1900, and was his use of the term princess meant simply to convey an educated lady of some social status? In which case, the anecdote might not be in reference to a first encounter, though there is not a shred of evidence to support such speculation. If Palmegiani’s story is accurate, and if the “Princess X” did not become his mistress, one explanation might be because Battistini wished to remain loyal to his “legitimate” mistress. An artist of such fame would have been eagerly sought after by his fans, hence many such opportunities may well have presented themselves to the singer. Indeed, one of those fans became Battistini’s wife. Certainly Battistini must have received countless fan letters, some of which may have included requests for person-to-person encounters. Hence, the only unusual thing about the Palmegiani anecdote is that it appears to be the only one of its kind. Its singularity illustrates just how mysterious Battistini’s private life has remained to this day. One explanation probably stems from the artist’s own efforts to stay out of the reach of overly inquisitive reporters, as well as from his own busy schedule (which left him very little time for philandering). His wife apparently felt their marriage unthreatened: could she have been wrong? In any case, Battistini never left his wife. To return to the time and subject at hand: Ernani is the work Battistini sang for his last appearances at La Scala, a theater that invariably signed him for only a few performances of one production at a time, never in a series of different operas. In January 1917, he sang eight performances of this opera so dear to his heart; they would constitute his farewell to a theater that had not engaged him as often as it should have.

FRANCE With further trips to Russia no longer in the offing after 1914, Battistini prepared to conquer a new frontier.

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I will never forget the warm reception that was given to me in France. I am proud, having a French ancestor who escaped the Revolution, to add to my artist’s crown a beautiful and cherished diamond that my heart will hold most beloved.4

That in those days the doors of the Paris Opéra were not very wide open to foreign artists surely contributed to the delay in Battistini’s debut in the French capital. Beginning in 1903 (his anniversary year), a number of possibilities had presented themselves, including an invitation from the French composer Jean Nouguès to create the title role in his new opera, Le Dante. Early in 1914, when Battistini was still in Russia, Nouguès wrote to him: 18 January [1914] 9 rue Chaptal Mon cher grand artiste, So strong is my desire to have you for the premiere of our divine Florentine poet, that I have just been in touch with the director of the Gaîté Lyrique de Paris to schedule Dante in the early part of the coming season: October or December, but before the first of January 1915. I thank you kindly for your acceptance, and I will come to Rome toward the end of April to play my opera for you and to discuss the dates and conditions of your engagement, and then communicate them to the director. I am happy to have written this superb role for you, for your debut in our beloved French capital. Please be so kind as to tell me the dates when you are singing in Rome in April; is it at the Costanzi? And when will you be down there? So that I may inform you of my date of arrival. Let me know if you receive this letter, because . . . in Russia!!! Your admirer and friend, Jean Nouguès5

Since Battistini had helped to promote the continental success of Nouguès’s 1909 opera Quo vadis? by singing in the Warsaw production of it in 1911 and 1912, it is not surprising that the composer was grateful to him and dreamed of the opportunity of enlisting such an artist in his next work. In early April, Battistini was in fact at the Costanzi and seemed to be preparing for a Paris premiere, on the evidence of photographs he had had taken of himself donning the costume of the great poet.6 Nevertheless, for various reasons the project came to naught (and Le Dante did not reach the stage until 1930). The first time Battistini sang in Paris was on Wednesday, 24 May 1916, at the Comédie-Française, at a gala memorial/benefit for French marine soldiers. During the long and varied program, Battistini performed the second act of

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La traviata (with Léon David and Edith de Lys) and, following intermission, the Pagliacci prologue and an aria from Un ballo in maschera (probably “Eri tu”). His Paris Opéra debut occurred the following year. Various works were proposed, but Battistini sought to convince the Opéra’s new director, Jacques Rouché, to mount a special production of Maria di Rohan for him. He was certainly aware that there would be resistance to such a work from both press and public, but he insisted on presenting himself as the champion of a certain esthetic. He may also have viewed Donizetti’s music as a sort of good-luck charm, associating it with his operatic debut many years before. But why, then, did he not choose La favorita? Probably because the Parisian public knew it in its French guise, and he needed to create his first impression with an extraordinary work in which he could express himself, free of any preconceptions or potentially unfavorable comparisons. When Rouché finally agreed to do Maria di Rohan, he must have realized he would be forcing his company’s singers to learn an opera that had little chance of being repeated. Still, he understood the value of presenting an established star to the public under the best possible conditions.7 His decision paid off, since there were those who were profoundly affected by Battistini’s Chevreuse. After Maria di Rohan, Battistini could do La favorita with less risk. Not long after his arrival in Paris, before he had even set foot on the stage of the Opéra, Battistini had the unpleasant experience of receiving some rather threatening anonymous letters, ostensibly from partisans of de Reszke, Renaud, and Ruffo, fearing a rival to their baritone idols.8 Although Battistini alerted the management, Rouché seems not to have attached much importance to the incident; could it have been a common occurrence? Maria di Rohan was given a special performance on 22 March 1917, and Rigoletto was done on the twenty-fifth, earning the baritone “encores, bravos, and at least eight curtain calls.”9 In the ensuing weeks at the Palais Garner he appeared in Thaïs, Hamlet, and La favorita. After his departure from Paris, a reprise of La favorita on 3 May prompted a reporter to draw a comparison between the unforgettable Alfonso of Battistini and that of his replacement Jean Noté, “who . . . does the best he can.”10 On 28 April, Ruffo stepped in for Hamlet, and on 5 May Jean-François Delmas (the first Athanaël) did the honors for Thaïs. Back in Italy, Battistini wrote to Rouché. Rome, 29 May 1917 Now, with my best regards, I would like to inform you that at the Filarmonia in Turin they performed Monteverdi’s Orfeo, which you spoke to me about, and it was an enormous success. Unearthing such an opera would be truly remarkable and artistic. In case you have the idea of mounting this Orfeo, I would like to know if you possess the French edition by Vincent

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d’Indy, which I cannot find hereabouts. If I were to sing it, I would need a copy of the score to work on as soon as possible. As for Henry VIII, I can tell you that I am almost completely prepared. Maestro Saint-Saëns has very kindly written to tell me he would like to come to see me in September. I seem vaguely to recall that you also intended to be in Italy in September. I hope you will inform me of your arrival so I may have the pleasure of seeing you again, and I believe it is unnecessary to repeat that I would be extremely flattered and happy if you care to accept some humble hospitality in green Umbria by putting me completely at your disposal. With pleasant memories of your kindness, I cordially shake your hand, as ever, Mattia Battistini11

Battistini’s interest in early music is not surprising. For one of his concerts for Rouché in Paris he proposed a program containing selections by Carissimi (“Vittoria, vittoria!”), Péri (Orfeo’s invocation in Euridice), and arias by Paisiello and Giordani. There was at the time a circle of French musicians (Saint-Saëns, d’Indy, and others) dedicated to bringing baroque opera back from the dead. However, after deciding in 1918 to “revive” Rameau’s Castor et Pollux (actually, the first production in the Palais Garnier of a work not seen at the Opéra since 1785), Rouché seems to have decided not to pursue the Orfeo proposal. Ultimately Battistini settled on participating in a reprise of a pasticcio of music by Monteverdi, Cavalli, and Rossi arranged by the conductor Gabriel Grovlez and titled Les virtuosi de Mazarin; it had been first presented at the Palais Garnier in January 1916. In December 1917 and January 1918, it served as curtain-raiser to a production of Samson et Dalila. The year he made his Paris debut, Battistini also gave his first performances at Raoul Gunsbourg’s enterprising Opéra de Monte-Carlo, in Ernani, The Demon, Il barbiere di Siviglia, and Rigoletto. The local press had the highest praise for the sixty-one-year-old star. In Ernani as performed here, the leading role is Don Carlo, in which the great Italian baritone Battistini is quite simply the most admirable of all the singers. Besides possessing all the most varied resources of bel canto, thereby proving himself a great Italian singer, he possesses that which is in no way negligible: the pure technique and good taste of French singing. He reminds us of the unforgettable [Jean-Baptiste] Faure. Battistini’s voice is warm, velvety, captivating. It has brilliance and strength when necessary, and only when necessary. It reflects the ultimate in the art of singing. Moreover, as an actor, Battistini is much more than efficient; while he makes a handsome cavalier and knows how to shade every word with the perfect expression, while he knows the secret of performing a role smoothly and

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Chapter 4 without neglecting the slightest nuance, he also knows how to dress it as an artist who, having studied Velasquez, becomes a living Velasquez, stepping right out of the frame. His Don Carlo is a prodigious artistic achievement.12

Battistini’s return to Paris at the end of 1917 was heralded by the following press retrospective: I have the honor, after having hailed the artist, of presenting a man of perfect distinction, affable and simple, as are all those who carry within themselves true superiority of talent. Elegant appearance, characteristic features with a Neapolitan-Bourbon nose, clear eyes, a blend of decisiveness, energy, and tenderness: such is Mattia Battistini, the last survivor of the great Italian school of singing, the heir of Rubini, Mario, and Ronconi. He speaks our language with charming accuracy, and one is not sure what makes him more likeable: the exquisite courtesy with which he receives in the little salon of his suite in the Grand Hôtel, or the superb talent that brings him so many triumphs around the world. He first appeared at the Opéra in Maria di Rohan; from the first act on, the enthused audience applauded him. Then came Rigoletto, then Thaïs (in which his Athanaël rose to poetic heights of emotion), then Alfonso in Favorite: in each of his roles there were mastery, authority at the service of exceptional gifts, a rigorous technique, a flexible organ, beautiful timbre, youthful and poetic inspiration accompanied by perfect diction and acting. Let us hail once again a great artist, a master of tradition, the image of Art’s immortal youth.13

Just before the above article appeared, Battistini had sung his first Henry VIII. It had been eight years since Saint-Saëns’s opera was last done at the Opéra, and the composer, who had previously known only success there, might have wondered if this revival would consign his Henry to oblivion. He probably warned his baritone of the risks involved, since Battistini wrote Rouché that he wished to sing more than three performances of the opera, “so they can’t say I gave up, and to please Saint-Saëns.”14 The eighty-two-year-old composer took an active part in the rehearsals, and Battistini wrote Rouché from his home in Contigliano that he was “impatiently looking forward to Monsieur Saint-Saëns’s visit and yours. I have had offers for performances at the Teatro Real in Madrid in February, and I proposed to the manager to do Henry VIII in French with artists from the Opéra de Paris. We’ll see what he says.”15 At an age when many singers would be unwilling to venture outside of the repertory they feel comfortable with, Battistini had the courage not only to attempt a role he had never done before and in which others (Lassalle, Delmas, Renaud) had excelled, but also to sing it in French, in front of an audience of native speakers. Nevertheless, his nerves almost got the better of him at the last minute, as a letter to Rouché indicates.

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Cher M. Rouché, I am very sorry to send you this bad news, but I am too discouraged. I fear I shall mangle the beautiful role of Henry VIII. I do not feel in good voice. I prefer to withdraw gracefully rather than to expose myself to a fiasco. The whole role in general does not suit my voice or my range; with the tempi that the Maestro desires, it is impossible for me to make any effect, especially in the quartet. I didn’t want to say anything, for it is possible that, not feeling well, the fault was mine. In any case, never will I be able to achieve the right expression while singing “Anne ma bien aimée” too fast. All things considered, it is best that I withdraw, don’t you think, my dear Rouché? I regret it with all my soul. I have worked with all my enthusiasm and quite conscientiously, but I feel a sense of doom that forces me to give up some performances that my heart of hearts would love to be a part of. Have pity on me, and do not be angry at me. Très à vous, Mattia Battistini16

In this letter, one detects the modesty observed by those who knew Battistini, a trait that seems to have had no adverse effect on his artistic judgment. Perhaps he felt intimidated by the presence of the composer to the point where he felt unwilling to express his discomfort with his tempi for fear of displeasing him. In any case, Rouché did not accept his withdrawal; remarkably, in view of his age and star status, Battistini seems to have taken Rouché’s encouragement in stride and persevered. Success restored his confidence enough for him not only to sing eight performances of the work that season—alternating with Thaïs, Rigoletto, Hamlet, and La favorita—but also to return for more Henrys in two subsequent seasons. The delighted Saint-Saëns is reported to have exclaimed that Battistini “makes it seem like I have talent.”17 A little handwritten note taped inside Battistini’s vocal score reads: “All my admiration, with my appreciation and friendship. C. SaintSaëns,” and Battistini’s souvenir photograph portrait of the composer is inscribed “All’eroe del canto, al salvatore d’Enrico, al carissimo Mattia Battistini, suo molto gradevole e ammiratore ed amico C. Saint-Saëns 1917.” For the Paris Opéra orchestra, Battistini dedicated a photograph of himself in the Henry VIII costume: “The highest honor was missing from my artist’s crown: that of being accompanied by the great artists of the admirable orchestra of the Académie Nationale. To you all, Messieurs, my appreciation, my enthusiastic admiration, my friendship.” Traditionally, such official photos remained the property of the theater, but Battistini obtained special permission to keep it in his possession. Battistini’s Hamlet, which he sang at the Palais Garnier in both 1917 and 1918, earned this rave review.

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Chapter 4 Hamlet is an opera that demands a great performer. M. Jacques Rouché could not have picked a better time to revive Thomas’s work than now, given the presence of Battistini. The great Italian baritone accomplished a tour de force by singing the role in French, which involves the application of a totally different accentuation to lyric declamation: our closed vowels in French have nothing in common with the open vowels of the Italian language. But that was not enough to frighten Battistini, who portrayed the character of the prince of Denmark so magnificently that such technical concerns were no longer an issue. How artfully the great singer plays the drama in which vengeance masquerades as madness! Such filial tenderness and such energy, too, in the first-act apostrophe to the ghost, “Ombre chère, que me veux-tu?” What a sense of fatality, shifting and wild, in the drinking song! And finally, how well-measured the passion of the third-act aria, “Allez dans un cloître!” Battistini’s face and vocal expression reflects all these various aspects of the role; he is a painter, a sculptor, and a musician who combines the effects of these arts to understand and convey the character. The success of the magnificent singer grew greater from one act to the next.18

Two years later, the French press printed the following account of an incident that allegedly occurred during the closing months of the war, when Battistini was appearing in La favorita and Hamlet at the Palais Garnier. One evening, an air raid more urgent than usual had sent all the clients of the Grand Hôtel into the spacious cellar of this luxury establishment. Suddenly, there appeared an elegant and imposing gentleman draped in a formal black velvet cape and wearing a felt hat with feather. In spite of the distraction at hand, the refugees were positively awestruck and could not get over their surprise when they learned that the Romantic personage was M. Battistini, whose trills at the Opéra had been interrupted by the bombardment, and who, not finding the entrance to the operatic underground, had made his way to the next nearest shelter.19

The incident is reported with tabloid picturesqueness, though the facts are quite simple: Battistini was about to go on stage when the air raid occurred and, not having time to change out of his costume, exited via the artists’ door and walked the length of the Palais Garnier and over to the Grand Hôtel, where he was staying. The Opéra registers contain the following entry for 17 February 1918: “Just as the signal to begin the fourth act was given, the airraid alert was announced. Following consultation among M. Rouché, the police commissioner, and the captain of the firemen, it was decided to have the audience exit into the lobby and underground level. Because the air raid lasted until eleven o’clock, the performance was not resumed.”

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In the spring of 1918, Battistini returned to sing in Monte Carlo, where he had debuted the year before. After a Rigoletto (with Tito Schipa as the Duke of Mantua, Graziella Pareto as Gilda, and Marcel Journet as Sparafucile), local critics were enthralled. Battistini! Last year he enthused us with the grandeur he instilled in the roles he brought powerfully to life for us [the Ernani Don Carlo, the Demon, and Figaro], roles with which he is so familiar that one can call him their definitive interpreter. Since then, at the Académie Nationale de Musique he has displayed the exceptional talents that make him one of the kings of the theater. . . . He returns to us from Paris covered with glory, more admirable than ever. His ample and beautiful baritone voice is of an incomparably high quality: it is large-sounding, flexible, and evenly emitted; the timbre remains the same in all registers, from high to low. What can one say about vocal artistry and technique developed to such a degree of refinement as to make his singing sound easy and leave us at a loss to explain it? What can be said about his splendid diction, his everappropriate expression? It seems that just to praise this incomparable singer will have to suffice. But it remains to be said that the performer portrays Rigoletto with such depth and truth that the actor disappears, and one sees only a man. He does not act the part; he lives it.20

* * * As a paternal court jester, Battistini is poignantly human. His character suffers and weeps real tears. In the third act, especially, he uttered a strangled, agonized laugh that only a native [Italian] artist is capable of conveying. Less preoccupied with the achievement of an effect than many bawlers of dubious fame, Battistini achieves the effect, often even a grand one, with simplicity. His ever skillful, never forced singing tends toward the right expression. That is what makes his interpretation of Rigoletto impressive and beautiful.21

Similarly, a review of Battistini’s Monte Carlo La traviata declares that “he sings incomparably with his splendid voice, with all his magnificent artistry, and he brings [Germont] to life with admirable naturalness, authority, and grandeur.”22 Another report (in the Journal de Monaco, 12 March 1918) informs us that the Traviata was preceded by Battistini’s performance of the prologue to Pagliacci, a sort of throwback to the days when opera was pure entertainment. Battistini was clearly not averse to reviving the spirit of the eighteenthcentury intermezzi; and, since his fans sometimes complained that his roles were too short, the addition of a solo or two provided a solution. But imagine the reaction if such a prelude to Verdi’s opera were given today!

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While singing in Monte Carlo, Battistini was corresponding with Rouché, planning repertory for the next season in Paris. Cher Monsieur Rouché, . . . At the moment I can think of no tenor at the Opéra worthy to sing Almaviva [in Barbiere]. The virtuosity of my role occurs mainly in the first act with the te’r. Anselmi would be good, but he is in the army. Schipa is going to Spain. I have no one to recommend to you at present. I think it would be much better to prepare one of your tenors, who would still be preferable to some unknown upstart from Milan.23

Because of the war, casting an opera became more difficult than ever. Hence in 1918 we find Battistini reporting to Rouché that, after signing to sing Linda di Chamonix and Un ballo in maschera at the Costanzi, he was informed that “the lady who was supposed to sing with me, Madame Storchio, had forgotten her role [of Linda], and there was no tenor for Ballo. So, in light of [those circumstances], I withdrew from the performances.”24 Also in 1918, after singing the last of a run of Toscas in Monte Carlo, Battistini wrote Rouché from Monte Carlo to let him know that Gunsbourg had reengaged him to return in 1919 for eight performances of Falstaff, Macbeth, and Mefistofele, “with the changes that [Boito] made for me, for [Mefistofele] is a bass role.”25 Did the famous director of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo really intend to follow through with these plans? That Battistini even considered performing Falstaff is enough to excite the imagination, but in fact what he sang in Monte Carlo in March 1919 included none of those three originally assigned roles; instead he appeared in Thaïs, Rigoletto, Il barbiere, La traviata, Tosca, and Ruy Blas. Falstaff was mounted, but without Battistini. Did he withdraw from it himself, or was it Gunsbourg who had a change of heart? After engagements in Barcelona and Madrid in late 1918 and early 1919, Battistini returned to Paris, where some short-term rescheduling became necessary. Wednesday 22 January 1919 Cher Directeur, In this morning’s edition of Le Figaro I see that the performance of the Barber has been postponed to 12 February, because of the indisposition of an artist. Since I was indisposed on 20 January, the public might think that I am to blame this time, too. I think one should state the truth: because of the tenor. But that is not my business; I only want you to know that after almost a month of singing only three performances, it is not convenient for me to wait to sing the other performances one after another, for example, to sing Barber after Thaïs, of a completely different nature. I therefore propose to

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finish with Thaïs next Monday, or if you prefer, to have me sing one or two performances of Henry VIII and finish next week or the week after. But today I’m letting you know that I will not be able to sing Barber.26

The widespread, though unsubstantiated, notion that Battistini did not like singing Rossini’s Figaro might have its source in this incident, or in an anecdote in Palmegiani about the baritone’s refusal to encore “Largo al factotum” in Vienna despite the audience’s encouragement (“Non! Ce soir je ne fais pas la barbe!” he allegedly said, in French).27 Nevertheless, Battistini sang the aria in his recitals and went on doing the opera as late as 1922. His refusal to perform it at the Opéra must be viewed as only a matter of convenience, not a decision to drop the role from his repertory. Eventually, Battistini became frustrated with the long-drawn-out scheduling system at the Opéra, saying “The waiting tires me out more than the singing.”28 During a performance of Thaïs on 10 February 1919, Rouché’s records indicate that “Mlle Visconti” [the soprano] had a lapse of memory in the [second act]. The orchestra had to stop, M. Ruhlmann [the conductor] gave me a chord announcing the entrance of Athanaël, whom I sent on stage, and the music proceeded disrupting the performance.”29 Around this time, Battistini’s arthritis caused him to consult a physician, who prescribed a drastic change of eating habits, totally eliminating from his diet such things as brains, sweetmeats, lamb, kidneys, and liver; cutting down on veal, chicken, pheasant, and shellfish; and reducing his intake of fatty, spicy foods and sweets in general. Permitted were egg dishes of all kinds, milk, bread in moderation, potatoes, pasta, and rice; all green vegetables (except sorrel and spinach); rhubarb, asparagus, and tomatoes; all fruits (especially oranges), lemons, and grapes; and, to drink, “Evian, Vittel, Vichy Célestin, and very little alcohol.”30 In late February, armed with this new dietary regime depriving him of some of his favorite delicacies, Battistini left Paris for another month in Monte Carlo. The production of Thaïs received particularly fine notices. Battistini is a magnificent Athanaël: his very dark and very deeply thoughtout interpretation is of an incomparable grandeur. No complaints about the utter perfection of his matchless singing style. As an actor, he is no less admirable. He conveys every aspect of the character naturally. In the last two scenes he achieved the highest degree of pathos with a power and an intensity that sparked unanimous enthusiasm.31

This time his title-role colleague was a young soprano named Germaine Lubin, . . . a delicious artist [who] seems to have been put on this earth to portray the heroine of Anatole France and Massenet. In all the blossoming of her young and dazzling beauty, in all the freshness of a dramatic soprano voice

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Chapter 4 with a warm and compelling timbre, in all the charm of an accomplished lyric actress, this charming singer was . . . the Thaïs of Massenet’s dreams. Thaïs’s transition from courtesan to serene mystic was handled by Mlle Lubin with delicate artistry. The character of Athanaël, with his soul-wrenching conflict, was understood by Battistini with impressive realism. In his cenobitic robe, the great artist is incomparable. His role is a long crescendo. Little by little, one sees the flame that will consume Athanaël’s soul at the end of the opera grow more and more intense. Battistini conveys it very powerfully, with the simplest of means. His last two scenes are sheer poetry. There is the intense pathos of the third act’s “Jamais!” and the gripping scene of the death of Thaïs, where he achieves the most moving effects effortlessly. . . . Massenet rewrote the role of Athanaël for him in order to make it better suited, if possible, to all the resources of his magnificent voice.32

In Il barbiere di Siviglia (with Elvira de Hidalgo, Tito Schipa, and Marcel Journet), Battistini was “a joyous and resonant Figaro. It is hardly possible to sing and act this role any better. His finely detailed approach ravished all connoisseurs of sheer style and good taste.”33 Another review confirms that he performed the role of the barber “with his great authority and accomplished artistry, portraying it with the scope of a great actor and the technique of a perfect singer.”34 In La traviata (with Beniamino Gigli as Alfredo), “the grand-style baritone Battistini acted and phrased the role of [Germont] with both authority and vocal brio. This artist is perfect in all his appearances.”35 Lubin and Gigli headlined the enthusiastically received Tosca, in which Battistini “imparted an elegant look to the character of Baron Scarpia, whose implacable ferocity he brought out exceptionally well.”36 Said another critic of his Scarpia, “Through careful pacing, utter refinement, and restraint, the illustrious baritone managed to tone down the character’s excesses and cut a greatly original figure. As for his singing, it was marvelous. His passionate declaration at the end of the first act (“Ah! di quegli occhi vittoriosi veder la fiamma”) and his deft handling of the physical challenges in the second-act scene earned him a much deserved ovation.”37 The Ruy Blas that was mounted at this time in Monte Carlo might have been suggested to Gunsbourg by Battistini, who had sung it as far back as 1879. In any case, Gunsbourg must be given credit for his adventurous spirit and remarkable ability to engage top-drawer artists—and not only established stars like Gigli and Schipa, but also some promising young singers. If not all of the latter went on to become famous, it must not be assumed that they did not deserve their successes, however short-lived; many circumstances can contribute to the interruption of a career.

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After two years of commuting between Paris and Monte Carlo, a disagreement with Gunsbourg brought Battistini’s appearances in Monaco to a temporary halt. As the singer wrote to Rouché at the end of 1919: I’m negotiating with Cornuché to sing Thaïs, Don Giovanni, Rigoletto, Traviata, etc. in Cannes next March. I would be happy to go there because of Gunsbourg. He exploited me for three war years, saying that after the war was over he would increase my assignments; but on the contrary, on the pretext of my having accepted engagements in Deauville and Ostende, he has kicked me out the door. They wrote me from Barcelona that his opera Ivan le Terrible was not a success at all. They only liked the costumes and scenery. I read your program for the Opéra in Le Temps, and I do not see anything new for me. That you have not even thought to assign me Don Juan gives me cause for regret, because it would be hardly worth my trouble to come for the usual Rigoletto alone. I thank you all the same for having answered my letter; at least I’ll know where I stand.38

Despite the almost casual tone of this letter, Battistini’s serious disappointment comes through quite clearly. It reveals that there was definitely an emotional side to the baritone’s personality. What is commonly described as his attitude of cultivated restraint was not the expression of a cool temperament but a voluntary attempt to keep the man hidden behind his public image. Passionate best defines Battistini, even though the majority of those who met him found him very likable. Unfortunately, during the autumn of his career, the great artist, who had always been surrounded and protected by admirers, was to come up against resistance to some of his fondest desires. Battistini wanted to do Don Giovanni in Paris, but Rouché was more inclined to do it in French than to hire a special cast to sing in Italian a work that had served as a star vehicle for any number of French baritones. And Rouché certainly had no intention to ask Battistini to relearn the role in another language, even if he had willingly prepared not only Henry VIII, Hamlet, and Athanaël, but also Pollux, Valentin, and Ascanio (in Benvenuto de Diaz)—the latter three ultimately dropped. Still, Battistini must have held out hope of singing Don Giovanni in Paris, for there is a letter of his on the subject from the autumn of 1918. Ah, how happy I am to be able to sing Don Juan in Paris! Who will be the Leporello? There was a bass, M. Navarrini, about my age, a year or two older, but with an enormous voice, who was a superb Leporello. I think it would be fortunate if we could get him. He’s not singing any more, because the business soon began to ignore him. He’s a rather stingy man; he

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Here we have a glimpse of Battistini’s loyalty to a former colleague, though (unbeknownst to him) Francesco Navarrini did not enjoy the same vocal longevity. A few years later Battistini threw one last hint about Don Giovanni in Rouché’s direction, writing him that “I sang it in Prague, in the same theater where it was created, with the very scenery of the first production, with harpsichord, etc.”40 But to return to Battistini’s apparent falling-out with Gunsbourg, one finds in the latter’s memoirs Cent ans de souvenirs . . . ou presque the following bizarre narrative about Battistini’s fortuitous encounter with the Italian impresario Francesco Castellano. In Odessa, Castellano crossed paths with Battistini, who was coming back from Crimea. “What a pity you aren’t performing! Here you would make some money!” “But what would I sing?” asked Battistini. “Whatever you like: Rigoletto, for example.” “Do you have a company?” “Certainly. I always have a company.” In fact, there was no company—no artists, no orchestra, nothing. But the opera was billed and the tickets sold, and Castellano walked the streets of Odessa wondering how he could pull it off. I found an old female chorister who could sing Gilda’s aria in the second act. That was already something, and as he was wandering through the city he encountered another of his former choristers, in Turkish attire and vending peanuts. “You must be able to sing the tenor role in Rigoletto,” Castellano said to him. “I know the tune in the last act,” replied the chorister. “Well then, you shall sing it twice: the first time in the first act and the second time in the last act.” An old pianist served as the orchestra. When Battistini heard “La donna è mobile” sung by a chorister with a peanut-vendor’s voice just before his entrance in the first act, he flew into a rage. “What does this mean?” he said. Casellano replied coldly: “Do you want me to refund the audience’s money?” “That’s not the point!” “That’s the only point, so don’t interfere!” In place of Monterone’s curse, Castellano had some thunder sound effects, and Battistini ended the first act amid the background noise of thunder.

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“What now?” “Now,” said Castellano, “comes the second act.” “Well?” “Well, you will sing your monologue, and, since the duet for the tenor and the soprano isn’t very effective, we’ll cut it.” “And then?” “Then you’ll sing the duet with the soprano.” “She knows it?” “No, but since the public will have come to hear you, you can sing the duet by yourself.” “You miserable . . .” shouted Battistini. “Do you want me to refund their money?” “That’s not the point!” “That’s the only point, so don’t interfere!” Thus the second act proceeded and came to an end. Then the curtain came back up and Castellano made the following speech to the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, you have come to hear the celebrated Battistini, the greatest singer in the world, so great that other artists who sing with him and who are European celebrities themselves make very little impression on you. Therefore, since Battistini has not much more to sing, and since the others by comparison won’t appear to be of the calibre of the great Battistini, we are going to substitute the last two acts with a series of Neapolitan songs sung by the great Battistini, and, at his request, we will not charge you any additional money for your tickets.” The audience, touched by this magnanimity, applauded loudly, and thus the performance of Rigoletto ended in triumph.41

The story is certainly padded with fanciful touches: Castellano wandering the streets, running into one of his former choristers by chance; a tenor in Turkish costume singing in the voice of his new profession of peanut vendor! As for the last-minute billing of Rigoletto, if Castellano were really as much a bamboozler as he is presented here, would he really have gone so far out on a limb? At the outset of the narrative, Battistini seems only an innocent victim, but when he cooperates with the swindler’s money-saving subterfuge he hardly comes out of it smelling like a rose. If one reads between the lines, Gunsbourg’s story ties in all too well with the disagreement he had with the singer over monetary issues. The real subject of the tale Gunsbourg relates here in such a cleverly indirect manner is Battistini’s greediness (despite plenty of other evidence that shows just how ungreedy a person the baritone was). Of course, one would do well to question how Gunsbourg could have known what Battistini and Castellano said to one another, since neither one was likely ever to have confided such information to him. One suspects that Battistini (described once too often as “the great

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baritone”) becomes in this anecdote the innocent victim of an ancient grudge against Castellano. But the most dubious aspect of the story is that Gunsbourg seems not to have realized Battistini was once actually a starring member of Castellano’s troupe. Of course, Gunsbourg probably would not have known, because by the time the great baritone came to Monte Carlo (after the war), he was no longer a member of any troupe, his affairs were being managed, whenever necessary, by Alfred Fischof, and it is doubtful that Battistini would have shared with him any reminiscences of his former association with Castellano. In any case, one can be certain that the dialogue in the anecdote was invented and that the dealings between the two men could not have unfolded in such a manner. Although Gunsbourg definitely was successful in attracting great opera stars to Monte Carlo over the years, his methods made him quite a few enemies; much of the scandalmongering one finds in his memoirs is probably his means of defense against the criticism he feared. While the portrait he gives us of the Castellano of yore is one of an impresario who shamelessly misrepresented the works he produced, Gunsbourg himself—who was not averse to allowing cuts, additions, and other tamperings in the operas he mounted—could hardly pretend to possess the “modern” spirit of strict adherence to the score. If credence can be given to any of Gunsbourg’s remarks concerning Battistini, it might be applied to the following anecdote, also from his memoirs (or fables, as the case may be!). Battistini was a singing artist. I say a singing artist on purpose, for he was a truly exceptional artist of song, in the great bel canto style, who could shade every phrase with meaning. But although his public reputation was great, his name is rather frowned upon by the clergy of the principality of Monaco, and with good cause: Battistini’s wife was the sister of the famous Spanish minister Romanones and the cousin of Pope Pius X’s most important minister, Cardinal Merry del Val. As any good Spanish woman, she was very religious. While attending her husband’s performances at the Opéra, she had no intentions of changing her religious devotions in the manner she was used to practicing them in Spain—even in this little principality, which is rather inclined toward less austere pastimes. Now, in Spain the first mass of the day is celebrated at four o’clock in the morning. Therefore, she left the Hôtel de Paris at three forty-five A.M. and arrived at the Sainte-Dévote church to do her devotions. Imagine, at four o’clock in the morning! The church was closed!!! So the pious Mme Battistini sent a telegram about this sacrilege to her cousin the Cardinal Merry del Val. He, also by telegram, expressed his surprise to the bishop of

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Monaco, who immediately decided to have a mass celebrated every day at four in the morning. Of course, besides Mme Battistini and the officiating priest, no one attended that mass, yet after Mme Battistini’s departure, the four o’clock mass continued to be celebrated, much to the displeasure of the priests of the Sainte-Dévote parish. If a gambler happened to leave the Casino in the wee hours of the morning, he would be stunned to see a priest saying mass all alone in the empty lit church.42

Fact or fiction? Gunsbourg seems more concerned about the feelings of the late-night gambler, who might have done better to respect the rights of others and leave the officiating priest alone in the “empty” church (though there must have been witnesses present for the news to have spread). One cannot help but notice the complimentary opening remarks about Battistini’s artistry, unusual for Gunsbourg (he has less flattering things to say about Chaliapin and Maurel). The reader can either believe that Gunsbourg held Battistini in high esteem or imagine that his opening compliments were inspired by the memory of the “great” singer’s having accepted to sing in his opera Le vieil aigle when it was performed with great success in Rome in February 1917 (he sang a bass role, retailored for the occasion to his voice). In any case, Gunsbourg typically avoids attacking head-on while managing to malign indirectly. While the church incident may not have placed Battistini in the good graces of the Monacan clergy, his connections with the Vatican were well known; thus the anecdote both spares and tarnishes the singer’s reputation. Gunsbourg’s manipulative side, often noticed by his contemporaries, is quite present in his memoirs, where he exploits the reader’s credibility by providing plausible tales loosely based on what the public wants to hear as well as versions of stock themes, such as the dishonesty of impresarios of yore, Battistini’s enormous salaries, or the extreme piety of his wife. Another bittersweet reminiscence from around the same period comes from the tenor Giacomo Lauri-Volpi, who in one of his books recounts how he had the chance to sing with Battistini in a Rigoletto in Trieste. After stating how proud he was to have sung “alongside one of the most authentic glories in the History of World Opera,” he goes on to recall memories of his youth when he heard the baritone at the Costanzi in Don Carlo, La favorita, and Un ballo in maschera. He then declares his impatience to see Battistini return from “his triumphs in Budapest and Vienna, where the public willingly forgave him for certain age-related defects. Of what importance is the slight harshness of certain consonant sounds, if the style of singing, the careful diction, and perfect breath control produce unadulterated pleasure?”43 Lauri-Volpi then, somewhat hypocritically, admits to being surprised that the great baritone was

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booed by the audience on that occasion, making us wonder just how sincere his admiration for his older colleague was. To understand Lauri-Volpi’s intent here, we need to consider this comment in relation to his other references to Battistini. The first occurs in a description of his early vocal training, when his peers would make fun of his use of portamento and call him “a fool trying to pose as Battistini.”44 Another time, Lauri-Volpi mentions the Glory of Italy in his account of his own Roman debut in Manon, which (he admits) could not compare with Battistini’s legendary debut in La favorita. Thus Lauri-Volpi unconsciously reveals that, for him, Battistini represented the kind of success he hoped to equal or even surpass—as if he were taking up an unproposed challenge or avenging his untainted honor. Behind this determination brewed an animosity toward the veteran singer that inevitably affected his opinion of him. As one can see, Lauri-Volpi’s first reference to Battistini leads logically to the second, where he claims for himself the rank he felt to be in contention. By the third, carefully worded reference, the two competitors meet, allowing Lauri-Volpi to go one step further, to surpass the idol in a confrontation that clearly brings out his jealousy. Battistini, idolized to such an extent that no one could attain his level and viewed as the greatest singer alive by the connoisseur, must have presented an unbearable image for the young generation. Instead of measuring up to his standard, they naturally would have felt compelled to avoid the combat zone and develop new criteria, new goals. We have seen examples of the long encomiums that Battistini inspired; the rhetorical force of these press notices, which granted the baritone a virtual monopoly on certain superlatives, undoubtedly had widespread impact. By the 1920s, the generation of singers born around 1870 had been bearing the weight of Battistini’s exalted reputation throughout their careers, while an up-and-coming generation was beginning to dread his continued presence on the operatic scene, especially since he was showing no signs of wanting to retire. One can well understand how frustrating it must have been for young artists to embark on a career in the shadow of the myth, and one must realize that their hostility was aimed as much toward the legend peddled by the press as it was toward the baritone himself, who did not deserve it. Such a sign of ingratitude was manifested by a quite a large number of great singers born between 1870 and 1880 who owed at least a part of their success to disciplining themselves to the living example of exceptional singers like Battistini, yet they never forgave him for having outclassed the competition. Eventually, when the criteria needed to get rid of the aesthetic Battistini represented became well established, a silent conspiracy would lead to his being forgotten. Let us assume that Lauri-Volpi was correct in reporting that the public expressed displeasure toward Battistini. Does he mean the entire audience, or

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a handful of fanatical troublemakers? Even the greatest stars have been booed on occasion—take Maria Callas, for example. An isolated off evening is not unheard of, and, indeed, in the same period, during a performance of La favorita in Bologna, Lauri-Volpi himself received, according to his frequent colleague Ezio Pinza, “plenty of hisses and catcalls.”45 Another colleague, Rosa Ponselle, once recounted how, after Lauri-Volpi dared to refuse to sing for Tullio Serafin during rehearsals for a Maggio Musicale Puritani in 1933, he “cracked” on the high note of “A te, o cara” in performance and the audience “started hissing and booing him.”46 Obviously, Lauri-Volpi was under no obligation to document every little adversity of his career in his book, but he could have had the kindness to exercise the same discretion with regard to colleagues whom he had no reason to embarrass. This did not, however, prevent Lauri-Volpi from reproducing in his autobiography a letter of encouragement and congratulations that the generous King of Baritones, apparently unaffected by the alleged incident, sent the young tenor after their Rigoletto! Lauri-Volpi would never completely rid himself of his resentment. In his book Voci parallele, he criticizes Battistini for his flowery delivery of a cadential phrase in La favorita on the words “il cor,” with an i thrown to the audience like a pure bouquet of sound, fashioned to elicit applause—“the last relic of vocal athleticism in doubtful taste”—obviously a grave error to which a modern singer who prides himself on respecting the score would never condescend.47 The prevailing taste of the day was on his side, though now that time has passed there are grounds for questioning the validity of what once seemed like a worthy reform. Today it is believed that music should be interpreted in the spirit in which it was conceived—and not be infiltrated with a realism that has no relevance. Hence the example given by Lauri-Volpi is to Battistini’s credit, and the tenor merely reveals his inability to understand a whole mode of singing that rises above the contingencies of the drama and celebrates the sublime. Interestingly, Lauri-Volpi never disputed Battistini’s ability to sing Verdi; only in the verismo repertory did he find he displayed too much nobility. In his eyes, Verdi and verismo were two very different styles: one expressed the past, to which Battistini belonged, and the other the present. Unable to reign supreme in the old-school repertory, Lauri-Volpi voluntarily embraced that of more recent times. As the twentieth century wore on, however, the difference between Verdi and verismo became less readily apparent; hence, the same performance practices began to be applied indiscriminately to both styles, inevitably making Battistini’s approach to Verdi sound old-fashioned to modern ears. In any case, the remark in Lauri-Volpi’s book about the state of Battistini’s voice in 1920 conflicts with other testimony, as in a Parisian press report

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on the rehearsals for the eagerly anticipated lavish production of Quo vadis? at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées: “At every rehearsal Battistini, the incomparable Petronius, in better voice than ever, astonishes his colleagues, who give him ovations. He is the king of bel canto.”48 When the production’s extended run began, critics made good-humored fun of the opera’s dreaded length and extravagant mise-en-scène (the war had indeed changed the aesthetic climate). I must declare that . . . the audience reacted quite favorably to the charms of the score. Indeed, it would be quite ungrateful of them to do nothing for a composer who does everything for them. The applause began in the very first scene. The enthusiasm even prevented Eunice from finishing a phrase; the applause started three syllables too soon. The clappers had to be scolded for their impatience, and when Mlle Saïman ended her tune, people told the high-spirited fans, “You can clap now!”—and they did! They made M. Battistini describe Nero’s power twice, and they probably would have encored Chilon’s song if the composer hadn’t taken the trouble to repeat it himself. But, even though it was very late, they encored the chorus of Christians being sent to the lions, and I believe they would have liked to have the whole amphitheater scene repeated. Indeed, the opera . . . is very “theatrical.” I don’t mean it is profoundly dramatic. But the libretto [by Henri Cain] is clever. It provides the musicians with interesting situations and divertissements, and the musicians entertain throughout by choosing sounds that please the crowd and give the illusion of strength and grandeur. And it’s Antiquity! It’s Nero! Of course, the audience listens piously to the early Christians and the apostle Peter. But they also enjoy seeing the orgy during the burning of Rome. Antiquity! Nero! Orgy! We all have a great interest in History. It would be an exaggeration to say that the burning of Rome was effectively staged: it was confined to lighting the backdrop red. But the orgy has some action. It is necessarily a very decent orgy. It consists in making the male dancers lift the female dancers in their arms, put them back down so they can jump and turn on their toes, and lift them again and balance them as the curtain falls. Amid this hustle and bustle under the dim, lunar projections one notices the vigor of the danseur Cadunow and the always ironical and original agility of the danseuse Lysana. It should be mentioned that for some months now stage directors, bored with undressing the women, have resolved to undress the men. Spectators do not seem shocked by it. After all, this is Antiquity, isn’t it? One should relax one’s principles in honor of History. That is why the athletic Paoli, who plays the faithful giant Ursus, guardian of Lygie, struts naked throughout the opera. Completely naked? No! He wears a skimpy deerskin bathing suit, which allows one to admire the strength of his torso and beauty of his legs; and it is a rare sight to see him carry on his shoulders the body of a gladiator as naked as he, whom he then throws into the Tiber. On the

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dance-floor of the amphitheater scene, a dozen naked gladiators combat. I wish these athletes had not been compelled to follow a traditional choreography. The little steps they do clash with the display of their vigor and seem a bit ridiculous. But M. Nouguès has composed a regular opera ballet for this Neronian fête, so the ballerinas come out on the dance-floor and do their routine prescribed by the old school and proscribed by good taste. Fortunately, slaves carry out a big trunk, and on the trunk lies M. Faraboni, stark naked. He steps down and turns round and round and round, and it’s breathtaking. Then he opens the trunk. Inside, the jewel of this casket, is Mlle Dherlys. She gets out of the trunk. She is wrapped in pearl-studded, white silk chiffon, and, in a delicate and graceful dance, M. Faraboni removes this cloud to reveal the nudity of Mlle Dherlys: the smooth line of her body, her delicate breasts, the whiteness of her skin. . . . She has the fragile grace of a lily [lys], Mlle Dherlys. At this point, M. Paoli, still naked, must fight the vicious aurochs upon which they have strapped the hapless, stark naked Lygie. We do not witness this combat (to all our disappointments), but M. Paoli is the winner and returns naked, fresh as a daisy and without a scratch, carrying a stark naked lady who exhibits not one bruise, and who is not the Lygie that has been singing since the beginning of the opera; because Mlle Lafargue, despite a metalline gown that defined her every curve, demanded a stand-in for this scene. The amorous Vicinius suddenly wonders, “Why shouldn’t I be naked, too?” and throws off his tunic to display his wounds to the Roman people, and his chest to the audience. The scent of all this flesh whets the appetite of the lion and lioness jumping around in a cage at the rear of the amphitheater. The Christians are condemned to be thrown to them. The cage is opened and the beasts are let free. Promptly torn apart, the martyrs expire beneath the imperial box, and the philosopher Chilon, who handed over the Christians, exclaims, like the emperor of Germany, “That’s not what I wanted.” Nero orders his tongue ripped out. His tongue is ripped out forthwith, and the philosopher vomits blood. Need we add that this scene gave rise to an ovation? . . . M. Louis Wurmser, who directs the orchestra, has not yet obtained all the right notes from all the singers or even the chorus; he will eventually. But M. Battistini, who did not seem cut out to play Petronius, is the admirable singer who, after a long and glorious career, has preserved all the richness of his voice.49

Quo vadis? enjoyed a run of more than sixty performances at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, repeating its already colossal success elsewhere. Battistini, who seems to have entered the lists around its one-hundredth outing, in Warsaw, appeared in about ten of the Paris performances before he was relieved by Henri Dangès and Riddez, both artists from the Opéra. It was during the preparations for Quo vadis? that the baritone received an invitation to sing Rigoletto the next season at the Opéra. Battistini’s

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tongue-in-cheek response suggests that he may have met with Jacques Rouché during the dress rehearsal and had an opportunity to witness the gaudy spectacle for the first time from the vantage point of the audience. Mon cher directeur et ami, I really appreciate your wanting to cleanse me and rehabilitate me after the performances of Quo vadis? Yes, Battistini could have gone into the auditorium to admire the gladiators’ thighs; the ballerinas’ breasts, legs, and pas de danse; but not Nero’s imperial box. True, but who doesn’t commit a faux pas sometime in his life?50

If Rigoletto was destined to purge Battistini of his Quo vadis? association, it did so with a vengeance. Over the course of the next year, before reappearing in Verdi’s work at the Opéra the following February, he sang it repeatedly, far and wide: in Cannes (March 1920), Zurich (June), Stockholm and Vienna (October), Trieste (November), Padua (December?), and, at the start of 1921, Nice. What an admirable performance we’ve just seen at the Casino [Municipal]! Twenty, no, fifty times we have heard Rigoletto with great artists, worthy singers, and magnificent tragedians like Renaud, [Henri] Albers, or [Edouard] Rouard, and yet last Monday it seemed like we were hearing the work for the first time. . . . Battistini was splendid. Vocally, he defies all the laws of nature. To possess at age sixty-eight [sic] such a flexible, velvety, powerful, and full-toned baritone is a miracle. . . . As for the acting . . . this is a Rigoletto focused formidably on his passion, who can turn in an instant from buffoon to father tortured with hate or courtier thirsty for vengeance, at the same time his voice makes light of the challenges of a grueling role.51

Battistini was, in fact, sixty-four at the time of this performance, and his age was becoming a source of wonderment. His engagements in Nice during the winter of 1921 also included (at the Casino Municipal) his Scarpia, Athanaël, and Germont; and (at the Théâtre Municipal) his Barnaba—all enthusiastically received. A program for the 15 February La traviata at the Casino indicates that Battistini performed the Pagliacci prologue between the second and third acts of Verdi’s opera. And it was during this sojourn in Nice that he was honored with the military title of Grand Officer of Saint Maurice and Saint Lazare from the Italian government. It was around this period that the twenty-three-year-old Georges Thill met Battistini. Thill had been studying diligently at the Paris Conservatory, making little progress, unhappily observing the improvements that his schoolmate Mario Podestà demonstrated on his return from a trip. Podestà willingly explained the purpose of his getaway: after meeting Battistini, he had gone to

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Naples to study with Fernando De Lucia. As soon as he possibly could, Thill left Paris to travel to Italy, accompanied by his mother. In January 1921, while passing through Nice, Thill saw Battistini in Rigoletto and subsequently spoke with him. During their conversation, Battistini recommended a reputable singing teacher in Rome. Thill asked the great baritone what he thought of De Lucia, and Battistini reportedly replied, “Oh! De Lucia is very good! An intelligent singer and musician, and surely an excellent teacher. You could choose no better.”52 Another version of the event has Battistini characterizing De Lucia as “not a large voice, but a deft singer gifted with a rare vocal intelligence.”53 In a late interview (published just after his death), Thill avoids the discrepancy (and one senses in his explanatory remarks an awareness of how forgotten Battistini had become by the end of the twentieth century). We stopped over in Nice, where we had relatives. The illustrious baritone Battistini happened to be there. Where did I find the courage to arrange a meeting with him? He received me at his hotel. He was a tall, distinguished gentleman, famous all over the world. He had sung at the Russian court. Everywhere. A large, light voice. He made many records. I told him I was intending to go to De Lucia. He strongly encouraged me to do it: “You will not find a better teacher in all of Italy.” I think those two had a number of traits in common.54

In response to the opinion that the voice of De Lucia did not reproduce well on records, Thill admits that he did not recognize the sound, and that he had never really heard De Lucia sing in a large auditorium; all his teaching was done in the quiet privacy of his studio. And yet, it was with De Lucia that Thill improved— far from the halls of the Paris Conservatory. It is interesting that Thill characterizes Battistini’s voice as both “large” and “light”—seemingly a paradox to those who believe that a large voice precludes lightness.

THE RECORDINGS, 1921–1923 After the war, there seemed to be no plans to reissue any of the recordings Battistini had made in 1913. The singer was in litigation with the Italian Gramophone Company Limited, because the company was not living up to its agreement to make records readily available in cities where the baritone was singing or was well known, and also because it had neither realized the promised publicity, nor kept Battistini up to date on how the discs were selling. Nor had it paid him the amounts due, besides having sold or allowed to be sold (at “dirt

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cheap” prices) the baritone’s records on the Orphemm label in St. Petersburg (the company’s Russian agent being the responsible party). Caruso, whose name appears in the documents relating to the lawsuit, may have been the one who informed Battistini that his discs were not being as well distributed in the United States as they should have been. The offer Battistini received to return to the Milan recording studios in 1921 must be regarded as an attempt at reconciliation. For this new series, he chose two songs and selections from ten different operas: two by Donizetti (Maria di Rohan, La favorita), four by Verdi (Don Carlo, Ernani, Rigoletto, and La forza del destino), and one each by Wagner (Tannhäuser), Ponchielli (La Gioconda), Marchetti (Ruy Blas), and Massenet (Le roi de Lahore). The assortment of new titles and remakes, encompassing music both “classic” and contemporary, bespeaks the care with which Battistini approached this project. It is possible that he regarded it as his final venture into the field of recording, “benefiting from the latest technological advances.” The bulk of this great series, which includes perhaps his two most famous recordings (“Vien, Leonora” from La favorita and “Per me giunto” from Don Carlo), was completed over four days, 21–24 May, with an orchestra under the direction of Carlo Sabajno. A fifth day (26 May) was devoted to “security retakes” of the Ruy Blas and La favorita arias. In his remake of Chevreuse’s “Voce fatal di morte” (from Maria di Rohan), Battistini pulls out all the stops, imbuing the cabaletta with more fury than one is used to hearing in this repertory today. The classic “Vien, Leonora” is paired with its cabaletta (“Dei nemici”) on the same side. The shapely but solid phrasing and the vigor of the cabaletta, topped by a high F more radiant than ever, make this a masterpiece of a recording. Battistini communicates a youthful impetuousness that is just beginning to fade; perhaps he was trying to surpass himself in one last mature, age-defying performance. He succeeds brilliantly in the two main requisites for this double aria: a broad, full-bodied cantabile in the first part and a stunning bravura in the second. The recording of a third Donizetti aria, with piano only, seems to have been an afterthought. One can imagine the following scenario: Following completion of the contracted recordings, the baritone would have thanked the recording team, probably without committing himself to any further sessions. Because he had proven to be in excellent voice, it is not unlikely that he was encouraged to do something more, to pick anything and record it on the spot. Turning to the scores at hand, Battistini obliges by choosing the aria from Maria di Rudenz that he (like Ronconi) interpolates in Maria di Rohan. Having nothing to lose, and with the pressure of standing directly in front of the horn no longer upon him (the voice in this recording is noticeably distant), Battistini casually leans against the piano as Sabajno accompanies him in a run-

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through of “Ah! non avea più lagrime” (the orchestral musicians having already been dismissed). In this precious remnant of a transcendent performance, with its flowery ornamentation, the legendary romantic spirit of bel canto is reborn. The voice sounds impressively large, capable of ebbing from the loudest forte to the softest hush with extraordinary flexibility. The vocalises are so rapidly executed that one has to listen twice to believe what one has heard. If this little jewel of a record had never been made, one might legitimately doubt that such a style of singing ever existed. Another gem is the recording of Posa’s recitative and aria from Verdi’s Don Carlo (“Felice ancor io son . . . Per me giunto”). It is more famous than the 1913 version, where the voice sounds as though it is coming from the end of a long tube, though with some surprising dynamic contrasts. Here, eight years later, the voice has more presence and sounds calmer, more pristine, and more affecting. Beyond what one can say about the beauty of timbre and phrasing, interpretively it departs notably from the conventional. Those familiar with postwar recordings of this aria may have to listen to it several times to get used to its eccentricities, yet how can one not acknowledge its simplicity of expression and poignant sincerity? How can one not appreciate its truthfulness, compared to the conventionality that one too often regards as “stylishness”? The high F marked dolce (“Ei che pre-mia i suoi fedel”) is sung with the tenderness that has escaped all subsequent Verdi baritones. The trill at the end of the phrase is executed with touching abandon. Simply sublime. With “O sommo Carlo” from Ernani, Battistini remakes one of his legendary recordings, and lives up to the challenge of his 1906 version. After fifteen years, what possessed him to want to repeat such a success? One hears him attempting to widen the sonic perspective, but to the detriment of the voice, which sounds as though it were being transmitted over the telephone. Battistini holds the low notes and repeats the high A-flat exploit. The fine legato and the loudness of the forte passages remain comparable. But the new spatial layout adopted for the accompanying singers seems to harden the vocal timbres, particularly Battistini’s (this flaw is not heard in the high climaxes of the Roi de Lahore and Ruy Blas ensemble numbers recorded during the two previous days of these sessions). The same sonic deficiency can be heard in the Rigoletto duet (“Si, vendetta,” introduced by “No, vecchio, t’inganni”). Another mystery: who was Lulu Hayes, the assisting soprano? A wild urgency runs through this performance, which gives us a hint of the artist’s intensity in live performance and otherwise makes up for the recording’s sonic disappointment. As in the recordings of Magini-Coletti (1909) and Luigi Piazza (1927–1928), the high A-flat at the end is rather hard on the ear; the singer seems to be expending great effort for

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nothing (the close placement of both the soprano and the baritone vying for the horn would have blocked the resonance). Fortunately, the Ernani aria exists to prove that Battistini was still capable of a brilliant, effortless high A-flat. It is difficult to understand why both of the “Urna fatale” takes that preceded the recording of the La forza del destino cabaletta “Egli è salvo!” remained unpublished. (In 1924 Battistini gave another try at recording “Urna fatale,” that time successfully.) It is unlikely he was dissatisfied with it to the point of forbidding its release, for in that case he would not have gone ahead and recorded the adjoining cabaletta (which was published). Presumably, there must have been technical or commercial reasons for suppressing it. Another of the many remakes in the 1921 series is one that Battistini had recorded twice before (in 1902 and 1911): the “Hymn to the Evening Star” from Tannhäuser, again with its introductory recitative. Here the singer who knew the composer and had received his congratulations offers one final definitive document of his interpretation. It is a splendidly realized, spellbinding performance. To show his appreciation once again to Massenet, Battistini this time chose a selection from Le roi de Lahore, the aria “O casto fior,” with its preceding recitative. The baritone conveys perfectly its sentimental tone, as in the ascending portamento just before the reprise, passing over the medium from low D-flat to high D-flat. How irresistible! It is quite a feat to avoid an audible break or a shift in color between registers here. In a later era, when the fundamental rules of good singing fell into neglect and resulted in a more forced production of tone, the use of portamento would unfortunately be considered vulgar and intolerable. Battistini’s success in Ruy Blas two years earlier in Monte Carlo may have been what motivated him to record Don Sallustio’s act 1 aria “A’miei rivali cedere.” It is a beautiful, poignantly intense performance, the voice intact. Only four months before, in Nice, he had had another success in La Gioconda, presumably the reason why he decided to record the final duet, “Ebbrezza delirio,” with soprano Jannina de Witt. Again, the performance makes one marvel at the amount of energy exhibited by a baritone of sixty-five. The songs reinforce our belief that Battistini may have thought these recording sessions would be his last ones, providing him with a final opportunity to leave an aural testament for posterity. “La mantilla” is a remake, and Carissimi’s “Vittoria! vittoria!” is one of those arie antiche that all young singers encounter in their formative years. (Probably just a few months earlier, Battistini recorded for the Swiss Fonotecnica company in Zurich two other songs often employed in the classroom: Giordani’s “Caro mio ben” and Tosti’s “Ideale.”) In this context, the piano-accompanied aria from Maria di Rudenz with which he chose to close the 1921 Gramophone sessions acquires special sig-

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nificance: “Ah! non avea più lagrime” might have served as a nostalgic reminder of his youth.

CLOSING YEARS From 1917 on, while commuting between Paris and Monte Carlo, Battistini continued to appear on the opera stages of Spain and Italy. And in 1920, for want of returning to Russia, he discovered Scandinavia (Stockholm, Copenhagen). In 1922, after his three-year absence from Monte Carlo, Battistini and Gunsbourg seem to have reached a reconciliation—or rather, the director must have come forth with a reasonable offer—because the baritone returned to sing in his signature opera, La favorita. Little did he realize, perhaps, that the Monte Carlo production would be his last opportunity to wear the crown of Alphonse XI. Still, he must have been thinking about the approaching fiftieth anniversary of his career (1928) and preparing for his farewell to the stage. How could he not, when reading the following review? Battistini was prodigious as the king of Castille. It is impossible for this role to be performed with greater passion. As great a showman as he is a singer of this repertory, Battistini acted the part with a breadth of style and an intensity of expression that demanded admiration. His voice of such rare quality, his splendid diction, and his knowledge of singing serve him powerfully. After only the first few bars of the larghetto of the second-act “Vien, Leonora,” the whole house burst into applause; and in the third act the excited audience made him encore the great phrase of the famous trio.55

Then came Thaïs, followed by Il barbiere di Siviglia. The following review further undermines the allegation that Battistini disliked singing Rossini’s Figaro. As expected, Battistini was a joyous, strong, and resonant Figaro. The classic role of the mischievous barber could not have been performed with greater spirit and finesse; nor could it have been sung with a more agreeable, youthful, and vibrant voice. The way Battistini brought out its details enthralled connoisseurs of pure style and refined taste.56

After Monte Carlo Battistini returned to Paris, where he was slated to sing La traviata and Tosca at the Opéra-Comique and Rigoletto at the Palais Garnier. Unfortunately, health problems caught up with him, as this note addressed to Jacques Rouché reveals.

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Chapter 4 Thursday 30 [March] Cher directeur, My dear friend, I am sorry to disappoint you with the news that it will be impossible for me to sing tomorrow, but I have no choice in the matter. For the past two or three days I have had a bit of a cold, and I should not have sung Traviata last evening, but when I realized I was indisposed it was already too late to cancel; so I sang, miraculously, because singing with no voice is indeed a problem. But at present I cannot do the same thing at the Opéra, and with Rigoletto. If you wish me to sing again on the 8th [of April] you are free to do what you will. It is unfortunate to upset you, all the more so because it was I who begged you to let me sing—but it’s beyond my control. I have always been fine elsewhere, and not until Paris must my luck turn bad. A pity. Excuse me, dear friend, and be kind to me. Please don’t hold this against me. Please let me know, through Vigna, what you decide, for if I could have another day, I will try to cancel the London engagement and return to Italy after singing Tosca, if my voice permits, in three or four days.

The next day, Rouché, after attempting to pay Battistini a visit at his hotel but finding him out, received a second note: Friday 31 [March] Cher Directeur, I went out for a moment to go to Dr. Didsbury, rue Cambacérès 29, only to return and find your card. I’m terribly sorry I missed you. I would have liked to tell you how sorry I am to have caused you this great annoyance. After being so kind to me, you surely don’t deserve it. But what can one do? This year has been hell for me, traveling from city to city all the time. After three months in Rome, going horseback riding every day for three hours, who would have thought a little draft could cause me so much misfortune, for I understand, the Opéra will be closed to me forever, and it is the death of my artistic career, even though I know I am still the same singer and that in three or four days the voice will be back to normal. The Doctor told me that, and he gave me two shots, yesterday and today, and already the difference is immense. Forgive me, my dear friend. Do not be angry at me. Send me a note saying you don’t hold this against me, it will ease my mind. I know that they were furious at the Opéra, but what could I do? Today it would have been impossible for me to sing. I’m sorry, especially for you and for Mme Ritter-Ciampi, for everyone, and I assure you that today, I would prefer to be dead and buried, so great is my pain. Again, a thousand pardons from your devoted friend, Mattia Battistini

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Even taking into account his expansive Latin temperament, as well as the conventional letter-writing style of the time, this note reveals a rarely glimpsed side of Battistini’s personality: his anguish and his humility. In spite of his triumphs in the great operatic centers of the world, there is enough evidence to show that he obviously attached great importance to his Paris appearances, viewing them as a sort of crowning achievement of his career, a feeling heightened, perhaps, by the long time it took for his dreams of a Parisian debut to come true. He must also have been haunted by lingering fears about not being able to sing much longer. Was he really suffering from a simple cold? The operational system of the Paris Opéra was different from what Battistini had generally been used to, in that it allowed for last-minute substitutions of indisposed singers. Indeed, for any given production it was not unusual for a visiting star to sing a handful of performances, at any point in the run, and for a house singer to cover the rest of the performances. The troupe always had the singers on call to cast any work in the repertory, and this factor no doubt influenced Rouché’s choice of opera. Sometimes, if there was no available substitute for an ailing singer, a “house cast” could be assembled for another opera. On this particular occasion, Rigoletto remained on the bill, with Yvantzoff in the title role. On 3 April 1922, Battistini sang Scarpia at the Opéra-Comique, and on 8 April he sang Rigoletto at the Opéra. They would be his last performances in those two theaters. He would continue to sing well for several more years, as the recordings he made in 1924 prove, but his health began to fail him. After his appointments with Dr. Didsbury, it could not have been too difficult for the son of a physician to see the handwriting on the wall, and in the following newspaper report of his last gala recital in Paris, at the Salle Gaveau on 23 April (with André Balbis at the piano), one catches a glimpse of his state of mind. To invite me to his recital . . . the great Italian singer . . . wrote me a melancholy letter in which he complained of the miseries of growing old at the end of a brilliant career. “All bad things,” he said, “non vergogno per nuorere.” In other words, there are warnings that one must listen to. It does not seem that the public was of the same opinion. Battistini was warmly applauded for the magnificent size of his organ, his beautiful style, his ever dramatic and passionate expression stamped with a touch of irony, and the incisive edge of his diction. The recital was, moreover, exceptionally well programmed, with characteristic repertory selections: Favorita, Puritani, The Marriage of Figaro, which so few artists know how to sing nowadays; and also some famous classic airs . . . Enthusiastically called back for a bow, Battistini added a dozen other numbers to his program that showed the resilience of his talent, confirmed

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Chapter 4 the superiority of his art, and proved that one can be an impeccable singer, if not an impeccable prophet—for the concert was not a mournful adieu, but a warm au revoir.57

The printed program of the recital, which commenced at nine o’clock in the evening, lists the following selections: Meyerbeer: “O possente magia” (aria from Dinorah) Carissimi: “Vittoria, vittoria!” Paisiello: “Il mio ben” Beethoven: “Adelaïde” Bellini: Aria from I puritani (intermission) Donizetti: Aria from La favorita Gluck: “Spiagge amate” Mozart: Aria from Le nozze di Figaro Rossini: “Tarentelle” After the Salle Gaveau event, Battistini went to London for two recitals at Queen’s Hall (3 and 12 May). Titta Ruffo, then forty-four, also gave one in the same hall on 5 May. Comparisons in the press were inevitable, and there were more references than the oblique one cited by J. B. Steane from the Morning Post (i.e., that Battistini “displayed a traditional art in its perfection. Signor Titta Ruffo . . . revealed a younger art with its imperfections”).58 Several London papers covered the events in detail. It has been a remarkable education in its way to hear at the Queen’s Hall the veteran Battistini and his great baritone successor of to-day, Titta Ruffo. The latter’s singing is that of a physical superman in the prime of life, bubbling over with a natural magnificence and assurance which affect the singer’s platform deportment: his singing of the “Largo al factotum” from “The Barber” was a wonderful tour de force. Slighter things he airily distributed from his abundant vocal resources: his tone was never so massive but it seemed to have reserve behind it, and it had in every item an agreeably musical ring and unforced sonority, which however conveyed no hint that it might be capable of deeper dramatic emotions or of the finer shades of expression. Battistini’s voice on balance is the more wonderful. Singing as a veteran of sixty-five he did everything consummately in a much more varied programme, not merely by the exercise of an art refined to the highest degree, but by the revelation of vocal resources miraculously conserved and effortlessly produced. The ringing purity of his high tenor notes would put many leading “legitimate” tenors to the blush, and the easy display of power in his singing of things like the [Pagliacci] Prologue left one with the con-

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viction that no “veteran” opera singer on the retired list of either sex heard in London in the past decade is worthy to be compared with him. Above all, the style of the man was impeccable and inimitable. A master whether in cantabile or declamatory singing, in dramatic arias or the gayest of songs.59

It is interesting to juxtapose the above article with the following one, written at approximately the same time. Two great foreign operatic artists have during the week appeared here on the concert platform. The baritone Battistini, who has paid but one short visit to London since he first appeared there in 1887, represents the old nineteenth-century Italian school at its best, and sings a type of music now no longer written. He never hurries, or fusses, or forces, he never “lets himself go,” and, consequently, at sixty-five, he has a voice which betrays the very slightest signs of wear. Every singer should hear him, for he is a living lesson in the art of voice production and voice preservation, and those who cannot hear him in the flesh might study thoughtfully the gramophone records of his singing that have lately appeared. Then we have heard again another famous baritone, Titta Ruffo, who gave a concert at Queen’s Hall and received an ovation beyond his deserts from an audience largely made up of his countrymen and countrywomen; his voice is somewhat thick, some of his intervals indeterminate, and his manner melodramatic. He has his points, but was lavishly over-applauded. . . . His true place would seem to be the music-hall.60

The first article subtracts a year from Battistini’s actual age while (more importantly) encouraging young singers to learn from him. The second text reflects somewhat the feeling of Fred Gaisberg, who had taken a break from his recording producer duties to organize these concerts. An unconditional admirer of Ruffo, whom he had helped make famous via recordings, Gaisberg nevertheless had to admit that although “I helped him to appear in a Queen’s Hall recital in 1922[,] it was not very successful. There was something pathetic about a former great singer . . . reduced to impotency through loss of voice while yet a young man.”61 The London recitals were not the only time Ruffo and Battistini found themselves “in competition,” and it was not always to the younger singer’s advantage. In the spring of 1906 in Russia, the press reviewed their respective performances in The Demon. Signor Titta Ruffo possesses a voice of extraordinary strength and volume, noticeable through almost the entire length of the [title] role, though it must be added that these qualities are no less apparent in Signor Battistini.

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Chapter 4 Signor Titta Ruffo uses mezza voce and piano only rarely, for special effect, depending on the poetic needs; hence the aria “Là, nel cielo vasto e profondo” was the least successful moment of his performance. With Signor Battistini, on the other hand, the entire role of the Demon was consciously shrouded in a velvety chiaroscuro, a sort of Rembrandtish coloration, which this virtuoso of singing does masterfully. And thereby, what a great effect Signor Battistini produced when, in the passionate finale, he removed the mute from his divine instrument and the power of his phenomenal voice seemed like the bursting of a dam, surging in all its splendor, transformed into a real and active force. Signor Ruffo lacked such a gradation; the voice, instead of progression, diminished from the beginning to the end. He made a strong impression at the beginning in the prologue, but he could not go any farther thereafter. Signor Titta Ruffo possesses beautiful high notes, but the medium is not free and is of a guttural nature, particularly noticeable in “Là, nel cielo” and in the recitative “Sopra il Sinodal dormente.” This artist is most at home in the Italian repertory.62

Of course, there is no need to tarnish the glory of Ruffo in order to promote Battistini, and yet the high esteem with which Ruffo is popularly regarded today leaves Battistini in the shade. There is a widespread belief that Ruffo was the greatest baritone of the twentieth century, without precedent or successor. And yet, even though Battistini was born earlier, his career also extended well into the twentieth century. Even if one argues that Battistini was a transitional figure, a link between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, his achievement cannot be dismissed simply because it preceded the new “modern” style of Ruffo. One should remember that Ruffo encountered difficulties with his voice teacher, who was also the teacher of Battistini. Ruffo was unhappy that Persichini gave most of his attention to Giuseppe De Luca and “insisted that my voice was that of a bass, and sought to train it as such.”63 Nowadays Persichini’s opinion is discredited, and Ruffo’s dark voice is considered the prototypical Verdi baritone sound emulated until the 1960s. Voice classifications were not always what they are today, however, and they will probably continue to evolve. Thus, Ronconi would have been considered a basso cantante in his time, even though, like Ruffo, he sang high baritone parts such as Rigoletto and Rossini’s Figaro. As Ruffo should have realized, Persichini’s designation of Ruffo as a bass was not erroneous; it simply points to a difference in terminology between one era and another. In any case, despite the many roles they had in common, Persichini would not have employed the same term to describe the voices of Battistini and Ruffo (and he would have been wrong to do so). As more than one commentator was known to observe, Battistini’s vocal means predisposed him to

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“the great gentleman roles,”64 whereas Ruffo’s dark, granitelike timbre should have led him to sing the villains—that is, had the changing public taste not turned misdemeanor into law. One can imagine Persichini listening to Ruffo’s dusky, lusterless timbre, shimmering only at forte, while still sounding laborious because of an inadequate reliance on its natural source. Today, blinded as we have become to the correspondence between the sensual and the sublime, Ruffo’s heavier, beefier timbre is considered macho, whereas Battistini’s is deemed too pure (hence “light”!). Critics of Battistini claim, groundlessly, that Ruffo produced much more sound, only because his timbre was more opaque. Persichini knew that in order to purify it, it needed to achieve greater radiance, so that forte tones no longer sounded forced and effortful. Ruffo worked hard to domesticate his voice and prove Persichini wrong. In his memoirs, when describing the circumstances of his first appearance on the opera stage, he regrets that “Maestro Persichini had died a little before my debut, and thus could not verify with his own ears the ridiculous opinion he had of my voice.”65 But in his voice there remained small traces of the impurities that Persichini gave up trying to eliminate. Since a singer is not only a voice box, and voices are not only judged by their power, or even their dramatic impact, one cannot preclude the possibility that Persichini was unimpressed by Ruffo’s phrasing and overall musicianship, which, even with practice, always remained rather perfunctory, marred by a rudimentary sense of rubato. It is no wonder that Persichini found De Luca the more interesting pupil. In his memoirs, Ruffo recounts how his first opera engagement in Madrid ran the risk of being postponed by a week. At the time [1908] the impresario of the Teatro Real was a retired colonel who in my opinion had neither the intelligence nor the ability to successfully fulfill his duty. He attempted to justify the delay with the following reason: that Mattia Battistini, considered then the king of baritones, had just finished a series of performances there, naturally achieving great success, and that to avoid damaging comparisons it would be prudent to wait some time before presenting a new colleague of the same register, especially one awaited with such curiosity. Thanking him sarcastically for his sense of diplomacy, I made him aware that I was a simple artist at the beginning of my career and that I had no intention whatsoever of competing with anyone. As for his pretense of keeping me ten days beyond the end of the contract, I informed him that I had already consulted a lawyer, and that for that reason delaying my first appearance could prove very costly to him. Seeing my firm intention of having the terms of my contract rigorously respected, the manager changed his mood and tactics.66

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From the way he refers to Battistini here, it is difficult to believe that Ruffo “had no intention . . . of competing with anyone” and didn’t secretly relish the thought of being compared with the veteran baritone. But, to return to Fred Gaisberg’s comparative thoughts on the two baritones’ 1922 London recitals, if Gaisberg was disappointed by Ruffo’s appearances, he felt Battistini’s artistic and financial success was very gratifying to us, but beyond this there was the satisfaction of having our convictions substantiated. Battistini was then over 65 years of age and the press filled enthusiastic columns with praise of this great artist and his demonstration of the authentic Italian school of singing. I am certain that to many singers and teachers those performances were a revelation. There was no assisting artist, and the programme consisted of up to twenty of the most difficult arias and romances ever written for the baritone voice. The baritone seemed to get better as his voice warmed up and the remarkable thing was that he finished each concert absolutely fresh. Afterwards he would relax and say, “Now I will indulge my one remaining vice.” He would then produce a large Havana cigar, light this up, and lie back luxuriously in perfect ease and contentment.67

The program of Battistini’s 3 May recital in Queen’s Hall, accompanied by Manlio Di Veroli on the piano, was as follows: Meyerbeer: “O possente magia” (from Dinorah) Carissimi: “Vittoria, vittoria!” Paisiello: “Il mio ben” Donizetti: “A tanto amor” (from La favorita) Gluck: “Spiagge amate” (from Paride ed Elena) Massenet: “O casto fior” (from Le roi de Lahore) Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci) Verdi: “O de’verd’anni miei” (from Ernani) Donizetti: “Bella e di sol vestita” and “Voce fatal” (from Maria di Rohan) Encores: Mozart: “Non più andrai” (from Le nozze di Figaro) Mozart: “Deh vieni alla finestra” (from Don Giovanni) Thomas: Brindisi (from Hamlet) Verdi: “Quand’ero paggio” (from Falstaff) Tosti: “Ideale” The London critics were enthusiastic in their praise of Battistini’s Queen’s Hall performance.

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It is quite possible that to many of the present generation of concert-goers, the name of Mattia Battistini is no more than a name, for it is a good many years since last the owner of that name sang in London, and even then it was in Covent Garden, and not in a mere concert room that he sang. But who that heard him for the first time in Queen’s Hall yesterday afternoon can hesitate for a moment to say that, quite plainly, Covent Garden is his rightful home. The subtle movement of a hand, the tiny shrug of a shoulder, the kaleidoscopic change of features, all quiet, unaggressively used, and used with the very least possible disturbance of the quiet body, all portray the stage-hand. A great master of his art is Battistini. Though it must be some twelve years [sixteen, in fact] since last the writer saw his Rigoletto and Don Giovanni, his memory is as clear now as then, as to the power of the wonderfully used voiced, as to the subtlety of the manner of its use, cynical, suave, bitter, mordant, gentle as any sucking dove as it is. So then, so now. It is idle to deny that a thread or two shows here or there in the velvet; but there is no sign of change or decay in the beautiful and most highly polished style. That style, as a fact, is historical. Where nowadays will you find such mordant feeling as in the prologue to “Pagliacci” at Battistini’s hands? Where more suavity than in “O casto fior,” more sonority and flexibility than in several operatic airs on the programme, a greater command of sheer pace than in “Vittoria! Vittoria!”, more “Italian operatic” sentiment—or is it sentimentality?—than in “Il mio ben,” or in Tosti’s “Ideale”? It was all very fine after its kind, a very beautiful style being united still with a very beautiful voice that is used with a masterly capacity to utmost advantage. That really is the Maestro Battistini.68

The Daily News the next day pronounced Battistini “one of the wonders of music” and found his voice to be “as fresh as that of a young man,” while another London paper described the event as a perfect exposition of the real vocal art. Effort there was none, and weakness did not exist, simply because his is the real, the only, way to use the voice. From him we have the precious “speech in song,” the beautifully “spun” tone, all the facility of execution, and all the intellectuality which show us why vocal music was written in this style and why it is written no more.69

The following week, on 12 May, Battistini gave another recital at Queen’s Hall, with a different program. Gounod: “Dio possente” (from Faust) Saint-Saëns: “Qui donc commande” (from Henry VIII) Verdi: “Di Provenza” (from La traviata)

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Beethoven: “Adelaïde” (intermission) Bellini: “Ah! per sempre . . . Bel sogno” (from I puritani) Verdi: “Eri tu” (from Un ballo in maschera) Massenet: “Vision fuggitiva” (from Hérodiade) Alvarez: “La mantilla” Encores: Rossini: “Tarantella” Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci) This new recital, only ten days after the first, prompted the Daily Telegraph to call Battistini “a colossal artist [who] with a minimum of ‘show’ . . . makes a maximum of effect. . . . All the more reason, therefore, why young singers should seize every opportunity to hear him—for it is a liberal education to do so.”70 Additional concert tours later in the year brought him to Germany and even to Sweden. It was during his sojourn in Stockholm that Battistini received the news of his beloved wife’s sudden death in Colle Baccaro on 27 September 1922. To honor her memory, Battistini had a RomanByzantine–style burial chapel constructed on his land in Contigliano. Cardinal Merry del Val, the pope’s ex-secretary and friend of the Battistini family, made a special trip from Rome for the benediction of the deceased.71 Three months later, in San Sebastián, following a concert before the King of Spain Alfonso XIII and his court, Battistini reportedly caught a chill and almost died.72 His convalescence was swift, though the thought of losing his voice must have crossed his mind at some point; his physician may even have warned him of the possibility. Of course, the preservation of a voice throughout a very long career such as that of Battistini must be attributed not to one single factor but to an accumulation of many, among which are good health, a disciplined way of life, strong motivation, a solid technique, and so on. There was a time when it was believed that the secret to a long career involved reducing one’s repertory to five or six roles, not talking the day before a performance, or not singing very often. Battistini ignored such old wives’ tales. Levik tells us that, even late in his career, when he knew his roles inside out, he would sing at rehearsals in full voice, whereas today so many singers think they are being “professional” by “marking” (i.e., singing in half-voice) until the dress rehearsal, and even marking sometimes during the dress rehearsal. An interesting explanation for the secret of Battistini’s vocal longevity was given to the Copenhagen press on the baritone’s behalf by a certain Dr. Nilson: “Because [he] has always sung correctly.”73 More easily said than done, perhaps, but not without a grain of

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truth. The sixty-eight-year-old Battistini offered a reporter this foolproof recipe: “The secret to staying young is in the wanting to be.”74 If nothing else, it at least reveals Battistini’s state of mind, and if he enjoyed being among young people it was their enthusiasm that he prized more than their admiration. Still, by this time Battistini was realistic enough to start considering retirement, admitting to the Danish press, “I don’t want the public to see me get too old.”75 Indeed, in a 1923 interview published in the Swedish press he announced: I am soon going to end my career, because it bothers me to see people always discussing my age, and to find it mentioned in my reviews, no matter how good they are. Thus in London I was described as ‘a nearly eightyyear-old artist,’ even though I am not that old—but what is the point? I assure you that in my youth my voice was never more beautiful or more powerful than it is now. What does the critic know about it? If I knew my singing was on the decline, I would have enough dignity to retire, and I would never want to be applauded for past glories. Is it so strange to have a fresh voice at my age? Tamberlik sang until he was eighty, Cotogni until he was eighty-four. I can’t help it if today’s singers are finished at age forty.76

One can understand his annoyance at reporters’ questions about his age, as though his singing needed the extra “human interest” angle to attract audiences! What counted for him was the eternal youth of his artistry, not the number of wrinkles on his brow. Reading between the lines of his response, one detects a certain defensiveness against the suggestion of any age-related diminishment of his resources and a tendency to become emotional when his pride was hurt. To his credit, he insisted that an artist be judged without indulgence by his work, and it was only natural for him to believe he had to be at his best to stay on top. With only a handful of sonically imperfect recordings as evidence, it serves no good purpose to quibble over whether his voice at this time was truly as good as it was at the peak of his career. One can be confident that his general vocal deportment, high notes, and bravura ability were intact, and what is certain is that the titles he recorded in 1924 are ones that any baritone in full possession of his resources would have found difficult. A voice inevitably reflects the health of its owner, and Battistini’s health in this period was becoming fragile. Nevertheless, it should not be assumed he would have sounded much better during the early years of his career; he himself made no secret of the fact that he always had to work to train and polish his instrument. Unfortunately, one can think of many singers, Battistini not among them, whose wonderful voices for various reasons degrade beyond repair (sometimes quickly, sometimes gradually) after brilliant debuts. Battistini’s concern for keeping his voice in a condition worthy of presentation before the public naturally affected his personal life; as he told one interviewer, “the artist

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is not a happy man: he has to think of his voice all the time, too often to feel happy in an ordinary way. Of course there is the satisfaction of singing and bringing pleasure to others. Music is like the flowers that the Creator has planted everywhere for the pleasure of human beings. We singers are only intermediaries.” Asked if he would miss singing after he retired, Battistini replied stoically, “Yes, but everything in this world must come to an end.”77 And in a 1927 letter to his friend Carlotta Keiser, he made this melancholy observation: “Art is a difficult book that only an elected few can understand. Artists are people who lead others and show them the way, but when they turn around they suddenly find themselves alone and unhappy.”78 In this remark, one recognizes the almost priestlike nature of the artist’s sense of calling, encountered before, as well as an anxiety that cannot be solely attributable to his advancing years. Battistini seems to have been able to suppress the latter feeling, sublimated into conventional stage jitters and a marked obsession with work, though here it emerges more specifically as an atypical fear of solitude. He certainly needed the love and support of the many people who followed him around most of the time. His home at Colle Baccaro was fitted out to provide lodging for several guests at a time, and there is evidence that he received visitors even on days when he had to perform (though on a limited basis, of course). In any case, despite a growing sadness, Battistini seems to have harbored no regrets about his choice of profession and its consequences, only an awareness of its having to come to an end. When it became clear that his performing days were numbered, he courageously went on pursuing what he lived for. During performances, his loyal valet, Alfredo Petrelli, kept a close eye on him from backstage; when Petrelli felt the number of encores sufficient, he would stride across the stage with dignity in front of everyone and collect all the sheet music in order to prevent Mattia and his accompanist from yielding to any more audience pressure. He had only to whisper “Abbastanza” (enough) and the master obeyed the valet.79 For health reasons, a revisit to London in January 1923 (with the tentative prospect of singing some staged performances) was postponed until May, and then he only gave another pair of recitals at Queen’s Hall.80 Fortunately, the voice remained intact—reportedly even better than ever. When he was asked to what he attributed the long preservation of his voice, he is said to have jokingly claimed that the cold Russian winters must have had a big influence. The program of the 12 May 1923 recital (again with Di Veroli at the piano) went as follows: Wagner: “O tu, bell’astro” (from Tannhäuser) Donizetti: “O Lisbona!” (from Don Sebastiano) Franchetti: “Dunque ho sognato” (from Cristoforo Colombo)

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Verdi: “Eri tu” (from Un ballo in maschera) (encored) Bach: “Bist du bei mir” Sarti: “Lunge dal caro bene” Schubert: “Serenade” Tchaikovsky: “Se dell’imen” (from Eugene Onegin) Giordano: “Un dì m’era di gioia” (from Andrea Chénier) Di Veroli: “Notturnino” Rossini: “Largo al factotum” (from Il barbiere di Siviglia) Encore: Verdi: “Quand’ero paggio” (from Falstaff) Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci) Encores: Mozart: “Non più andrai” (from Nozze di Figaro) Mozart: “Deh, vieni alla finestra” (from Don Giovanni) Béla Bartók reviewed the “well attended and enthusiastically applauded” event. In all singing, the “what” is of less importance than the “how,” and that is only more than usually the case in [Signor Battistini’s]. He does habitually with his voice what the best singers are always trying to do with theirs, but only sometimes succeeding. The art of assisting Nature by removing obstacles and leaving her alone is one of the last things we learn. Anyone who has dug trenches soon learns to let the weight of the pickaxe do all the work and to interfere with it as little as may be, because its results are tangible; unluckily for singing there is, because it is a matter of taste, no similar sanction; and so singers go on trying to improve Nature. Signor Battistini leaves his voice alone, and that simple act of self-denial wins him the applause of thousands whenever he chooses. It is so simple that we could all do it and so difficult that few do. He sang “Eri tu” and “O Lisbona, alfin ti miro,” and, of course, “Largo al factotum”—but the songs did not matter, it was that voice; they were no more than the shapes it pleased to assume for the moment.81

Herman Klein, writing for The Musical Times, was impressed by the veteran baritone’s success in “triumphantly defying time.” His art is unmatched. Hardly one censorious adjective could be applied to him. At sixty-six he is still the most elegant of the arbiters of song. Unlike many singers of his years, he in no manner displays the mere skeleton of a former voice. Possibly the years have added a little restraint, and some little of the brilliance of a quarter century ago may have faded. His singing now has, anyway, all the merits of full maturity. Battistini not only commands all the technical graces, but also commands himself. It is a lesson in itself to see how on the platform he can range

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Chapter 4 through many moods and always perfectly maintain a gentlemanly dignity. He sang Wolfram’s tournament song, ‘Eri tu’ (twice), Falstaff ’s ‘Page’ Song, Mozart’s ‘Non più andrai’ and ‘Deh vieni,’ and many other things. Only one was really a failure—Bach’s ‘Bist du bei mir.’ Battistini in Mozart and in Italian music is incomparable. His ‘Largo al Factotum’ bubbled with fun and was amazingly glib, yet it was well in its frame—no hint of extravagance. The Pagliacci Prologue itself was decent and courtly, even. ‘Deh vieni’ breathed knightly grace. One feels that Battistini has settled on every phrase and shade of his effects with the most definite and deliberate prevision. He is the perfect technician. One can guess that in his youth he probably sang solfeggi until his sides ached. By the long habit of singing rightly he probably could not now, if he wanted, tighten his throat when singing. One divines a complicated subconscious mechanism busy doing all the necessary things aright for him, so that his conscious mind is happily at ease, concerned only with the music, and free to sail along those richly flowing phrases so beloved of Italians, with no harassing considerations. The many baritones who try to sing too heavily in the chest register should note that Battistini retains his lyric quality throughout his range, and does not even trouble to darken his lowest notes at all. He banks, as true baritones should, on his middle and upper notes. His spun tones, and many other details, fascinated one, but it must be insisted that his essential greatness lies in his perfect sense of style. Schubert’s ‘Serenade,’ sung in Italian, did indeed not ring quite true. It was spoilt for me by several sforzati, brilliantly done and assuredly not introduced for show, but still not in keeping with Schubert.82

For his second recital, on 18 May, Battistini once again presented a different program, which we can today reconstruct almost in its entirety from his recordings. Marchetti: “A’miei rivali cedere” (from Ruy Blas) Rossini: “Resta immobile” (from Guglielmo Tell) Flotow: “Il mio Lionel” (from Martha) Verdi: “Urna fatale . . . Egli è salvo!” (from La forza del destino) Gluck: “O del mio dolce ardor” (from Paride ed Elena) Carissimi: “Vittoria, vittoria!” Alvarez: “La mantilla” Massenet: “Pourquoi me réveiller?” (from Werther) Gounod: “Le soir” Donizetti: “A tanto amor” (from La favorita) Rossini: “Tarantella” Di Veroli: “Notturnino” Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci)

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Giordano: “Un dì m’era di gioia” (from Andrea Chénier) Bizet: “Votre toast” (from Carmen) Gounod: “Dio possente” (from Faust) There is no indication that Battistini yet intended to leave the opera stage and devote himself to recital appearances, for in the autumn of 1923 he returned to Stockholm to sing not only a recital (at the church of St. Pétri de Malmö, in the presence of the Swedish king) but also Il barbiere di Siviglia and Tosca; and in March 1924 he went to Vienna for Un ballo in maschera, Tosca, Rigoletto, and L’Africana. Between these two tours, in February 1924 in Milan—about the time when he was telling reporters that his voice was sounding better than ever—something caused Battistini to return to the recording studio.

THE 1924 RECORDINGS The relative disappointment one feels on listening to these records cannot be attributed only to the sound of the voice (the aging of which would have crept up gradually, imperceptibly, like wrinkles on a familiar face). The recording process itself is no doubt partially to blame. The voice is captured and recorded less effectively here than it was in 1906—amazingly enough, given the advances in recording technology. Perhaps the desire to expand the sonic range was somewhat responsible for this. With the exception of the 1902 series, the 1924 recordings (made over a period of four days in February) are the only ones not to enlist the aid of other singers or a small chorus. However, the orchestral backup is larger (including not one but three trombones!), a situation that might have adversely affected the sound quality and made it difficult for Battistini to hear himself during the recording process. His phrasing remains intact, the voice never wavering off pitch. The beauty of the tone and his ease in the high register remain exemplary. However, the timbre has lost some of its creaminess and a bit of its weight, although the intensity seems undiminished, as though in the manner predicted by the Reichpost critic in 1913 (“Even when the voice . . . begins to weaken, he will remain unrivalled through the magic of his personality”). Of the twelve titles chosen, only five are really new to the baritone’s discography. Figaro’s “Non più andrai,” even transposed upward, sounds low for a high baritone and cannot under these conditions convey all the required good spirits; nevertheless, Battistini must have done it successfully enough in the theater to justify his wanting to record it. A few rhythmic liberties will surprise the modern listener.

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Don Giovanni’s “Deh vieni alla finestra” is the very last of Battistini’s published recordings (“La partida” remained unreleased). The choice takes on symbolic significance, since the “Serenade” figured among the 1902 recordings as well. Like photographs, recordings vary in their ability to capture the likeness of the subject, and what one hears in this case is not exactly what one would expect compared to other specimens of the artist’s singing. The voice, as reproduced here, does not have (or no longer has) the freshness one is used to hearing, though the performance concludes with an effortless, forte F-sharp. If one assumes that Battistini’s age caused him to take fewer risks, one must think again. In his remake of “A tanto amor” from La favorita he inserts a high G on “Ah! ch’ei non debba maledir,” proving his high notes were still intact. The selection closes with the recitative “Entra un ora al altar,” the last two syllables sung up an octave (on high F-sharp)—a very beautiful version that Battistini could be proud of. One suspects he chose this number in anticipation of a projected (but unrealized) farewell performance of the opera that launched his career. Verdi figures prominently in these last recording sessions, with four selections. First, the La forza del destino “Urna fatale,” preceded by the recitative “E la fè che giurai,” adds the finishing touch to the 1921 “Egli è salvo!” Even if the motivation behind the remake of the Un ballo in maschera “Alla vita” stems from the fact that the earlier disc was out of print, Battistini still ran the risk of comparisons by those who still had copies of the 1906 issue; still, the remake is a success, probably one of the best of the series, with low notes sounding more resonant than in the earlier version. The “Eri tu” is very moving, and this time Battistini sings its introductory recitative (“Non è su lei,” omitted in the 1906 version). Don Carlo’s “O Carlo, ascolta . . . Io morrò” compares very favorably to the 1913 version. In the Il Guarany aria (“Senza tetto”), the baritone shows his playfulness and fluency still intact. Recorded on the last day of the sessions, it makes for a particularly high-spirited, happy conclusion to this series. The voice sounds better than in the other numbers, and the timbre is recapturing its freshness, as though the artist had gradually managed to achieve more refinement in accommodating his voice to the technical process. Battistini must have felt a wave of nostalgia pass over him when recording the aria from Paride ed Elena (“O del mio dolce ardor”), one of those arie antiche traditionally assigned to young singers as vocal exercises. What a moving interpretation he gives it! The ideally bated tempo and the tender inflections work to give the impression of art at its most refined level of expression. Denza’s “Si vous l’aviez compris,” recorded immediately after the Gluck, adds its melancholy, and the various takes of “La partida” (none ever officially pub-

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lished) offer yet another opportunity to hear the voice of Battistini sounding as fresh and fluent as ever.

RECITALS AND RUMORS Battistini returned to London in the spring of 1924 to give another recital in Queen’s Hall (21 May) and, in addition, a concert in Royal Albert Hall (25 May), where his voice reportedly sounded even more impressive. In these vast spaces the magnificent volume of his tone seemed even more imposing than it had been at Queen’s Hall a few days ago, while in point of subtlety of inflection his work was once more unsurpassedly fine. . . . In its youthful ardour and accuracy of tone, and the adaptation of it to the contours of a phrase, Signor Battistini’s singing is as memorable an experience as the concert room of today has to give.83

The critic goes on to remark somewhat disparagingly how Battistini, after singing the Pagliacci prologue, encored the last section of the piece (from “Un nido di memorie” to the end), as was his frequent custom. Nevertheless, the concert was such a success that a second one had to be scheduled, for 1 June, in the same auditorium. The program of this concert, the last time Battistini sang in England, was as follows: Donizetti: “O Lisbona” (from Don Sebastiano) Carissimi: “Vittoria, vittoria!” Verdi: “Eri tu” (from Un ballo in maschera) Mozart: “Deh, vieni alla finestra” (from Don Giovanni) Mozart: “Là ci darem la mano” (from Don Giovanni) Rossini: “Dunque io son” (from Il barbiere di Siviglia), with Mme SalteniMochi Thomas: Brindisi (from Hamlet) Di Veroli: “Notturnino” Rossini: “Largo al factotum” (from Il barbiere di Siviglia) Gomes: “Senza tetto” (from Il Guarany) Encores: Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci), etc. In October 1924, the indefatigable divo was again on the road. His Berlin appearance of 30 October was reported by the Italian press as a farewell concert.84 The Berlin press had this to say of the event.

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Chapter 4 A handsome cavalier appears on the podium, a gentleman of the grand generation, of the highest school. Seigneurial carriage, impeccable manners. His first greeting to the audience is friendly and gracious, then full of charm when he acknowledges the frenetic applause and all the signs of unbridled enthusiasm. This is not a paid musician come to solicit the public’s kindness but rather a grand seigneur receiving many guests in his castle who gives himself the pleasure of singing a few arias for them, for he knows with certainty that no one in the world will sing them better than he. His performance intoxicates him, transports him, and causes him to conquer all challenges and surpass his younger colleagues. He shines, and that is the secret of his effect on the public. What else remains to be said about the art of Battistini? He can only be admired as an unchanging natural phenomenon that always remains true to form. As long as this man lives, he will always remain a conqueror. One talks and writes a great deal about the noble art of singing; rules are set down, and different methods are discussed. Battistini can ignore all that. He opens his mouth, and the right note is there. One does not see him breathe, but the cantilena flows forth effortlessly, melodiously, admirably, full of fioriture and exquisitely tender notes. Each tone is distinct and clear, the expression always right, always spirited and greatly distinctive, even in the selections from the modern repertory. His singing is extremely human. He sang arias by Meyerbeer, Donizetti, Verdi, a delectable romance by Carissimi (“Vittoria, vittoria!”), the Schubert Serenade in Italian—then, in an incredible, inimitable way, the Pagliacci prologue, which he had to encore; then a very modern composition: “I pastori” by Pizzetti. His interpretation of Mozart’s Das Veilchen had all the elegance of a hothouse flower. And how we enjoyed the lighthearted, irreverent grace of the “Page Aria” from Falstaff! After the Serenade from Don Giovanni came Posa’s aria from Verdi’s Don Carlo. All this wide-ranged and incredible repertory without the slightest sign of fatigue! Battistini closed with Figaro’s great aria from Barbiere, performed with incredibly astounding rapidity, full of high spirits! The hugely demonstrative ovation that engulfed Battistini did not prevent him from acknowledging the excellent work of his accompanist, Fritz Lindemann, who surpassed himself that evening. With every bow he took, Battistini insisted on gallantly bringing him onstage to share in his glory. Battistini claims that this was his last concert, but we do not wish to believe it. He has no right to terminate his artistic career. He who can give so many exquisite hours to the world must remain at his post.85

In Vienna, during this same series of recitals, the local reviewer focused his attention on the Falstaff aria (“Quand’ ero paggio”). When he sings, he demonstrates the meaning of the art. He sings as though singing came more naturally to him than speech. He represents the most

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perfect personification of the very idea of the art, through the technique, understanding, and cultivation of singing. His declamation forms one body with the work. Thus, for example, Battistini sang Falstaff ’s ditty in which an old gentleman remembers the time of his youth. Whereas other artists turn it into a voiceless presto in their desire to show off the speed of their articulation, Battistini conceives it otherwise. He achieves the supreme sophistication of singing the piece in a way that it becomes not just the song of youth but one of the remembrance of youth. Hence not too fast, but in a certain tone that evokes the memory and the enchantment of his own youthful past. Gradually he speeds up, in a manner that perfectly brings to life the figure of the old Falstaff recreating in his mind the young page that he was once upon a time. The brio of Falstaff thus draws all its force and reality from the delivery of Battistini. For him, the song is not a bravura vehicle to display his talent, but a symbol, the most accurate symbol, of nobility itself. Battistini is indeed the knight that Verdi imagined for his personage; nobility runs in his veins—not only in his manner of singing but in his very personality, which arouses an extraordinary fascination. When he sings and interprets, this master makes it clear that good schooling is far from enough. He makes one comprehend that Art is created only if intelligence penetrates it and is able to mould the theory. It has been a long time since Vienna has seen such a furor of an ovation such as occurred after the concert by Battistini. The exaltation exploded before him like a deafening wave of an angry sea, which seemed to subside for a moment, only to stir itself up again, no longer ceasing, but with an ever-growing intensity, the fruit of a long unfulfilled desire.86

That Battistini could still make such an impact as late as 1924 is quite remarkable. In Vienna, too, his success in a Staatsoper production of La traviata seems to have left his other illustrious colleagues in the shade. Mascagni directed the opera, but we do not feel that in his hand the conductor’s baton became a magic wand; Mascagni is more a vocal director than an orchestral conductor. The Violetta (Selma Kurz) and the tenor Alfredo (Richard Tauber) were no more than satisfactory. The hero of the evening, the central and unforgettable character, was Battistini. He was not the ordinary Germont, the noble and aggravating father, but a new, original, and clever incarnation unlike any previous operatic cardboard figures we have encountered. This was not the unkempt, bearded destroyer of a love affair. No, this was a noble old gentleman with a great deal of heart and sympathy, a father who impressed by his attitude, the dignity of his bearing, his gestures, and his perfect hand movements, which conveyed a great sense of pride. Germont appears as the representative of another era, convinced of certain principles that he has come to explain to the errant couple.

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Chapter 4 Yes, he is the representative of another world, and the most miraculous thing of all is that this extraordinary Germont is in reality a noble old gentleman, admirably gifted, full of exquisite tenderness and unparalleled talent, and who sings so divinely that all those who listen to him are willing, like Violetta, to sacrifice their hearts to him. Yes, this unique old gentleman has the temperament of a young man, combined with the perfection of a master. It’s a phenomenon, the perfection of an eternally youthful artistry!87

In January 1925, Battistini was interviewed by a Roman journalist. Battistini is in Rome. Since when? And he is not singing here? No, he is no longer singing; he is too old, he has had his day. . . . I asked him why he was no longer singing in Italy, where everyone certainly wanted to hear him again. “It is not true,” he answered me in a voice suddenly tinged with sadness. “I am an old man to them and do not interest them any longer. Imagine, during all these years I’ve spent touring abroad I have never had the pleasure to read one word in an Italian newspaper acknowledging my existence, or that says how, after forty-five years of singing, I carry with me the banner of our homeland, the mother of music, with the best of intentions that I hope everyone will appreciate. But all that is probably of little importance. I want to tell you something else that has made a much greater impression on me. Do you know, in Berlin, where I was singing a recital, when I met a reporter from the Corriere della Sera, I asked him to write a review for his paper about the success that I had just had that evening. He replied that it was easy for performers to get their names in the papers and even have an entire column devoted to them, thanks to publicity agents—especially when one earns what I earn, etc. . . .” In Vienna, unless I am mistaken, you sang “La traviata” under the baton of Mascagni? “Yes, and with magnificent results. A propos of Mascagni, one evening during one of my recitals, after I had finished my program, while the demands for encores would not stop, I happened to see Mascagni sitting in one of the boxes. I signaled him, and in German I tried to ask him if he would like to accompany me at the piano in one of his compositions. He answered in the affirmative, and the public was enormously amused by this little dialogue between us in their own language, pronounced, as you can well imagine, with a rather heavy accent. But, you know, there are so many memorable things that happen to me during these tours around the world! Take the critic who, during a concert, peered at me through his opera glasses all evening, only to write later that my hair had become streaked with gray on the sides. The poor man, he didn’t even realize I was wearing a wig—a simple toupée, of course, which I’ve been wearing off and on for years!”

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And Mattia Battistini emits a hearty laugh, stroking his wig, the only fake thing in his open, sincere, and gay life.88

Battistini was not exaggerating about the contemporary Italian press’s shocking lack of interest in his later career. Near the end of 1925, he received a letter from the Cronachi Musicali (signed Silvino Mezza) informing him not to expect to be interviewed by their paper since he had long been retired from the opera house (meaning, presumably, the stages of Italy); hence, having no topicality, any mention of him in the newspaper must be regarded as publicity and, therefore, subject to payment by its beneficiary. It had only been a few years since Battistini had last sung for his countrymen, but glory fades quickly, and admiration and respect even more quickly. Rumor, however, is much less prone to go away. Palmegiani cites a 1923 article from the Berlin Wossiche Zeitung announcing Battistini’s imminent retirement . . . to a monastery!89 This gossipy tidbit was but one of a series of similar references in the press over the next few years. Three days later, the Parisian press reported that the famous baritone “who had a great career in Russia and whom we applauded a few years ago at the Opéra, has just returned to Rome from a tour in Scandinavia. But it is to a convent that he has elected to live upon his return, in the monastery of the Franciscans.”90 I have in my possession a handwritten postcard sent by an amused Battistini to a friend and dated some two weeks after the Daily Mirror article appeared; it reads in part: Zurich, 14 December [1923] Ah, my dear friend, how you make me laugh. I, a monk? Ahhhh. But these journalists know nothing. I just had a glorious tour, begun 3 September. . . . . . . Ah Vienna, what delight, what success, you can’t imagine, and you tell me I’m going to become a monk. Ah no! . . . Aaa. I, a monk? Ah ah!

Six months later, Battistini found himself still trying to dispel the rumor in an interview for the British press.91 Persistent echoes of it in Italy (La Stampa, 19 June 1926) and France (L’Exelsior, spring 1927) prompted, if not a rebuttal, at least this caveat in the 2 May 1927 issue of the Italian Comedia: “It was announced in Berlin that the famous baritone . . . would be retiring to a convent after a tour of concerts that he is currently singing in Germany. This news has already been reported and denied several times. It therefore behooves us to regard it with skepticism.” Battistini seems to have availed himself of the opportunity to use the recital platform as a means of communicating to his fans that he had neither become nor had any intentions of becoming a monk.92 But the rumor persisted, and when the story continued to haunt him, he blamed the wife

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of a certain violinist, Madame Bratinau, for being the source of the gossip.93 In fact, it was Battistini’s friendship with the Cardinal Merry del Val that inadvertently started the rumor. In 1923, after Battistini had sold his apartment in Rome, he carelessly confided in a Swedish reporter while he was being interviewed. In Rome I live in a cell in the convent of the Spanish Franciscans of Santi Quaranta. After my hectic travels I savor the calm, meditation, and prayer that I find there. Many a time, to give vent to the fullness of my heart, I go into the church choir to sing an Ave Maria to the glory of God, accompanied on the organ by Friar Ulrico.

Isn’t life in the convent too austere for your health? No. I have not yet entirely renounced the world, like Charles V when he cloistered himself in San Justo. But, as you know, when devils get old, they turn into hermits—and I have often played demons over the course of my career. . . . Do not think that the idea of retiring to a convent frightens me. I am already in the process of constructing my own tomb on my property, where I have expressed the desire to be buried wearing a Franciscan robe— a rather large chapel in Roman-Byzantine-style terra cotta, with beautiful stained glass conducive to meditation and prayer, an Italian primitive-style painting above the high altar, frescos in the style of Campo Santo in Pisa. In the adjacent convent I have housed some nuns to interact with the community, to instruct and protect the working class. After my death these nuns will be the caretakers of my tomb. Knowing that these vestals will be around the place of rest I am preparing for myself softens the pain I feel when I think of the “undiscover’d country” from which, as Shakespeare so well said, “no traveller returns.”94

After reading the above, it appears that some of the press reports had not strayed all that far from the truth; but the information lent itself all too easily to embellishment, making the occasional visit to the convent sound like a permanent retreat. By the way, it is amusing that, even in quasiretirement, Battistini could not resist singing! This text and the fact that Battistini even had himself photographed wearing a monk’s cowl make one wonder why he went to so much effort to deny the rumor. Of course, he did not enter a monastery, but he did have a privileged relationship with the order of the Franciscan friars. The reason may stem more from the fact that the story touched on his personal life, which he preferred to keep separate from his public image of “great singer.” Need we remind the reader that the Rieti region in Italy is where Saint Francis of Assisi talked to the birds? Battistini must have found this a source of artistic inspiration and spiritual comfort.

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FAREWELLS From 1925 on, in lieu of singing in Naples or Milan, Battistini limited his appearances almost exclusively to the cities of Austria and Germany, with an occasional hometown recital. On 26 May 1926, Battistini participated in a gala benefit for the Società Ginnastica “Forza e Libertà” in his hometown Rieti’s large Teatro Vespasiano. The program included “Nemico della patria” from Andrea Chénier, the Pagliacci prologue, “Vittoria, vittoria,” “O de’verd’anni miei,” “A tanto amor,” and “Senza tetto.” He was accompanied by Agnese Stame at the piano. (The same theater would be the scene of some of his last performances, in the late summer of 1927.) His recital in Berlin in the fall of 1926 was billed as a farewell. Mattia Battistini gave his last concert in the Philharmonie. It was completely sold-out, the public having laid siege to the box-office. Battistini . . . a name that was already famous in the days of our fathers and grandfathers, a name that has become near legendary. On my way to the Philharmonie, the thought crossed my mind: perhaps the excellent voice has suffered the inevitable effects of time? He began to sing. First, two numbers by Antonio Carlos Gomes (an aria from Lo schiavo and “Sogni d’amore”), then “Non è ver” by Stanislav Mattei, an aria from Trovatore (“Il balen”), three from La favorita, and to conclude, the entrance aria from Barbiere di Siviglia, which he performed with indescribable perfection. After the first number, a sigh of relief. The voice remained intact, beautiful, powerful, solid, tender; it has lost none of its youthful brilliance. The timbre has preserved its purity; its metal inflects the numerous arias with impeccable dexterity and without the least sign of fatigue. He added some French and Italian airs to the program. The ecstatic audience exulted; the wave of applause summoned him back onstage many times. It seemed like the unanimous roar would never end. Truly, Battistini must stop thinking about giving his farewell recital!95

Battistini seems to have taken this critic’s advice to heart, for he would return to Berlin a year later. His 1926 recital in Vienna, where he had been singing every November since 1924, did however turn out to be his last one in that city. On 7 November, in the Grosser Konzerthaus-Saal, accompanied by Erich Meller at the piano, he gave a program that included arias from I due Foscari, Andrea Chénier, La forza del destino, Pagliacci, Dinorah, and Hamlet, as well as songs by Paisiello and Tirindelli. Viktor Fuchs, who was present at the event, published his recollections of it some years later.

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Chapter 4 Although as usual the first half of his programme consisted of taxing arias and songs, he only left the stage once during the whole evening to rest in his dressing-room. The rest of the time, he waited in the wings without sitting down. I was privileged to visit him after the concert, and asked him why he had not sat down. He whispered in my ear “Sono vecchio” (I am old). He had conserved his strength by cutting out any relaxation which could have dissipated his energies; he knew that perfect singing requires the support of the whole body. In dramatic arias, his mighty body stood like a statue. As few great artists, he knew the secrets of real bel canto, and for nearly half a century was able to sing in public with perfect technique. In his art he exemplified the basic rule that the more economically the breath is used, the greater the intensity and beauty of tone, and the longer the voice will last.96

Fuchs recalled how “the audience never tired of listening” to him. With the years, of course, the voice lost in brilliance; but the noble timbre, the sweet but manly mezza voce and piano, the vehement forte were evident until his last appearance. And he enjoyed his own singing more than any artist I can remember. Whereas other artists, such as Caruso, appeared each third day before an audience, Battistini even in later years sang every second day. Once I was fortunate enough to hear him three times within a single week in one of his most interesting roles, Don Giovanni, which he claimed to perform with musical changes employed by the Italian tenors who sang the role, according to old custom. But neither his brilliant high tones nor dramatic verve eclipsed his mastery of secco recitative, which he sang with fascinating manner and beauty of tone. Battistini incontestably was the most noble “cavalier” among all singers of his time. With the exception of a very few intimate friends, everyone called him Commendatore. When the baritone invited me for the first time to attend a rehearsal with his faithful accompanist, my late friend Erich Meller, I arrived to find no fewer than eighteen elderly ladies in the large salon of his hotel suite. Battistini appeared; as chivalrous in life as onstage, he kissed the hand of each. Before he began the first song of his concert program a lady lisped, with a most fanatical expression, “Oh, Commendatore, I wish you would sing once more the wonderful aria from La Favorita.” Immediately, the music was found and Battistini began to sing full-voice, just as he would at a concert. Needless to say, since one lady found her wish fulfilled, nearly all of the others expressed a special wish for a certain aria, and Battistini sang one after the other. After nearly an hour, Meller remarked politely that they had not worked on a single number for the recital. “Oh, I forgot; are you tired?” the singer asked. “Not at all; but I thought that you, Commendatore—” “Not in the least, carissimo” was the answer. “Singing is always a pleasure, and especially”—with a polite bow—“for such an audience. Let’s start the pro-

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gram!” And then, after a short pause in which refreshments were served, he sang the whole program through. Once I brought two of my best students to him for an audition. Battistini listened with great interest and gave us precious advice, which I shall remember as long as I live. I was fortunate to learn a great deal from him, and not only for my own singing but for my students and Igor Gorin, who came to me at this time as a poor refugee from the Red Army and profited most from this experience.97

Fuchs also recalled that, although Battistini’s “make-up and costumes were outstanding, he did not like to have costume photographs made.”98 It is not difficult to understand why. Such photos were taken in a photographer’s studio, under intense lighting conditions owing to the limitations of the darkroom plates. Deprived of stage setting and props, not to mention music and action, he was forced to assume poses appropriate to the character, then change into another costume. The essence of Battistini lay in the synthesis of all elements, some of which were lacking under these conditions. Consequently, he had relatively few photos taken of his characterizations, almost all of which date from about the same period. On the other hand, there exist a large number of different shots of him in regular street clothes. Announcements of Battistini’s farewell appeared in the 15 November 1926 issue of Comedia, soon after Melba’s farewell; the news reappeared in the 21 November Eventail des Bruits. Once again, the artist seemed to want to postpone the inevitable, for on 29 April 1927 he gave a recital in Stuttgart that was broadcast over the radio.99 The program included arias from Gomes’s Salvator Rosa, Donizetti’s Maria Padilla, Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera, and Rubinstein’s Nerone; the Pagliacci prologue; and songs by Caccini, Beethoven, Costa, and Rossini. Berlin saw him once more, on 1 October 1927, in what would this time really be his farewell to that city. He sang the following program: Donizetti: “A tanto amor” (from La favorita) Caccini: “Amarilli” Massenet: “Ah! non mi ridestar” (from Werther) Verdi: “Di Provenza” (from La traviata) (intermission) Leoncavallo: Prologue (from Pagliacci) Verdi: “Per me giunto” (from Don Carlo) Thomas: Brindisi (from Hamlet) Rossini: “Largo al factotum” (from Il barbiere di Siviglia)

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This extended epilogue of recitals throughout continental Europe might have gone on indefinitely had it not been brought to an end by a sudden health crisis in the autumn of 1927. Palmegiani relates that when Battistini was in Vienna his doctors advised him to cancel his recital. He reportedly responded: “Signori miei, no ho che due uscite: cantare o morire! Voglio cantare!” [My dear sirs, I have but two choices: to sing or to die! I want to sing!].100 A little over a year after the artist’s death, Ludwig Praen, director of the Graz Theater, gave this account of Battistini’s last public performance, on 17 October. In the afternoon Battistini felt extremely ill, complaining of breathlessness. The city’s best doctor was rushed in, and he doubted that the concert could take place. However, at the appointed time, Battistini seemed to have recovered and, driven by an extraordinary force, arrived at the theater, where he had a conversation with the physician and myself. He was pale, a cold sweat covered his forehead, but in spite of his condition he went onstage for the last time. As he passed backstage, he shook my hand and gave me a look as though he wanted me to know that, devoted body and soul to his art, he was ready to do his duty and die on the platform. He sang, sang, as never before, with an intensity, an unforgettable thrill. Not only did he execute the printed program, but he gave several encores. Backstage, he could hardly remain on his feet, and yet, hearing the applause, he wanted to acknowledge it with yet another bow. Pulling himself together with all his might, he reappeared before the public. I begged him to say arrivederci, but he, on the other hand, cried out addio! At that moment, the doctor privately told me that there was no hope for Battistini’s recovery, that his arteriosclerosis was so advanced that the end would come sooner or later. After the concert, Battistini took me in his arms, gave me a kiss, and gave me his photograph on which he had written a nice note that heartened me at the time. It included this touching phrase: “Now I want nothing more than to enjoy the sun for a little while longer.” He wanted quickly to escape the ordeal he had gone through; he had lived an afternoon of suffering and an evening of breathlessness, so as soon as he returned to his hotel he packed his bags and, at midnight, departed for Italy.101

Without a doubt, Battistini would have preferred to die with his boots on. His desire to keep performing was so strong that he continued to live with the intention of returning to the stage one last time, in the role of his debut. The offering of the photo was a characteristic gesture, another indication of his keen desire to leave a piece of himself behind wherever he traveled. When he left Vienna this time, however, he must have wondered if he would even survive the journey back home.

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His friend Sigrid Arnoldson was present at that last recital. In her memoirs, she recalls that Not one member of the audience could have imagined that the marvelous singer who had preserved all the splendor of his voice was already the victim of illness. Throughout the recital his doctor sat in the first row, keeping a syringe of morphine ready if it were needed; and we, his friends, were desperate for the recital to end with its thunderous applause. One of the doctors was amazed that Battistini, despite his grave heart condition, had gone on giving concerts. Battistini was not unaware of the risks he ran, and before walking onstage he said to the doctors, “Signor amici, non ho che due uscite: cantare o morire. Voglio cantare!” Later on, backstage, before going back out for a bow, he whispered to me, “La commedia è finita, povero Mattia!”102

The program for this final concert began with “O tu bell’astro” from Tannhäuser, followed by an Indian song. After Beethoven’s “Alla speranza” came the entire third act of Torquato Tasso, some twenty-five minutes long (some of which was encored). The big aria from Ernani and the “Serenade” from Don Giovanni were both encored, and the “Page Aria” from Falstaff was sung four times. “Ah! non mi ridestar” from Werther and the Pagliacci prologue only made the audience clamor for more, which Battistini granted them in the form of a series of Italian, French, and Spanish songs.103 It was as though he were reliving his entire career in one evening, reluctant to let go of what he loved so much to do. No wonder his friends thought it a long evening. The press report also makes mention of the ovations that crowned his Munich, Berlin, Prague, and Budapest recitals—each a stop on his so-called farewell tour, though the critic could not believe that an artist in full control of his voice would want to retire from singing. Thus, Battistini was not alone in thinking he still remained in possession of his art. Once again, Battistini outdid himself, and the miracle occurred. Although his doctors now advised against his returning to the stage, his strong constitution gradually returned, making the Vienna crisis seem no more than a passing scare. He even began thinking about doing a revival of La favorita at the Teatro Argentina in Rome, to bring his career to an appropriate close by repeating the opera that he had sung at his debut fifty years before. In 1928, Charles Tenroc, the editor of Le Courrier Musical et Théâtral, solicited the written opinions of three golden-age singers (Lilli Lehmann, Victor Maurel, and Battistini) and printed their letters, and his own introductory comments, as a feature article in his periodical.

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Chapter 4 M. Mattia Battistini is currently the unique, or perhaps in any case, the most illustrious representative of Italian bel canto. His age has in no way diminished the prodigious means that he has drawn from a consummate knowledge of singing and the matchless ability “whose native beauty has been polished and made pliable through the most assiduous work.” In a recent article about the great artist, Felix Weingartner declared: “Battistini is not only a physical phenomenon but a true and genuine victor of the mind, to whom nature has granted eternal youth. Many are the years of his glorious career, but he still remains the same.This sovereign artist is not only an inexhaustible source of the highest artistic enjoyment but also an infallible guide who shows us the way to extreme perfection.” I remember the moving ovations that welcomed him at the Opéra, when in 1917 he came to Paris for the first time, putting his immense talent at the service of our war-torn country. And it is a sweet joy to renew here, after eleven years, the respectful homage that the great and venerated artist has not forgotten, and to publish the letter he sent me reflecting the fervent dedication that illuminated his long and brilliant career.—Ch.T. “Dear Monsieur Tenroc, “. . . It is with pleasure that I give you here my opinions and thoughts on the so-called decline of singing, or at least of bel canto—a question of vital importance in the musical life of today. “Do I share your opinion? Yes, in my view, the vocal art is today experiencing a crisis that can be attributed to several causes: First, poor training (I speak in general, for there is no rule without exception, and the exception confirms the rule); next, modern composers and their music written not for voices but for instruments they call voices, placed among the other instruments of the orchestra, contribute greatly to the most pronounced disappearance of bel canto. “I do not believe that the haste in which young singers sometimes rush to get themselves onstage can hurt them, for if their teachers know what they’re doing, and if the pupil is intelligent, I’d say six months are sufficient to place the voice well. Naturally, this must be followed up with much study, work on perfecting one’s diction, and the little details that form the artist as a whole. But in my opinion, the essential key to singing well and preserving one’s voice over the long run consists in its placement. You see an example in myself: next December eleventh, I will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of my artistic career, for in spite of the various stories about me affirming that I’ve abandoned the theater, become a monk, etc. (a bunch of stupidities), up to last November I continued to sing. According to general opinion, my voice hasn’t changed, remaining as it was of yore; as a little illustration of what I have just told you, I enclose herewith an article by the great and illustrious maestro Felix Weingartner, who, after hearing a concert of mine, kindly wanted to honor me with a few words explaining what had impressed him in particular.

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“Among my best artistic memories, I especially cherish those of my sojourns in Paris, where I had the satisfaction of singing on the stage of one of the most glorious opera houses in the world, still enjoying the most generous favor of the public and the exquisite kindness of my illustrious French colleagues. “I shake your hand, begging you to accept, dear sir, my cordial salutations and the expression of my sincere friendship. “Mattia Battistini.”104

Considering the timing of the solicitation of this letter and its publication, it may have been that Tenroc, informed perhaps of Battistini’s poor health, wanted to obtain a final testimony from the singer. The editor’s passé simple use of the verb “illuminate” [illumina] indicates that he considered the baritone’s career over, even though the tone of the article stops just short of the necrological. Battistini probably did not expect his letter in response to Tenroc’s solicitation to be published in full, as the tone is quite personal and familiar; also, readers may not have been aware of the significance of 11 December, the anniversary of Battistini’s official hiring by the Teatro Argentina in 1878 (not the exact date of his stage debut in La favorita, which occurred a few weeks earlier). The information omitted from his letter suggests that he dreaded to think about not singing. He avoids mentioning that his recital tour of the preceding year had been announced as a farewell, and that the upcoming reprise of La favorita was being planned not only to celebrate his fifty-year-old career but to bring down the curtain on it. On the other hand, the fact that the program booklet of his final tour contained a photo of the chapel that would one day be his tomb implies he must not have been afraid to face the inevitable. It is no surprise that the Austrian conductor Felix Weingartner, whose style reflected balance and moderation, even austerity, should have praise for Battistini. In the autumn of 1926, Weingartner penned these impressions of a concert by the baritone in Budapest. I have just come from the Battistini concert. Down the wide and superb staircase of the Redoutensaal slowly advances the elegant crowd toward the exit. Unfortunately I do not understand Hungarian, but the tone of the talking that surrounds me is one of great enthusiasm. Here and there, a word I understand: “Fabulous! Such freshness at his age!” or “How he attacks the high notes! It beats those young singers! What a phenomenon!” Yes, he is a phenomenon, I have to admit to myself as I walk down the street, just as phenomenal as this summery warm air on this November night, as superior to all the others as is the magnificent Jupiter, which shines in the starlit sky, alongside the smaller planets.

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Chapter 4 The name of this artist is becoming legendary. His glory, his charm, instead of fading like those of other mortals, only increase as he gets older. He is not only a physical miracle, this venerable artist who has managed to preserve his youthful singing voice. Is it only his bel canto that enchants us, or is it his phenomenal breath control? Profoundly moved by the beautiful impressions I have felt, I roam the still bustling streets as though bewitched by the singing I just heard. Something inside me has changed; people around me are talking, smiling, praising, criticizing, and I have stars in my eyes! I’m positively glowing with thoughts and impressions. This plenitude of delight is not due to technical perfection alone; it goes much deeper than that. I think, I search, I reflect, I savor, and little by little a conviction arises in me and firmly establishes itself. What has captivated me is simplicity! One day, many years ago, I met Battistini for the first time. It was at an opera rehearsal. He arrived much more prepared than most of his colleagues, he rehearsed with precision, he was calm and courteous with all of his fellow artists, and whenever he wished to make a remark he first asked for my permission. His comments were always artistic and correct; I ended up telling him that he should speak without hesitation and that we would all benefit from his observations. He exhibited none of those “star” qualities—no affectation or outrageousness. He was a good colleague with everyone, and yet in all his naturalness and simplicity one sensed a royal dignity, a warm heart, and a moral perfection that set him apart from those around him. When he would sing and I accompanied him, I understood that this was not a man of complexes and problems, but that he was above all those things to the extent that they no longer existed for him. Having attained artistic perfection, he could no longer regard this art as labor. He approached it as a necessity, sometimes with sadness, but always with plenitude and in all his perfection. . . . 105

In early November 1928, Battistini’s coughing spells worsened. Writing to his accompanist Erich Meller, he complained, “I am ill and forced to stay in bed. What an irony of fate: the voice is still there, but the body wants no more of it.”106 Resisting further medical care, according to Palmegiani (“Why prolong my suffering?”), he lost consciousness on 7 November and extreme unction was administered. His friends regretted that he had not been able to receive communion. Toward seven o’clock in the evening, he opened his eyes. Feeling better, he asked to get out of bed, but was discouraged from doing so. He then asked if he had been given holy oil. When he was told he had, he said he had not been aware of it. “Can’t you do it again?” he asked. Then, at eight o’clock in the evening, after reciting the confiteor, he passed away quietly.

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Battistini was buried wearing his Franciscan robes, according to his wishes, in the chapel a hundred meters from his villa, in a marble sarcophagus opposite that of his wife. These eulogies adorned the funeral wreaths: Al sole del teatro mondiale Al celebre tra i celebri A colui che il mondo ha creato Divo Les astres qui l’entourent par ses rayons sont éclipsés au suprême chanteur, etc. Lina Cavalieri, a soprano who had often sung with Battistini, evoked Rubinstein’s The Demon with the phrase A Mattia Battistini, demonio ed angelo. Telegrams were dispatched from all over the world, and a huge crowd attended the funeral on 10 November 1928.

POSTHUMOUS TRIBUTES One of the many obituary notices that appeared in the press immediately following Battistini’s death contains this reminiscence by Alfred Fischof, the baritone’s friend and manager. On the Battistini estate there are twelve houses, and he put one of them, the largest, at the disposal of the catechism nuns. He would sometimes say jokingly, “These nuns will some day become my vestals!” In the chapel built by Battistini there is a magnificent organ. On solemn occasions Battistini himself would perform sacred songs there accompanied on the organ. The inhabitants of the surrounding villages often had the opportunity to hear the famous singer there. Mattia did not like to talk about himself, and even less about his fame. Sometimes, on a warm summer evening, after a good meal on the terrace at Contigliano, enjoying a glass of Asti Spumante, smoking a cigar, I would be able to get him to tell me a few things about his rich professional career. Among other things, it is interesting to note regarding his tours to Berlin that he gave the name “Unter den Linden” to the magnificent row of linden trees that lined the path to the church on his property. We made twenty trips with Mattia to St. Petersburg and Moscow, where Battistini, Masini, and my wife, Sigrid Arnoldson, were the three stars of the Opera. The mere mention of these three names would be enough to ensure a subscription season of more than a million rubles. For a long time, Battistini was the god of the Petersburg and Moscovite public, while remaining the best, most loyal, and most courteous of colleagues.107

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The American Musical Courier published the following obituary. Battistini is dead. The grand old man of bel canto, the Caruso of baritones, is no more. Only a few months ago he was still singing on the concert stages of Europe, his vitality apparently unimpaired, his voice with nearly all the freshness of its prime, despite his seventy-odd years. . . . Battistini began singing publicly in 1878. Nearly fifty years ago he made his Covent Garden début with Sembrich and de Reszke, I think as Don Giovanni, and I myself heard him sing Don Giovanni in Berlin several years after the war; also Renato in the Masked Ball and Scarpia in Tosca. The great gentleman roles were his forte; whatever he sang, Battistini was and acted the gentleman, just as he was in real life. I shall never forget the grace and courtesy with which he received me in San Remo about five years ago. We had only two hours, and called at his hotel without announcing our arrival beforehand. Battistini was supposed to be recovering from an indisposition. He was out, taking the air with his faithful valet, who was his shadow for a generation. When he returned he refused to rest. He couldn’t do enough for us. We must stay for dinner. Impossible; train left for Milan at six. We compromised on tea. We talked and listened to the music of his speaking voice. What an actor! But what a gentleman, and grand seigneur! When it was time to leave, we found not only our carriage waiting, but Battistini’s valet ready to take us to the station, to see about our tickets, our baggage, to stand guard till the train pulled out. Maestro’s orders. It was the last time I spoke to him but one. A year or so later he came to Berlin and remembered our invitation. He rang up on the telephone to say he couldn’t come to tea. So sorry and “a rivederci!” But the times I heard him on the concert platform I shall never forget. What a thrill that voice, that phrasing, that perfect mastery gave me when I first heard him from a dark corner of the director’s box at the Berlin Philharmonie. I expected nothing; only an old man still advertised as a phenomenon. A few bars were enough to destroy that indifference. Deh vieni alla finestra, Eri tu, Largo al factotum, the Credo from Otello—whatever it was, it was Italian melody at its noblest. Only when he sang Beethoven’s Adelaide it sounded alien and somehow false. And never an effort, apparently. There he stood, almost motionless— a great powerful man over six feet high, with huge shoulders and that large, curiously shaped head which narrowed towards the top, with his little, sleekly parted, oiled black wig (it must have been though it never showed it), with his somewhat old-fashioned clothes, and his white kid gloves, without which he never appeared. And after each piece and each encore he bowed with that grave and gracious air which suggested the Napoleonic age, with just a suggestion of smile on his face. Always the grand seigneur.

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Battistini almost died “in harness.” He could not stop. No hardship was too great to keep him from traveling: from Sweden to Sicily, from Lisbon to Riga—always on the go. When he appeared for the last time [sic] in the Queen’s Hall in London, in 1922, Titta Ruffo was in the city, and announced almost the identical program. Battistini never hesitated, and whatever the comparative merits of the two, he carried off the victory. A few years ago he lost his wife, a Spanish lady of the nobility. It was thought he would retire then. But no; after a decent interval he began again, and he even flirted with the thought of going to America. That was the great mystery. Why did he never go? The legend was that he feared the passage, that he was terrified of sea-sickness. I have heard him say that, too. But in his younger years he went to South America, and he crossed the Channel in every kind of weather again and again. Perhaps there was another reason. Once I asked him and mentioned the Metropolitan. “Mr. Gatti,” he said slowly, “has asked, ‘Who is Battistini?—chi è Battistini?’ Je n’y vais pas.” A grand seigneur, but a primo homo after all. He was the last of them; the grand generation is no more.108

Nearly two years after Battistini’s death, the following portrait of the singer by one of his close friends appeared in an Italian periodical. He had a nobiliary title: baron. When he arrived in a city, it was a pleasure for him to find the pack of letters that already awaited him, and to which he responded immediately, for he liked to keep in touch with his fans of both sexes all over the world. Few opera singers received as many letters and telegrams as he. He was very religious; thus spread the rumor that he had for some time become a monk and retired to a convent in Rome. Upon arriving in a city, he would always go to a church, and he would go to mass every Sunday. He loved his art intensely and spent enormous sums of money for his stage costumes, which were tasteful and historically accurate. Very regular in his habits, when on his concert tours he never bypassed Germany, where he was idolized till the age of 73 [sic], a year before his death. After singing an entire concert, he had the habit of receiving numerous friends and admirers at his hotel and conversing with them, telling them stories about his professional life. In Moscow, even in thirty-below-zero temperatures, he would get up at seven o’clock and stay at the piano till noon rehearsing arias that he had been singing for decades. After the afternoon walk, he would return for dinner at five, invariably in his hotel room. One of his weaknesses was eating, and he loved sweets of all kind. One of his idiosyncrasies, whenever he had to leave a city, was to go to the train station at least two hours before the departure time and pass the time at the buffet, reading all the newspapers and magazines.

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Chapter 4 Two of his pleasures were the cinema and the theater, where he preferred ballet over comedy or the classics. A very natural passion was to go hear young singers, whom he never failed to regale with encouraging words and good advice. He was fearful of many things, in particular of the sea, which, after a voyage to Buenos Aires early in his career, he no longer wanted to traverse. No impresario could get him to accept a contract to sing in America, no matter what the terms. When he sometimes had to take a ship from Hamburg to travel to Sweden or Norway, it took him hours to work up the courage to go, and if the sea was a bit rough he would postpone his departure, at the risk of violating the terms of the signed contract. He was charitable and generous, and no one who asked a favor of him was ever refused. He adored horseback riding, and at his magnificent villa of Contigliano that was his chief pastime. He was at once famous and good, and the memory of his name will certainly remain etched in gold letters in the annals of Italian opera, of which he was one of the most glorious champions.109

As to Battistini’s daily routine, eyewitness accounts vary, depending on his age or the season of the year (and the opera season), but all acknowledge that it had a great influence on the artist’s vocal longevity. His regimen is thus described by Fred Gaisberg. His day would start at 5:30 A.M., when he went for a two hours’ ride in his park. At 7:30 A.M. he took a cup of coffee, after which two hours were spent in his office dealing with correspondence. From ten until noon two whole hours were passed in singing. In addition to practicing his regular exercises for the voice he used to sing as many as twenty to thirty arias. From noon till two was his interval for lunch, after which he took a siesta. Again from four until seven in the evening three hours were devoted to singing. . . . When on tour, however, Battistini’s régime was modified: he saved up all his energy for his public performances, rising only at midday after a kind of reception held at 11 A.M. in his bedroom, recalling the royal lever of Louis XIV. Still in bed, he drank his chocolate and offered refreshments to his guests. At these affairs one could always be sure of meeting highly placed personages of whatever country he was visiting.110

Gaisberg’s testimony has given rise to the assumption that Battistini only felt comfortable in the company of the rich and famous and that he snobbishly valued the applause of the parterre boxes more than that of the upper balconies. Yet, if he was indeed privileged and distinguished enough to associate with kings and princes, and to accept numerous decorations and titles from

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them, it was only natural that he not avoid the opportunity to do so—a fact that should not be held against him. In another reminiscence, published more than fifty years after he had collaborated with Battistini in a production of Maria di Rohan, the Italian conductor Vittorio Gui had these vivid memories of the baritone. Battistini: who has not heard that name? For years I maintained a father-son relationship with him. It was he who recommended me to be director of the Teatro Chiarella in Turin at a time when I was still little more than a young unknown, and we performed together Donizetti’s Maria di Rohan in which it was difficult to say how he excelled—as a singer or as an actor. Those who never saw the savagely violent scene in which he dragged his wife by the hair (just like Golaud with Mélisande, a half-century later) toward the uscio tremendo, or terrible door, through which her lover was supposed to enter unawares . . . those who never saw the furious gesture with which he ripped the bandage from the wound with his left hand while reading the letter that confirmed his wife’s betrayal . . . they cannot imagine the thrill it had on the audience! There are recordings, but, although good, they are still a bit like a photo compared to the living thing; they give satisfaction, but the truth is another thing altogether! Titta Ruffo, after Battistini, was also one of the most complete artists that sang under my baton, although from the technical point of view his vocal qualities were not on the level of the bel canto of Battistini.111

Interestingly, the recordings of Battistini made a strong impression on a number of famous twentieth-century pianists, including Artur Rubinstein, Jan Paderewski, and Vladimir Horowitz. In the latter’s biography we learn, for instance, that, after reading about how much Chopin had loved to listen to and learn from great singers, Horowitz began to study the art of . . . Battistini . . . , whose records were generally unfamiliar to a new generation of listeners, and whom Horowitz considered “a forgotten genius.” He memorized details of Battistini’s performances, fascinated by his plasticity of phrasing, breath control, tonal shading, and lyric expressiveness. Beginning that October [1953], Horowitz spent most evenings by his phonograph, listening not only to Battistini but also to other bel canto masters, such as the Italian tenors Giuseppe Anselmi and Alessandro Bonci, and the Russian tenor Leonid Sobinov, whom Horowitz had once accompanied. . . . Horowitz . . . was pleased to discover a fellow bel canto aficionado in New York Times critic Howard Taubman. After reading a Taubman piece about Battistini, Horowitz invited his former program annotator to his

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Chapter 4 home for an evening of records. He was eager to discuss bel canto style with Taubman. . . . Horowitz told Taubman that it did not bother him that Battistini had habitually taken what some might consider shocking liberties with an aria. “Even if we don’t agree with such exaggerated freedom, there is much we can learn,” he said. “It is better to control an abundance of spontaneous feeling than to hide that not enough is there.” Horowitz’s interest in Battistini became a near obsession and he proposed to [RCA producer John] Pfeiffer that the singer’s best performances be rereleased by RCA in long-playing format. . . . Horowitz offered to supervise the project himself, making selections, writing descriptive notes, and approving the final product. But after many trial transfers to microgroove, it was clear, said Pfeiffer, that “too many compromises were necessary, since many of the best performances were too technically deficient for transfer . . . and some of the point of Horowitz’s special objective was stolen away by the antique thinness of the sound.”112

Strangely, despite the appreciation shown by a number of famous twentiethcentury musicians, the little that has been written about Battistini in recent years reveals a remarkable lack of insight. Sergio Segalini’s flippant commentary on Battistini’s recording of “Largo al factotum” exemplifies this sort of miscomprehension. This legendary baritone, who disdained Falstaff (he found the role vulgar and uninteresting) and who took refuge in the “noble” compositions of Verdi, yielded nevertheless to the charm of Rossini and recorded a “Largo al factotum” in which aberrant breaches of taste go hand in hand with dazzling stylistic effects (“Colla donnetta e col cavaliere” is sung irresistibly!).113

Paradoxically, here Battistini is accused of bad taste (it is his overly refined taste for which most other critics take him to task). The oft-repeated claim that he sang only “noble” roles is specious to say the least; although he was certainly peerless in elegant roles, and although he may have been unwilling to sing parts that demanded a show of vulgarity onstage, he was not the kind of “star” who avoided playing the villain for fear of tarnishing his heroic image. The offhand comment about Falstaff fails to specify that it was the creation of the part that Battistini turned down, not the chance ever to sing it (as we have seen, he included the so-called Page Aria in many of his recitals). In this context, Battistini’s “Largo al factotum” recording is described as an anomaly, with the remark about those “dazzling stylistic effects” implying superficiality and suggesting that Battistini was out of his element as the Barber. Our own critique of the 1902 recording and the many contemporary press notices cited in the pages above indicate the exact opposite.

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NOTES 1. Unidentified source. 2. Il Mattino, 22 February 1914. 3. Francesco Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni (Milan: Stampa d’Oggi, 1949), 135. 4. La Rampe, 26 April 1917. The ancestor was the baritone’s maternal grandfather, surnamed Tomassi (perhaps originally Thomassin?). 5. Card from Noguès to Battistini, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra, Paris. Le Dante did not reach the stage until 1930, when it premiered in Bordeaux. 6. The Dante publicity shots might have been taken in preparation for a production in Russia of the now-forgotten opera Il sonetto di Dante by Gastaldon (1861–1939), first performed in Genoa a few years before. 7. Maria di Rohan was performed only that one time in its entirety by the Paris Opéra, on 22 March 1917, with Battistini in the role of the Comte de Chevreuse. However, in a 1918 concert at the Palais Garnier, Battistini was featured in a performance of a single act from the opera, probably the third (Charles Dupêchez, Histoire de l’Opéra de Paris: Un siècle au Palais Garnier 1875–1980 [Paris: Librairie Académique Perrin, 1984], 156–57). (Translator’s note: the chronology in the Dupêchez book indicates that “act 2” of Maria di Rohan was given in 1918. It must have been act 3, where Chevreuse has the aria “Bella e di sol vestita” and is at the center of the dramatic finale; in act 2 he only participates in one duet.) 8. Undated note from Battistini to Rouché, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. 9. Le Figaro, 27 March 1917. 10. Le Courrier Musical, June 1917. 11. Battistini to Rouché, 29 May 1917, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. 12. Jules Méry, Le Petit Monégasque, 4 March 1917. 13. C. de V., Le Courrier Musical, 15 December 1917. 14. Undated letter from Battistini to Jacques Rouché, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. 15. Battistini to Rouché, 28 August 1917, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. 16. Undated letter from Battistini to Rouché, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. 17. Camille Saint-Saëns, unidentified clipping of an article in a Parisian periodical. 18. Le Gaulois, 8 January 1918. 19. Don Quichotte (French periodical), March 1920. 20. Jean Darthenay, Le Petit Monégasque, 3 March 1918. 21. Journal de Monaco, 5 March 1918. 22. Jean Darthenay, Le Petit Monégasque, 10 March 1918. 23. Battistini to Rouché, 12 March 1918, Bibliothèque de l’Opéra. That same year, the very successful Giuseppe Anselmi retired from singing at the age of only forty-two. His recordings reveal a voice that is somewhat evocative of Gigli, though along with the radiant timbre one detects the singer’s tendency to force, which perhaps would have hastened his vocal decline. 24. Battistini to Rouché, 13 April 1918. 25. Battistini to to Rouché, 21 March 1918.

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26. Battistini to Rouché, 22 January 1919. The indisposed tenor was Paganelli. 27. Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 101. 28. Undated correspondence from Battistini to Rouché. 29. Register entry by Rouché, Archives de l’Opéra. 30. Copy of prescription, private collection. 31. L’Union Artistique et Littéraire, 11 March 1919. 32. Marcel July, Le Petit Monégasque, 16 March 1919. 33. Le Petit Monégasque, 16 March 1919. 34. Journal de Monaco, 18 March 1919. 35. Marcel July, Le Petit Monégasque, 23 March 1919. 36. Journal de Monaco, 25 March 1919. 37. Le Petit Monégasque, 30 March 1919. 38. Battistini to Rouché, 16 December 1919. 39. Battistini to Rouché, 8 October 1918. 40. Battistini to Rouché, 14 April 1921. Battistini had performed Don Giovanni in Prague in the spring of 1911. 41. Raoul Gunsbourg, “Castellano,” in Cent ans de souvenirs . . . ou presque (Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1959). The anecdote is retold in André Tubeuf, “Viva Mattia!” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 112–13 (September–October 1988): 195. 42. Gunsbourg, “Castellano.” 43. Giacomo Lauri-Volpi, L’equivoco. 44. Lauri-Volpi, L’equivoco. Giorgio Gualerzi notes in the preface to this book that when the young Lauri-Volpi began his training, Battistini’s reputation was so great that all young opera singers embarking on a career were subjected to comparisons with him (one suspects not without some resentment). 45. Ezio Pinza, with Robert Magidoff, An Autobiography (New York: Rinehart, 1946), 110. 46. Quoted in James A. Drake, “Ponselle: The Seasons Abroad,” The Opera Quarterly 10, no. 4 (1994): 88. 47. Quoted in J. B. Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1992), 189. 48. Le Figaro, 16 February 1920. Quo vadis?, the spectacular opera by Jean Nouguès (1875–1932), first performed in Nice in 1909 and now generally forgotten, was for a decade or so all the rage in Europe. 49. Nozière, Les Arts, March/April 1920. 50. Undated note from Battistini to Jacques Rouché, ca. February 1920. 51. Louis Darrès, Le Petit Niçois, 24 and 25 January 1921. 52. Quoted in André Segond, Georges Thill, ou l’âge d’or de l’opéra (Lyon: Editions Jacques-Marie Laffont, 1980), 26. As for the identity of the first teacher Battistini recommended that Thill seek out, it might have been Agnes Stame (1863–1941), daughter of the composer Luigi Stame (whose motet “O salutaris hostias!” Battistini had sung in the Rieti cathedral in 1878). When he was in Rome, Battistini would go to her studio twice a week to listen to her pupils and give them advice (Tidens Tegn’s, 9 April 1926).

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53. Roland Mancini, Georges Thill: Biographie, discographie, iconographie (Paris: Société de Diffusion de l’Art Lyrique, 1966). 54. George Thill, interviewed by Angelo Pradier, “Conversation avec Georges Thill,” special issue, L’Avant-Scène Opéra, September 1984. 55. Marcel July, Le Petit Monégasque, 5 March 1922. 56. Marcel July, Le Petit Monégasque, 12 March 1922. 57. L. Schneider, Le Gaulois, 28 April 1922. 58. See Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics, 192. 59. “Ruffo and Battistini,” Musical Opinion, June 1922. 60. “Two Great Baritones,” Sunday Observer, 6 May 1922. 61. Fred Gaisberg, All Roads Lead to La Scala . . . , 159. 62. Aurore de Kiev, 13 April 1906. 63. Titta Ruffo, Ruffo: My Parabola, The Autobiography of Titta Ruffo, trans. Connie Mandracchia DeCaro (Dallas: Baskerville, 1995), 78–79. 64. See, for example, César Saerchinger, “The Passing of Battistini,” Musical Courier, 22 November 1928, 41. 65. Saerchinger, “The Passing of Battistini,” 110. 66. Saerchinger, “The Passing of Battistini,” 260. 67. Fred Gaisberg, The Music Goes Round (New York: Macmillan, 1942), 96. 68. Daily Telegraph, 4 May 1922. 69. Morning Post, 4 May 1922. 70. Daily Telegraph, 15 May 1922. 71. Alfred Fischof, cited in J. Gluski, Kurjer Polski, 13 November 1928. 72. La Stampa, 16 January 1923. 73. Kobenhavn, 15 September 1923. 74. Cäsar Segalov, Tageblatt, 20 November 1924. 75. Kobenhavn, 15 September 1923. 76. Svensha Dagbladet, 23 September 1923. 77. Kobenhavn, 15 September 1923. 78. Battistini to Carlotta Keiser, April 1927, cited in Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 139. 79. Viktor Fuchs, “Cavalier of Bel Canto: Mattia Battistini,” Opera News 22, no. 4 (25 November 1957): 26. 80. Liverpool Post, 15 May 1923. 81. Béla Bartók, “Weekend Concerts,” The Times, 14 May 1923. 82. H. J. K., “Some Singers of the Month,” The Musical Times, 1 June 1923, 425–26. 83. Daily Telegraph, 26 May 1924, cited in Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics, 193. 84. La Stampa, 1 November 1924. 85. Leopold Schmidt, Berliner Tageblatt, [31 October?] 1924. 86. Felix Salten, Neues Wiener Tageblatt; see Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 139. 87. K. R., Neues Wiener Tageblatt, 29 November 1924. 88. Guido Sommi, L’Impero, 17–18 January 1925. The subject of wigs brings to mind another anecdote dating from the period of Enrico Caruso’s first Russian tour.

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When the possibility of traveling to America arose, and as usual Battistini declared that he didn’t intend to go there, Caruso jokingly asked if he was afraid Indians might come into his dressing room and scalp him. Battistini broke out laughing and stroked his head, admitting (even then) that he had nothing to lose in that regard! 89. Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 127. 90. Le Figaro, 30 November 1923. 91. Daily Graphic, 19 May 1924. 92. Tidens Tegn’s, 9 April 1926. 93. La Nazione, 14 December 1923. 94. Undated Swedish newspaper clipping. Battistini was, of course, quoting from Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy. 95. Film Courier Berlin, 20 October 1926. 96. Viktor Fuchs, “Battistini’s Last Concert in Vienna,” in The Art of Singing and Voice Technique (London: Calder and Boyars, 1963), 81. 97. Fuchs, “Cavalier of Bel Canto, Mattia Battistini,” 24, 26. In 1926, Igor Gorin (1908–1982) could hardly have been old enough to be a “refugee from the Red Army,” unless as a young man he falsified his date of birth, at some risk, in order to escape difficult living conditions at home, or unless, in the aftermath of the war, the Russian army relaxed its policies to increase recruitment. In 1925, Gorin had left Russia for Vienna to study at the conservatory. In any case, this small point hardly detracts from the credibility of the rest of Fuchs’s narrative. 98. Fuchs, “Cavalier of Bel Canto, Mattia Battistini,” 26. 99. Battistini had already sung on the air in 1925, in Berlin. 100. Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 165. 101. Neues Wiener Tageblatt, 11 November 1928, reprinted in Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 170–71. 102. Sigrid Arnoldson, Memoirs. See also La Stampa, 10 November 1928, and Corriere della Sera, 10 November 1928. 103. Piccolo della Sera, 19 October 1927. 104. Charles Tenroc, editor, “Opinions de trois grands Chanteurs,” Le Courrier Musical et Théâtral, 1 July 1928, 461. 105. Felix Weingartner, “Theme and Variations,” article first published in the Hungarian newspaper Pester Lloyd, ca. November 1926; see Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni, 145. This is presumably the text to which Tenroc refers in his introductory comments in the Courrier Musical, even though the quotation is not wordfor-word. Lancelotti in Le voci d’oro also roughly cites a portion of the same text: “Battistini is an artist-phenomenon who surpasses all his contemporaries. Just as the light of Jupiter eclipses that of other stars, so does his talent overshadow all the stars of the artistic firmament. How does this man manage to make such an indelible impression? Through simplicity. Perfect art is that which masks the effort required to attain it.” 106. Battistini to Erich Meller, 6 November 1928 (quoted in Corriere della Sera, 10 November 1928). 107. Alfred Fischof, quoted by J. Gluski, Kurjer Polski, 13 November 1928. 108. César Saerchinger, “The Passing of Battistini,” Musical Courier, 22 November 1928, 41.

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109. Luigi Romice, Lyrica 94 (April 1930). 110. Gaisberg, The Music Goes Round, 94–95. Battistini had been named Baron of Poggio Casalino. In addition to his other title of commendatore, he received the following honors during his lifetime: from Italy the Great Cross of the Crown; from France the title of Grand Officier de Saint-Maurice et Saint-Lazare, Les Palmes Académiques, and the Legion of Honor; from Spain the orders of Isabelle the Catholic, Charles III, and Alphonse XIII; from Portugal the order of St. Jacques of the Sword; from Sweden the order of Wasa; from Denmark the order of Doneberg; and from Russia the Supreme Order of Christ and the Order of St. Stanislas. Gaisberg’s famous image of a Battistini at his royal levee contrasts with the simple hospitality that so many others describe. It would seem that Gaisberg, having an inexact knowledge of what Louis XIV’s levee actually entailed, merely used the image to enliven his narrative. Presumably, Battistini would have visited with his friends in the morning over a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. 111. Vittorio Gui, in Livre des Jours Italiens: Le Théâtre Lyrique (1963). 112. Glenn Plaskin, Horowitz:A Biography of Vladimir Horowitz (New York: William Morrow, 1983), 282–83. 113. Sergio Segalini, “Discographie [Il barbiere di Siviglia],” L’Avant-Scène Opéra 37 (March 1996): 126.

•

5•

Posterity

No book dealing with Battistini can end with his death; no more with a

compilation of reminiscences by those who knew him or were influenced by him. Nor must it end with a discussion of the misconceptions that certain socalled connoisseurs have inflicted on his memory in the decades following his demise. Here is not the place to complain about their ignorance or thoughtlessness, but more essentially, to analyze for one’s own enrichment what the singer tried to convey through his art. For what remains for us and for future generations is much more than ashes, and analyzing the legacy of such an artist shall for all time prove to be highly stimulating. Battistini’s entire life was spent in the pursuit of his art, and toward the end of his career he, perhaps more than any other singer, was able to keep the tradition of beautiful song alive. But, one might argue, each artist is an individual, so why should Battistini be valued more highly than another, and why shouldn’t one style of singing be replaced by another in the ever-evolving scheme of time and progress? The fact is, we are dealing with another matter altogether here. It should be pointed out that the bel canto vocal technique is not a universal phenomenon, and that it appeared relatively late in Western culture. Yet it would be quite wrong to characterize it as a passing fashion, an arbitrary choice—an opinion held by those interested in more exotic forms of vocal production. No other technique exploits the potential of the voice so fully, through its volume, intensity, range, and agility. Surely, the force that drove Battistini to continue touring so late in his career was the hope of keeping the bel canto spirit alive by inspiring those who heard it to adopt it for themselves (which is not to say copy it). Not to discuss the vocal technique that contributed to the excellence of Battistini’s musical interpretation would be a 273

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disservice to him; it is what permits us to understand and rediscover an entire aesthetic, an entire expressive potential. To attempt to comprehend what that technique was, then, remains our final objective. It is not a question of evaluating Battistini’s contribution on the surface, as though admiring a painting in a museum; it means analyzing it from the inside, like an apprentice trying to learn the master’s secrets, in order to prepare to face the same challenge. We have acknowledged the fine line that exists between technique and personal taste, making it all too tempting to say that, because times have changed, there is no point in trying to revive an old fashion. But because times will continue to change, it is not inconceivable that the dramatism lately regarded as progress will in turn give way to a more hedonistic approach (historically, not unprecedented). Indeed, beauty is the fundamental expression of art, to which all roads eventually lead. Looking back far enough in time to specific great artists, the distance does not obscure their differences or their individuality. We are allowed to regard Raphael and Rembrandt, or Bach and Gounod, as members of a mythological space where time ceases to exist. This phenomenon occurs with singers: for example, one can now refer to both Mattia Battistini and Ettore Bastianini as “singers of the past.” Following this logic, where chronological order is less important, sometimes an artist who lived decades earlier can seem closer to our present-day sensibilities. If we take the trouble to examine the mechanics of Battistini’s technique, it might help to explain the current lack of big voices and the premature end of so many careers. For there is no doubt that how one treats one’s vocal organ can have a bearing on the length of a career. Should that not be of interest to us today? Why should we continue to model ourselves after a generation of singers whom we insist on regarding as the pioneers of modernity, when it is now clear that we no longer have much in common with the principles for which they stood? The “big-gun” baritones, like Titta Ruffo and his successors, have today virtually passed into extinction. We claim to miss them, even while admitting their lack of finesse. Since today’s singers no longer provoke the kind of idolatry that Battistini enjoyed, it might be well to consider the reasons for this turn of events. Battistini left very few written accounts of his thoughts on singing and vocal technique, for he believed above all in preaching by example and learning by imitation, letting his recordings speak for themselves.1 But before examining these notions, we must address an important area of dispute among vocal specialists today: Battistini’s vocal category. A number of reference books claim that Battistini began his vocal training as a tenor under the Italian composer and conductor Eugenio Terziani (1824–1889) before Persichini “placed” him as a baritone.2 There is no evi-

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dence to confirm this widely accepted allegation. Battistini himself seems never to have alluded to it during his lifetime, with the first reference to it not appearing until 1949, in the Palmegiani book, which in matters musical betrays some inconsistencies. For example, one page before making the statement about the shift in vocal category, Palmegiani recycles an anecdote found in Lancelotti, relating how after his parents took him to a performance of Meyerbeer’s L’Africana, the excited young Mattia repeated from memory the aria “All’erta marinar!” and declared he wanted to be a singer. Thus, although Palmegiani goes no further than to quote the incipit of the aria, by implication he confirms that it was not the tenor’s aria (“O paradiso!”) to which Mattia’s voice naturally gravitated, but the baritone’s.3 This apparent contradiction demands careful examination. For the anecdote, Palmegiani might have identified the aria simply to embellish his story, to give it greater credibility, but without knowing for sure. Who would have remembered after so many years? Knowing Battistini to have been a baritone, Palmegiani would have certainly picked an aria corresponding to that tessitura from an opera he knew was in the singer’s repertory. In any case, because Palmegiani makes no effort to reconcile the anecdote with the claim about Battistini’s early training as a tenor, one can only assume that Palmegiani automatically considered the singer predisposed to the baritone range. Moreover, if the young Mattia had been wrong to consider himself a baritone, surely the effort to train him as a tenor would not have ended with Terziani. Lancelotti (who makes no reference to the tenor claim) states that in 1876 and 1877 the young Battistini sang with the chorus on two important occasions, in performances of Mendelssohn’s St. Paul and Haydn’s The Seasons conducted by Ettore Pinelli. It is possible, even likely, that in the absence of a separate baritone part Battistini may have chosen to team up with the tenors, simply because their part suited his high baritone voice better than that of the basses. As a soloist, however, in June of 1878 (a few months before his stage debut at the Teatro Argentina), Battistini performed the “Gloria” composed by the famous castrato and voice teacher Domenico Mustafà. The part he sang is written using bass clef, not treble—hence, for baritone and not tenor.4 In any case, when the young singer listed his repertory in an interview for the Gazzetta Artistica di Roma in 1878, it consisted of fourteen operas. If he had been training his voice as a tenor, it is unlikely that he would have been able to change in midstream and learn so many baritone parts as soon as he did. Indeed, as proven by his career, the essence of Battistini was permanence, not change. What merits attention is not that he might have had a fleeting experience as a tenor but that he was, at the age of twenty-two, already on the boards singing the baritone roles he would perform until his retirement.

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In today’s conservatories, it is not uncommon for voice students to change their tessitura and repertory during the course of their early training. Many great singers settled into the territory that made them famous only well after their debuts: take, for example, Félia Litvinne, Kirsten Flagstad, or Marilyn Horne. The same uncertainty experienced by a Caruso can lead tenors to start out as baritones, as did Lauritz Melchior and Carlo Bergonzi. Some singers do not acquire their high notes until later in their careers: Marcel Journet claimed he was forty before he could sing anything above high E. The changes that precede and accompany the evolution of an artist must not be confused with those relating to the aging of a voice as its high notes, power, and focus fade. A Gobbi taking refuge in Scarpia and a Colbran asking Rossini to write her music that hid the wobble in her voice are two examples among many others so well known that it would be pointless to mention them for any reason other than to show the extent to which Battistini proves the exception to the rule. Which raises another question: is it merely the prevalence of this kind of vocal switching that gives more credibility to the hypothesis of Battistini’s alleged change of tessitura, even in the absence of all evidence? Like many famous singers, he is claimed to have started on the wrong track—or rather, it is felt that because he strayed off course, he became famous while preserving the vestiges of his early training, the mysterious conditioning process that made him forever crippled, imperfect, yet full of potential. The most widely appreciated aspect of his voice was its ability to evoke the tenor he never became. Those inclined to turn fact into fiction find it all the more believable, human, and interesting to regard Battistini as the unfinished or frustrated artist, his dream broken by a tragic destiny. Such a stereotypical portrait bears little resemblance to the real Battistini. The notion that Battistini could have made a career as a tenor, if he had not been prevented from doing so, stirs the imagination. It is the same sort of speculation indulged in by those who insist that Shakespeare was not the author of his plays. Such rumor distracts us from the work itself; the controversy and the interest in solving a mystery are all the public needs to be spared the trouble of judging the value of the legacy. It also comforts those who need to believe that every stroke of luck requires a sacrifice: hence, Battistini succeeded as a baritone only because he failed as a tenor. Viewed from this angle, his radiant high notes become the vestige of an unachieved potential that he had to resolve to abandon, instead of a triumphant beam of light aimed as though in defiance at so many other baritones. Where did the rumor start? In many of the press notices, which Palmegiani himself would have consulted, one finds comments comparing Battistini’s voice to that of a tenor. The earliest seems to be the following no-

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tice of a Forza del destino, which describes the twenty-three-year-old Battistini as possessing “a homogenous baritone voice that leans toward tenor,”5 though the critic expresses no doubt that he is fundamentally a baritone. A review of a Lucia the following year states that “although his voice might seem too young, it is by its timbre and range that of a true baritone.”6 Other, later notices deserve mention here. In Don Giovanni, his “high notes are as beautiful as those of a tenor. The medium is perfect. The natural baritone voice is clear, resonant, agreeable. The low notes are warm, organ-like.”7 In Maria di Rohan, “the voice is something of a miracle; quality, range, resonant evenness of timbre and scale, supple contours, diction, tonal splendor—all combined in the amazing organ of this baritone who sings from a range extending to almost a strong tenor.”8 These quotes span some thirty-eight years, during which Battistini preserved his brilliantly vibrant high register; hence, the notion of his cultivating his tenor voice could have arisen as a way of explaining retroactively the frequency of the comparison. After Battistini’s London Drury Lane Rigolettos in 1887, one British journalist wrote that he “displayed a beautiful baritone voice, inclining to tenore robusto,”9 while another preferred the tongue-in-cheek approach, saying that Battistini “has an unusually high and sympathetic baritone voice, and, just like a girl who has a small waist and pinches herself still more in order to waste her waist entirely, so does he, who has such fine high notes up to G, force his voice into an A-flat, which most decidedly is not a baritone note.”10 In the contemporary press, the latter remark illustrates the rare case in which the word tenor remains subtextual, signifying not a compliment but an ironic insinuation of fakery. One could understand a critic’s making fun of an alleged tenor’s inability to sing a high C, but why the devil should he turn his nose up at a baritone blessed with a high A-flat? Also in 1887 in London, Battistini sang Telramund alongside the Lohengrin of Jean de Reszke. Ironically, de Reszke, six years older than Battistini, had debuted in Venice in 1874 in the same baritone role as Battistini: Alfonso XI in La favorita. Early in his career, de Reszke also sang Valentin in Faust and Don Giovanni, the latter prompting one critic to observe that his voice had “more the timbre of a tenor than of a baritone.”11 London would not hear him again until after his metamorphosis, in 1887, by which time he had earned fame on the Continent as a tenor. Now, if there were doubt at the time about Battistini’s tessitura, how could any critic cognizant of de Reszke’s transformation and the circumstances leading up to it ignore the chance to allude to it and, at the same time, to predict a similar turnabout for Battistini? The affair doubly merits our attention, precisely because there is no certainty that Jean de Reszke was a true tenor! Despite the apparent success of his famous conversion, which nevertheless took many years of hard work,

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Cotogni (his teacher) never acknowledged him as a tenor, but as a baritone gifted with an exceptional upper extension. Indeed, it is known that Jean de Reszke could sing a high B only when in the best of voice, and he could never hold a high C. Eventually, he drifted to the less altitudinous heldentenor parts. The rare Mapleson recordings of de Reszke’s voice are precious documents, since they were made while the artist was on stage; unfortunately, they are of poor technical quality. But, although they provide no solid proof about his timbre, they do offer evidence on such matters as tempo, phrasing, and the transformation from midrange to high, and to a certain extent volume. In “O paradis!” from L’Africaine (1901), one can hear a B-flat reached with an Italianate portamento on “tu m’appartiens,” though the vowel seems to have been modified to something akin to a [u] sound, betraying the use of falsetto in a dynamic that is not piano. This falsetto does not reappear later on for the B-flat on “sois donc à moi,” which sounds just a bit constricted or covered. The score places the first B-flat on “tu m’a-ppartiens” (without portamento) and the second on “moi,” though of course it was commonly left up to the singer to put the high note on his best vowel. In any case, it seems that de Reszke did not like to sing his high notes on open vowels. Was he in exceptionally fine voice when he was captured on these recordings? Are his weaknesses hidden by the poor quality of the recorded sound? In the Huguenots excerpt of the same year one hears him sing a gloriously full and resonant high C-flat (hence, B-natural) at the end of a phrase. Overall, the timbre seems beautiful, and the phrasing particularly spacious and exhilarating. The “amateurish ineptitudes” that Bernard Shaw observed in Jean de Reszke’s acting may have been partially due to the effort it cost him to sing tenor parts: after seeing him do Faust numerous times, Shaw noticed that his Valentin of yore was “the only part in [Gounod’s opera] I ever saw him act reasonably.”12 De Reszke retired at age fifty, after twenty-five years of singing as a tenor, whereas Battistini was at his vocal peak at that age and only at the midpoint of his career. It is therefore understandable that, in a performance alongside a tenor known to be an atypical model of his vocal category, our London critic could have found Battistini’s high A-flat at the end of Rigoletto tenorish to the point of provocation, an insult to common sense (little did he know that Battistini could also reach high A-natural!). It is not a question of whether the note itself belongs to the tenor more than to the baritone: while it is extremely unusual for a baritone to be able to sing high A-flat or A with all the expression of a Battistini, a tenor would be severely limited in his repertory if that were the highest his voice could go. A general knowledge of vocal technique would have sufficed to dispel any doubts—and prove, despite the apparent paradox—that Battistini’s splen-

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did high notes were not those of a frustrated tenor. The critical zone called the passaggio, where any vocal unevenness is exposed, is not all that far from these high notes. Since the upper extensions of both ranges partially overlap, a voice that cannot cross this zone will not be able to excel in the lower range. In other words, if Battistini were a tenor manqué, his F, F-sharp, G, A-flat, and A, instead of sounding full, resonant, and ever more intense, would on the contrary reveal the increasing difficulty that would deprive him of a high C and leave him with neither a high tenor range nor enough ease in that area of the voice to become a good baritone. Considering all the press notices praising his vocal mastery and all the records that document his prowess, it is folly to hypothesize that Battistini gave up singing tenor because he lacked the high notes! Obviously, an excellent baritone can outdo a bad tenor on the high Es, Fs, Gs, and As, which is misinterpreted by those unversed in vocal technique. With all due respect for their claims, Battistini was simply an exceptionally accomplished baritone. What is more, it should be considered that the pigeonholing of male singers into strict categories of bass, baritone, and tenor is as impractical as trying to classify all men as either tall, medium, or short. Every voice possesses some characteristics of all three vocal registers. What matters to the individual singer is not what he calls himself but what repertory he should sing and, above all, how he should sing it. Vocal labels were invented to help simplify some very complex issues; they become useless when the individual forces himself to conform to one or another of them. As Battistini himself once observed to a reporter, “Formerly, when Masini, Cotogni, and other celebrities learned to sing, the subdivisions that reign today at the Opera did not exist. Today, one distinguishes between dramatic and lyric male singers, and light or lyric sopranos; but before, everyone sang both of them equally.”13 Battistini does not say that everyone can sing all the lyric and dramatic parts for one register, nor does he say one must be ready to tackle them all at once, but that it is possible to choose certain roles from one or the other category. This voluntary openness to embracing a wide spectrum of parts is quite characteristic of Battistinian bel canto, and indeed it is clear he took on a range of roles that would upset today’s purists. Our needs have changed, they would say. Indeed they have! Contemporary opera administrators are looking for “specialized” singers who can fit interchangeably into preexisting productions, so that the conductor can lift his baton for whatever cast and not have to change anything, no matter who is singing. So what if such and such a tempo or dynamic suits one singer better than another, or even no singer at all? We believe we are approaching absolute truth by reducing the margin of tolerance, by defining a unique model; a given voice or physique should limit itself to one kind of role, while each artist can bring us closer to the work by excelling in different places

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in the score, as a character for which he may or may not be cut out. No matter that singers of yore seemed to be more versatile, that Patti sang both the “Jewel Song” and “Elsa’s Dream,” or that Gigli sang Pearl Fishers and Pagliacci . . . Battistini is said to have once recounted how one evening, to save the show, he filled in for the tenor in “Di quella pira.” Again, the incident (if it is true) did not make him a tenor any more than Caruso’s singing “Vecchia zimarra” in the last act of La bohème made him a bass. We do not know if the tenor engaged for Manrico sang the high C, or perhaps transposed the cabaletta down a half-tone, as is often done today, and so on. In any case, without the high C (not in the score to begin with) the piece can be accessible for a high baritone of some capability, and it is possible that Battistini might have ended quite brilliantly on the high G, as written. According to Levik, Battistini had little desire to fit the mold, and whenever he was asked if his voice was tenor or baritone, he would reply with a mysterious smile, “Tenor or baritone, I’m Battistini.”14 One detects a notunmerited degree of pride, and a disdain for conventional labels. The year before Battistini died, an American musical publication printed the following: There has been no end of controversy about the proper classification of Battistini’s voice, much the same as has come up with regard to Caruso. In the one instance there have been those who insisted Caruso was singing tenor roles with a baritone voice; in the other, that Battistini was singing baritone parts with a tenor voice. De Luca, the Metropolitan Opera House baritone, who studied under the same master as Battistini, has been quoted as saying emphatically that Battistini is a baritone, not a tenor, although the quality of his voice, as Battistini employs it, suggests a tenor. Astounding high notes played no small part in making Battistini famous. Much has been said of his brilliant high A-natural, described as produced with the ease and power of a tenore robusto. As with other Italian baritones with tenorlike upper voices, the low tones are light. But although rugged, even brutal power has been attributed to the singer, many of his admirers seem to have been impressed more by an exquisite pianissimo, carried to the topmost note of his voice, than by the ring and volume of his full tone. The Battistini pianissimo is famous wherever production is discussed, and for many years it has been pointed to as an example of the true pianissimo (as distinguished from the falsetto) retaining, even when scarcely louder than a whisper, all the vitality and manliness of the full tone. . . . Admirers of Battistini [have] dwelt upon this pianissimo as something entirely beyond the art of the baritones then singing in this country. A curious trick that seems to have been characteristic of Battistini throughout his career, and which has been much commented upon, has been the injection of little pulses into these floating soft tones, when long sustained, showing how complete was his mastery of the breath.15

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We salute the perspicacity of the author of the above remarks. However, the “little pulses” are heard not only in Battistini’s pianissimi; his fortes also often display an even more noticeable pulsation, which gives them their characteristic intensity. To appreciate this phenomenon, one must understand that it is a latent feature of any musical instrument. The best sound from a violin is produced differently than the best sound from a piano; each instrument embodies specific features for those who know how to play it. The same goes for the human voice, and traditional ornamentation (unwritten for centuries and left to the discretion of the singer) was a means of conveying the possibilities of the individual vocal organ. Some voices lent themselves to agility, others to high notes and volume. Within this working space, the composition would mesh with the interpretation, and listeners could judge how successfully it was accomplished. The pleasure of singing, and singers’ active involvement in the interpretation of the music, led artists to choose special works to share with their audiences whenever possible. Battistini had his signature pieces: Maria di Rohan, Werther . . . The undulating effects in pianissimo and the pulsation in forte convey the same functional use of the voice, emerging inevitably through its employment and creating the marvelous flow of breath while at the same time preventing the voice from tightening. The question of a tenor Battistini cannot be resolved without considering the historical context in which the claim is made. Indeed, Battistini’s contemporaries would have regarded his tenorish tendencies as a vocal plus, whereas later commentators view it as a deficiency. Modern critics would have us believe that Battistini’s voice “tenorized,” in the sense that it got lighter and lost body as it ascended and that, all things considered, it was a fraudulent voice no longer suited to today’s expectations. His agility indicates a light voice, they say, and when he performed alongside the great Tamagno, he supposedly would have had to raise the volume of his singing so as not to appear ridiculous (as J. B. Steane implies). Contemporary evidence undermines this thesis: Battistini often appeared alongside “large” voices, and the records he made reveal a bold high register, belying any “tenorizing” loss of body. The “tenore robusto” characterization of his high register in the Musical America article is not unique; others use the term tenore di forza (strong tenor). Even sung piano, his high tones remain well placed, round, and resonant. It is true that in the postwar era any audible trace of head tone in high piano singing supposedly signified a small voice, barely able to cross the footlights, where a “legitimate” voice would appropriately sound stifled or wooly on a high piano tone. Limpidity and apparent effortlessness were traits that were looked down on, whereas labored emission was admired as the acknowledged sign of a great dramatic voice. In fact, such misguided concepts reflect faulty vocal technique, decadence in vocal standards, and ignorance of that

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which allows a singer to use his voice to its full capacity in range, dynamics, and agility. There is another school of thought that prefers to classify Battistini not as a tenor manqué but as a baryton-Martin.16 It is difficult to take this far-fetched view seriously, for it is based on senseless ignorance of the voice, relying as it does on a mistaken judgment about timbre. A baryton-Martin is not a second tenor, or even a counterfeit tenor. Jean-Blaise Martin (1768–1837), the namesake for this kind of voice (which is wrongly regarded as unusual), was a baritone known for the extended range of his voice in both directions. More specifically, his voice lacked none of the baritone’s lower notes and, when singing pianissimo, could extend to the high B-flat of a tenor. There are voices, just as there are certain athletes (i.e., marathon runners) who perform best in long feats of endurance, while others (i.e., sprinters) excel in strength, but one type of voice must not be expected to possess the ability of the other. The baryton-Martin is analogous to the marathon runner, and hand-in-hand with the extended range of his voice comes an inevitable lightness. Battistini’s voice, which contemporary reports describe as spanning two octaves (even though the recordings do not quite confirm this), never possessed the kind of strong low register of a baryton-Martin. In fact, to the great astonishment of his Parisian audiences, he avoided singing the low B in Hamlet’s “Mon coeur est brisé.”17 In none of Battistini’s recordings does one hear him sing a low A, even when it is written in the score; in “Eri tu,” he takes the low note up an octave. But it should be remembered that Battistini was not the only singer with limited lower capital: when one hears the low notes of some other Verdi baritones whose dark voices lead one to expect strong low notes (Ettore Bastianini, for example), one realizes why Battistini would never have wanted to expose this weakness in public. In the 1910 HMV recording of “Eri tu” by Emilio de Gogorza (1874–1949), the low A falls naturally and evenly in the vocal line. However, although de Gogorza recorded a wide range of repertory, few are the roles he would have risked singing in the theater (as his concert career proves), because he did not possess the stamina they require over the long haul. He could only create an illusion of being right for a role with the sampling of an aria, his main attributes being the range of his voice and his musicality. Hence the paradox of a singer who can sing the low notes as written while not having the right voice for the role. It is precisely that kind of voice one could describe as a baryton-Martin. Not only would a baryton-Martin have trouble being heard over an orchestra in the repertory Battistini sang tirelessly, but to attempt to do so would rob the voice of its attractive timbre. So many full-voiced high notes, in what we might call the “high tessitura,” and where Battistini excelled, would exhaust a baryton-Martin, even if certain notes sung in isolation would pose no prob-

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lem. For this kind of baritone is essentially a light voice that adopts in the high register a coloration similar to the pianissimo of a light tenor, on condition of not remaining aloft for very long and without pulling out all the stops. To preserve the quality of his voice without tiring, he must return to the central part of his baritone center. To consider the question from another angle: no interpreter of Debussy’s Pelléas (a role usually associated with the baryton-Martin type) could sing the repertory of a Battistini, whether he were Périer, Jansen, Maurane, or even Panzéra—all of whom are associated with this category. Clearly, to relegate Battistini to a vaguely exotic vocal category merely perpetuates the current misconception that a dark voice is heavy and a bright voice light, and that bel canto singers had small voices, whereas the generation of Caruso and Chaliapin and their new dramatic approach gave rise to voices that overshadowed in size all those that came before, heralding the era of the modern singer—all a bunch of nonsense, of course. Some bright voices are powerful, and some dark voices are light. The terminology is often misinterpreted: bright means rich and vibrant to some, and whitish to others. Dark suggests deep resonance to one person, or a veiled, muted sound to another. In the final analysis, although the modern method of attacking notes forcefully might give an impression of brute strength, there is no proof that the great souls who subjected their gullets to the abrasion of dramatic declamation produced more decibels than the singers who filled the same halls with lyric resonance. On the evidence of his recordings, some commentators (usually those who endorse the baryton-Martin or tenor manqué theories) describe Battistini’s low register as anemic. The same commentators, it is true, are willing to concede that other baritones of his era seem to have been afflicted with the same virus. Remarkably few of these experts, however, have bothered to factor into the question the limitations of the early-twentieth-century acoustic recording medium; instead, they base their impressions of what they hear on a presumption of the objectivity of a primitive technology. When listening to these old acoustics of golden-age singers, one must try to be cognizant of the way the voice was captured by the ancestor of the microphone. One must realize that the limited dynamic capabilities of the acoustic recording process required the artist to step away from the horn when singing forte passages and move closer to it during piano passages; besides the uncertainty of its results, this little inconvenience inevitably affected the intensity of the sound that went into the horn. A large voice always sounds stronger in its upper register than in the lower, whereas a small voice displays noticeably less difference in strength between its two extremities. Because of the limitations of early recordings, a sound level that would minimize distortion on a powerful high note necessarily worked to

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the disadvantage of the quieter, low-register tones, which sounded washed-out by comparison. Hence the acoustic recording process was more congenial to the average-sized voice with a narrower dynamic range than to the widerranging large voice.18 One should therefore avoid jumping to conclusions on hearing Battistini’s voice on disc; perhaps more than any other baritone of his time, he was known for his “wide use of the dynamic resources of his voice, from the most powerful fff to the most delicate ppp. . . . Famous baritones like Cotogni, Titta Ruffo, Galeffi, Stracciari, Sammarco, or Russians like Yakovlev, Baklanov, or Khokhlov were all very powerful. But Battistini used such contrasts of dynamic from fff to ppp with such skill and such gradations of power, that he produced an overwhelming effect on his audience in Rigoletto’s [“Cortigiani!”] or the final scene from Demon.”19 All things considered, then, it would be unfair to characterize Battistini’s low register as weak; at the very least it must have been quite adequate. The recording process could not do him (or so many other singers of the period) full justice when he emphasized the low register with pure chest tone, the harmonics of which fill the horn at very close range, even though the voice when used in this manner would not have carried over an orchestra in a large auditorium. This brings to mind one of Battistini’s technical rules of thumb: avoid singing a pure chest tone. If he had allowed himself to indulge in this bad habit merely to prove to his public that he had a low register (even though chest tone robs the voice of its color and smoothness), he would have compromised his high register and flexibility, acquired a pronounced vibrato, and considerably shortened his career. Thus, the famous bel canto technique for which he is admired is more than a method that enables one to sing dazzling pyrotechnics and pinpoint chromatic scales (qualities that might seem superficial to advocates of dramatic “expressivity”); above all, it ensures the proper development of the vocal organ and preserves it from premature decline. It is fascinating to read what the fifty-three-year-old Battistini reportedly once confided to the Russian conductor Ary Moiseyevich Pazovsky (1887– 1953). “My respected colleague . . . ,” and Battistini mentioned with unconcealed irritation a well-known Italian baritone, “calls me a ‘second tenor’ because of my low register. I’m not arguing—his low notes are naturally stronger and basically it’s a more powerful voice. But he has turned even his virtues into failings. He overloads the low notes and forces the middle with the result that his top notes are already showing a vibrato even though he is younger than I. He employs only one coloring—a powerful forte—and he believes that the sole beauty of singing lies in loudness. He only sings dramatic roles, and some people say that he sings them more effectively than ‘Battistini himself.’ But . . . each to his own. I never allow myself to sing

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low notes powerfully to the detriment of the voice or to sing the OtelloIago duet with the effort that my colleague does. My advantages lie in cantilena, in the softness and agility of the voice, in timbre, in a word, in musicality. . . . One must develop these qualities all one’s life to be renowned for them and never pursue the ephemeral glory of the ultra-dramatic baritone. Then you will be a real artist, an intelligent professional, and you’ll know how to preserve the voice into old age—however much you sing.” And Battistini did sing a great deal.20

Pazovsky also informs us that Battistini “would begin his day with every type of exercise” and believed all singers should start every new day’s exercises as though they were beginners: “One must constantly be ‘looking for one’s voice.’ If I sing a scale carelessly today, then tomorrow I’ll be satisfied with yesterday’s effort and stop searching; I shall repeat my mistake and in a couple of days get used to it. A month later, instead of agility and beauty of tone, my voice will show signs of fatigue and weakness.” Although in rehearsals it is common for singers to “save” their voices by singing in half-voice or “marking time,” Battistini, according to Pazovsky, “always sang in full voice, with strict regard for the dynamic markings in the score,”21 which did not prevent him from sometimes singing three or four performances in as many days. For listeners accustomed to modern vocal styles, it is difficult to understand how a bright voice can be powerful and how the typical bel canto singer could equal, much less surpass in volume, the kind of singer whose performance is built on the passion of the character or the hammering of syllables he feels is necessary to understanding the words (even though the opera libretto is commonly ridiculed as a subspecies of dramatic literature). Nevertheless, the explanation is simple: the desire to be expressive breeds tension, and despite the sometimes titanic effort of the trained singer to control his instrument, when the vocal cords are strained the tone suffers. This approach undermines the technique and forces the voice to respond, like an instrument, to the will of its player. But if one loves the voice, if one tries to understand the extent of its capabilities and avoid its misuse, and if one deeply analyzes how it functions, one realizes that it obeys an entirely different set of laws; its strength, its capacity for volume and expression, lie in a diminution of the muscle tension caused by the desire to be dramatic. The truly great voices that are “heavy” enough to sing the dramatic repertory have an overall bodily placidity that confuses the neophyte and exasperates the stage director. Does this mean expressivity should be avoided at all costs? Certainly not. Body and mind must work together to create a beauty of expression inherent to the art of song. A final word on the singer’s medium register and sense of pitch: some experts, genuine or otherwise (but mainly the ones who espouse the tenor theory), insist after listening to the recordings that Battistini’s medium register was

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light and underpowered, as it were. In other words, the voice supposedly remained shy of its potential—at least, that is how listeners accustomed to the sound of twentieth-century postwar baritones are likely to perceive it. Their frame of reference is a much darker medium placed in relation to the chest voice, with effortful high notes and veiled tone providing what little dynamic shading is attempted. Nor can one fail to notice the absence of agility in such voices. Therefore, it is not that Battistini’s medium is too light, but that the disappearance of the principles of bel canto and the development of a delinquent preference for a too-heavy sound make it seem light by comparison. It is often said that the voice is built around its center, and that whenever one encounters vocal problems one must find the voice’s core, the zone where one can easily accomplish that which should not be attempted in the high or the low registers. The medium is where the voice can be colored, swelled, darkened, or sharpened to suit the character one is portraying—but not without a cost. Thus the medium is easily employable, but to keep the door to the high and low registers open after abusing it, one must subject oneself to strict discipline, which is to say a well-trained outside ear, a teacher who can help to untangle the knots and restore the smooth bel canto line. Professor Olkhovsky, in his preface to the Palmegiani biography, notes that Battistini’s voice had exceptional carrying power: “It possessed a rare ability to overcome considerable distances, poor acoustics, and overwhelming orchestral sound.”22 And Levik claims to have been told that Battistini would go into the orchestra pit with his tuning fork just before a performance in order to verify that standard pitch was being observed. This causes Levik to wonder why a baritone so “unrestricted by tessitura” should be afraid of the raising of an orchestra’s pitch.23 If the story is true (and it is unclear if it refers to a lifetime habit or an isolated incident), one might be led to venture another explanation altogether. There is a review of a Warsaw Hamlet in which the critic describes how, after a long and noisy ovation following the brindisi, Battistini satisfied the demand for an encore by picking up on the cadenza, a cappella, without any preparatory chord to ensure the correct pitch, and when the orchestra joined in, everything was perfectly in tune.24 Another time, after the Rigoletto-Gilda duet that closes the second act of Rigoletto, “the excitement of the house remained such that one had no choice but to bring the curtain back up and let Battistini repeat the duet. And with what admirable precision and perfect pitch! Amazingly without orchestra, he strayed not a quarter-tone off, and his colleagues had but to follow his lead.”25 Another anecdote (already mentioned in chapter 1) comes from Battistini himself: In 1883 in a Covent Garden La traviata when he replaced an ailing baritone at the last minute, Patti informed him that their duet would be trans-

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posed down. Battistini recalled that during the cadenza his voice was irresistibly tempted to revert to the original key, but that Patti prevented him from doing so just in the nick of time.26 Contemporary reports all agree that Battistini sang squarely on pitch. Could it be, by force of rehearsing his music so often, he memorized all his music to the extent that the absolute pitch of every note became inevitably fixed in his mind? This would explain why, whenever he could not hear the orchestra from the stage (as often happens), he took the precaution of making sure the orchestra was tuned to his voice rather than attempting to adapt his sound to the pit.

THE MYSTERIES OF BEL CANTO Frequently when nostalgic reference is made to the legendary “Age of Bel Canto,” the implication is that singers, once upon a time, sang perfectly. Although it cannot be denied that vocal standards in every era undergo some kind of critical turning point, this does not always involve a change for the better. Nor does it seem very likely that we will surpass or even duplicate the standards of that bygone era; one need only look at the scores or consult the surviving documentary evidence. In trying to bring back its essentials, while resisting the temptation either to credit golden-age singers with magical powers or to regard their alleged feats with disbelief, certain elements of a vocal and instrumental nature clearly remain elusive. There are analogies to this sort of historical restorative quest: Renaissance artists managed to build a dome as grand as that of the ancient Roman Pantheon and to rediscover the secret of casting bronze equestrian statues similar to those of Roman antiquity. Painters strive to solve the mystery of Rubens’s technique, applying thick yet transparent-looking oils that dry quickly on the canvas without cracking. Stradivarius remains the ideal for violinmakers, and the keyboard virtuosity of a Raoul Pugno or a Moritz Rosenthal have yet to be surpassed. Alas, the invention of recording came too late to capture the voices of the legendary Farinelli and Malibran. But there are aural documents that give us a good idea of what singers of yore used to be able to do with their voices. Among them, Battistini’s records serve as well as any to illustrate the kind of singing that so excited the contemporary press. Of course, it takes some effort to accustom oneself to the inferior sound of those early acoustics before one can appreciate the artist’s special qualities, but one is forced to admit that some of his long-breathed phrases, high notes, subtle inflections, and dynamic effects are quite unlike what we are used to hearing from baritones nowadays.

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Battistini’s highly individual voice imbues every phrase with its magnetism. In the context of today’s period authenticity craze, his style would seem to beg rediscovery—unless the aim of period-music advocates is to compartmentalize art into separate units, merely to catalogue the history of music and musicians and, by objectifying it, reducing the amount of hard decision making that goes into any given performance. As we have seen, the enthusiastic press reports from Battistini’s later career are already tinged with a sense of nostalgia for the disappearing art of bel canto that his singing embodied. From our vantage point today, however, the change is seen from a different perspective, as a new, more brilliant school of singing eclipsing the old. How, we wonder, could any of Battistini’s contemporaries not have welcomed the onset of the modern style with open arms? It is because the two styles coexisted in the early years of the twentieth century, and critics could still clearly hear the difference between them. M. Battistini is a baritone who is well beyond his youth, but such is the perfection of his art that he seems to have lost none of the power of his resources. The sureness and flexibility of his voice are intact, he indulges in no excess or bad taste, and he follows the contour of the melodic phrase with incomparable dexterity. The singular clarity of his diction permits him to obtain dramatic effects effortlessly and unobtrusively. This manner of singing is unknown to us [in France] and to even the most famous Italian singers of today. It is a great pity that such an accomplished art is on the verge of disappearing.27

While Pierre Lalo, the author of the above citation, was lamenting the loss of an art, a whole new generation of “modern singers” was treading the boards: Caruso, Chaliapin, Ruffo, and so on. How many of today’s critics would agree that Battistini “indulges in no excess or bad taste”? Instead, the majority of them now point to his overuse of rubato and mannered phrasing, while characterizing the singers of the generation after him as those whose self-discipline and respect for the score made them the direct precursors of today’s great artists.28 Yet it is those very same “modern” singers who represented the sort of excess to which a bel cantist refused to stoop. In other words, contrary to those who view history as a straightforward progression of events that improve on that which came before, Battistini could seem to us more representative of today’s standards than do the singers who followed in his footsteps and cast him into the shade. The Lalo quote also demonstrates how closely technique and expression are interwoven. Does an emphasis on the dramatic lead to a perfunctory use of one’s vocal resources, or does neglecting the technical aspect of singing result in crude, rudimentary expression? Does technical mastery help one to

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avoid bombast, or is a highly developed dramatic sensibility the force that drives the voice? Can one correct what one is not in a position to identify as a defect? That is to say, without cultivating some understanding of the workings of the vocal mechanism, is there any hope for improvement? And is it not also true that developing the technical facility of one’s instrument offers additional resources to the imagination, to the creative process? We draw the following comments from Mario Podestà’s unpublished reminiscences of his days as an apprentice singer, when Battistini came to Paris to sing. One day the newspapers announced the arrival in Paris of the celebrated Italian baritone Battistini. I heard him at the Opéra in La favorite; he was 65 [actually 61], and that evening singing—beautiful singing—was revealed to me. All the celebrities of our Académie Nationale who surrounded the illustrious baritone seemed simple noisemakers; he alone sang. That memorable evening, without being able to understand it, much less explain it, I had a taste of what the human voice can do. I was flabbergasted by the effortlessness of those ravishingly beautiful sounds that filled the space of the Opéra’s auditorium. At the coat-check counter an elderly patron uttered a very simple statement that struck me: “He does whatever he wants with his voice.” Now, at that particular moment in time, my voice was doing whatever it wanted with me, affecting my sleep, my eating habits, my pastimes—and never in the same way, for I was ready to switch techniques every other week and try one of the hundred “gimmicks” that were being promoted in the singing world. The next day I paid a call to Battistini, who, after listening to me sing, gently told me: “The voice is fine, but not one tone is in place. Alas, what are you to do? There are no more good teachers, even in Italy.” I was distraught. The great Battistini very kindly gave me a few lessons that made me improve more in a few days than I had in two years. Hearing that the tenor De Lucia had retired to Naples, he told me: “Ah, the marvelous singer, you can go to him.” And two days later, I was in Naples.29

In another account of his visit, Podestà tells Battistini: “You have the voice of God!” “Come to my pianist’s home tomorrow and you will get to know God!” So the next day we went to number 1, rue La Fontaine, and there the great Battistini, who had been singing La favorite for forty-five years, rehearsed for an hour the principal phrases on all the vowel sounds and with the most varied dynamics and intonations. That evening at the Opéra it was more beautiful than ever.30

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It presumably took a certain amount of courage for Battistini to disillusion the neophyte with a display of the hard work required to maintain “the voice of God.” By showing Podestà that singing was no bed of roses, he ran the risk of discouraging the young singer by dispelling the magic; yet it gave Podestà the sense of respect for the profession that he needed. Battistini was certainly very gifted, but he owed the essential greatness of his ability to the daily grind of disciplined practice, which is to say, to his sense of responsibility. If his voice never failed him (as it does so many others from time to time), perhaps it was because he regarded it not as an elusive mystery but as an instrument that had to be mastered according to certain rules. Levik alludes to Battistini’s poor opinion of singers who don’t practice enough. He also says that every time Battistini performed a role, he did not seem to be repeating a definitively shaped interpretation but, on the contrary, appeared to have reworked and gotten deeper into it.31 Unfortunately, Podestà himself, after having come in close contact with the finest singers of his time and received precious tips from them, does not seem to have been able to shape them into a coherent teaching philosophy of his own. At one point, he laments the misconceptions about so-called natural voices: “To a mother who presented her daughter to me and repeated nonstop ‘Oh, you know my daughter has a natural voice!’ I replied with annoyance, ‘Madame, here we have only supernatural voices.’ I can still hear De Lucia say, every time he successfully emitted a ‘bel canto’ sound: ‘Non è natural, è artificial!’—meaning that the sound had not been given to him by nature, but by studying.” Elsewhere, however, Podestà complains that when singing, “overanalyzing kills instinct, which often never comes back. Take my own case, for example. Before taking any lessons, I was easily singing the big aria from William Tell and the first act of Favorite with a high C-sharp in full voice that never cracked. Well! I never got back my high C-sharp, and it was while giving lessons that I was able to retrace the path, strewn with errors, that had led to its loss” (the implication being that a “natural voice” is one that can emit a high C without having had any prior training!).32 On the one hand, Podestà observes that, in teaching, “the old masters’ whack of the stick was more effective than the most detailed verbal explanation, which only passed through one ear and out the other.” On the other, “method consists of critical analysis” and “if De Lucia had explained to me ‘This sound is correct because it combines the two essential requirements: normal functioning of the vocal cords thanks to breath support, and normal functioning of resonators because it was not forced forward but rose naturally en tête’; if he had fortified these two basic principles with exercises and repeated observations . . . my whole career would have been different.”33 Despite all the credit he gave De Lucia, Podestà seems to have harbored a certain inner resentment toward him (unfairly, from all indications). When-

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ever Podestà identifies a vocal problem and tries to put it into words for all to read, as though in an attempt to rationalize an unsuccessful career, he betrays an amazing lack of understanding. The evidence suggests he would have done better to accept his mistakes as his own. Indeed, the Podestà case, with its numerous contradictions and his failure to make the most of advice from the greatest singers of the day, reflects the confusion of changing times. It was in the context of that intellectual climate that two French periodicals in 1922 published columns as a forum for amateurs and professionals to share their opinions and advice on singing. Battistini sent in the following contribution. You ask me if a singer should know the anatomy and the physiology of the larynx. Surely it is not superfluous to be familiar with one’s own instrument (especially to appreciate the reverberation of the voice against the roof of the mouth and in the nasal cavity), but I don’t feel it is absolutely indispensable. For myself, as the son of a great teacher, I studied the anatomy of the larynx; but I attribute my success in mastering the voice to a study of vocal placement rather than to anatomy. In fact, I affirm that the key to teaching how to sing lies in one’s ability to convey the meaning of good “placement.” But how many teachers can do that? Once the voice is well placed, the artist can train himself by bringing into play the elements of personal taste, individuality, general education, intelligence, and capacity for imitating good models. But, I emphasize, the foundation of all singing consists of vocal placement.34

It is ironic, perhaps, that Battistini, son of a physician, should in any way discredit the practical application of a scientific knowledge of the vocal cords. One is forced humbly to admit that, although much can be learned from a practical study of the vocal organs, how best to put them to use remains a much less scientific matter. Jean-Baptiste Faure seems to have held a similar opinion. If an examination of the vocal apparatus, while permitting us to identify such and such a male singer as a tenor or a bass, such and such a female singer as a soprano or a contralto, could at the same time enlighten us as to what gives the sounds their particular charm, brilliance, sweetness, and inflection—and especially if we could put such information to good use— then the anatomy of the larynx would surely become an indispensable course of study for those destined to become singers. But since the Rubinis, the Nourrits, the Duprez, and so many other great artists had only the vaguest notions of the time about training the voice, and since no singer to champion such specialized study has ever

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It is interesting to consider the opinion of Dr. Georges Didsbury, a physician Battistini consulted in Paris in 1919. One can assume that their conversation touched on the delicate topic of the scientific study of human voice production, since Didsbury, perhaps aware of Battistini’s father’s professional medical qualifications, later sent the baritone a copy of an article he had written for a professional journal, of which we offer an extract here. Studies on the physiology of the voice and on singing abound. A very large number of them are by observers of great merit. Some are experimental physiologists; others are both laryngologists and physiologists; some have worked in association with illustrious singing professors. These studies have delved deeply into the physiology of breathing and the thorax; the mechanism of the vocal cords; and finally the nasal cavities and other areas of resonance. It would seem that all the action of the singer has been put under a spotlight and a great help been given them thereby. Yet the experience of all laryngologists and practitioners who deal with singers on a daily basis seems to contradict this assumption. Just as anatomists have provided the most detailed diagrams of the laryngial muscles, so the worthy studies to which we refer have provided singers with terminology, classifications of register, analyses of sound emission, information about the physical sensations that great artists experience when singing such and such a note. We are a little skeptical of the practical results of all this knowledge, no matter how conscientiously researched and carefully deduced. . . . If there is anything that defies verbal description, it is the phenomenon of sound production. Sound can only be appreciated with the ear. . . . Ultimately, it seems to us that the ear was the best and only judge of the singing voice, and to understand the voice in its normal state was the best means of adjusting its use when a problem arose.36

It is unusual for such an opinion to come from the pen of a scientist. But in fact, information about the functioning of the vocal cords might ultimately be harmful to the singer who is tempted to put the vibratory mechanism to the test by increasing the tension of the cords and singing louder. It is particularly interesting to consider the limitations of applying the scientific method to the act of singing, probably because the desire to furnish the mind with a rational and convincing explanation prevails over the capacity to put such information to practical use, because singing goes above and beyond research and theory. Scientific studies still widely prevalent today confuse cause and effect: a high note does not come out correctly because the larynx descends (as the Husson treatise indicates); rather, the larynx descends because one sings a note cor-

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rectly.37 The distinction between the two cases is considerable, since the former involves muscular tension and the latter muscular relaxation; the first precludes the proper coordination of volume with the pitch and focus of the note. One is reminded of the anecdote about the famous soprano who near the end of her great career was roundly ridiculed after she admitted she had never heard the word diaphragm. One might better have asked oneself how she could have sung as well as she did in spite of her “ignorance.” Ultimately, which is more desirable: an artist who can sing or a scholar who knows his anatomy from A to Z? Instead of theory, the singer needs a practical approach to master the voice. Battistini’s suggested alternative to the scientific approach, then, is “vocal placement,” which he somewhat ironically calls “an absolute science.” What does this mean? Supposedly it involves a kind of cultivated instinct, or mastery of an exercise, a self-control that cannot be learned from a book—which is probably why Battistini does not bother to elaborate for his interviewer. Le Monde Musical chose to publish the responses anonymously, so the reader could judge the opinions more objectively. The decision must not have pleased Battistini, whose every appearance brought into play a fame earned through hard work and perseverance. After fighting so hard for what he believed in, how could he be content to remain anonymous? Had he ever been secretive about his art? Perhaps it exposed him to critical judgments that he dreaded as much as any artist, but he never tried to hide from criticism. In any case, when Le Monde Musical published a second article a month later (reprinted from Lyrica), an exception was made, and Battistini’s name was printed under the following text: The decline of singing has several causes, beyond those related to a decay in physical constitution. I am convinced that the teaching of singing as it is done in our conservatories and private schools is arbitrary and shallow. I feel it must be considered in the following three ways: (1) Technical instruction and physiological training; (2) Musical instruction; (3) General culture. It frequently occurs that singers gifted with a very beautiful voice have only a short career, because (in ninety out of a hundred cases) their general education is incomplete. They perform works without having any notion of musical theory, any understanding of the meaning of what they are singing, and, consequently, are incapable of communicating the feelings the sounds should produce. Intellectual concentration has an extraordinary influence on the vocal mechanism. When an artist sings, he must hear every sound in his mind’s ear before emitting it, on pitch and at the right volume and with the right color, so that he has only to repeat the note already produced in his head.

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Chapter 5 Breathing is an essential function when singing. Knowing how to lightly contract the muscles involved in the tension of the vocal cords, and to contract them as little as possible, whatever the length and volume of the various notes, in order to keep them vibrating freely; and to distribute the breath intelligently when forming sounds in order to attain the greatest effect with the least amount of effort—that is what young singers must learn if they wish to sing well and preserve their voice. The entire history of great artists, from Rubini to Gayarre, Masini, Tamagno, Cotogni, Patti, and Caruso, serves as proof of what I am saying. There is not one of those singers just named who did not devote years to musical education and the training of the vocal organ. I would like our young artists, who are the heirs of a glorious heritage, the tradition of Italian bel canto, to realize the truth of the quote from the Latin poet: Neque natura sine arte sufucit. May they never forget that the natural and precious gift of a voice is a capital destined to rapid decline if not sustained by the possession of a sure technique and a complete musical education, the fruits of long and intensive study.38

Battistini, in his text, urges young singers to practice, the goal being the attainment of a kind of liberating automatism rather than paying too close attention to the separate vocal mechanisms. He offers no magic recipe, nor any groundbreaking scientific discovery. He encourages the emulation of good models, which implies the ability to recognize them—not so easy, as so many young singers content themselves with imitating others’ faults as they try to attain a comparable level of artistry. Such imitation may be helpful to the extent to which one can perceive the best qualities manifested by any given voice, whether it be a note or a tone color. Theory often imposes artificial limitations on the voice. Thus, hitting a high note is compared to the act of scaling a mountain, as if it could only be reached through a heightened effort against an ever-present resistance; the exertion breeds tension. The most common analogy, that of a cord whose vibrating frequency rises in relation to how tightly it is stretched, epitomizes the kind of thinking that points the singer in the wrong direction. Battistini attributes the decline of singing to a number of things, some rather surprising. For example, he places some of the blame on “a decay in physical constitution.” He was tall and physically strong, but others before him had also been blessed with solid constitutions: Tamberlik, Tamagno. Apparently, bel canto was not an art practiced by the delicate and sickly, as romantic myth would have us believe. When Battistini deplores modern singers’ lack of education in comparison to that of singers of the past, he deliberately challenges the current general opinion and piques the reader’s awareness. The image he paints of his art

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smacks not of an artificial, hothouse style of performing. For him, if young singers want to take the trouble to understand how to use their resources to the fullest, they will succeed in attaining the goal of agility allied with strength and range, with vocal longevity as a bonus. Battistini stands by his approach, and when on other occasions he says that the quantity of sound depends on its quality, the observation invariably holds true. The remark about the importance of disciplined study (self-evident) was a point that needed to be emphasized, especially at a time when artistic instinct tended to overshadow technique (as in Podestà’s case). On another occasion Battistini said, “There is no old and modern vocal problem, just as there are no old-style and modern-style singers. Singing is singing, and singers are either good or bad.” Battistini had too often heard repeated that such and such an expressive effect in modern operas demanded a bending of the sacrosanct rules of bel canto, that technique had to be compromised in the name of dramatic interest. He wanted to reaffirm that singing is above all the emission of tone and to insist that it realize its nobility, in whatever manner it is produced. Indeed, from this perspective, the ancient versus modern question is nonexistent. Many are those who refuse to understand this philosophy, and Podestà in his manuscript grossly misquotes Battistini as having said, “I press my chest, holding my cords just so as not to prevent them from vibrating, and make my nasal cavities resonate,” when what he actually wrote was that one must be able to “feel the reverberation of the voice in the roof of the mouth and nasal cavities.” He does not say that one should sing that way but that one should be able to recognize the effect produced on the vocal timbre. In any case, his voice could not have been less “nasal,” as this remark from the Guide Musical indicates: “The first thing that strikes one upon hearing him is the extraordinary youthfulness of this sixty-year-old voice. Its purity, clarity of timbre, charming flexibility, melodic suppleness, perfect support, absence of nasality and wobble. . . . It is all irresistible, a school without rival.” Podestà’s reporting is inaccurate from the word go: Battistini never would have said, “I press my chest.” One wonders where Podestà unearthed that remark, though the misstatement slips smoothly into the legitimate quote’s “to contract [the vocal cords] as little as possible, . . . in order to keep them vibrating freely”—which, however, is not the same as Podestà’s “just so as not to prevent them from vibrating.” The two goals are different, even opposite: Battistini’s is clearly to keep the vibration free, whereas Podestà’s is to stop the tension just short of preventing vibration. The one begins where the other leaves off. Thus, Podestà turns Battistini’s advice around and makes the cause the effect! To return to what Battistini actually wrote: he firmly condemns the conservatories’ official vocal pedagogy reflecting the latest scientific discoveries.

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Two major issues related to modern vocal instruction that he calls into question are diaphragmatic support and tonal “covering.” Podestà, despite his topsy-turvy approach, helps us to understand what Battistini was getting at when he writes that “six perfect singers [De Lucia, Battistini, Ruffo, Chaliapin, Caruso, Masini] had the same shape of mouth, a very marked smile (the rictus of the ancient Greek dramatic mask), and the same kind of unexaggerated expansion of the rib-cage area when breathing—all of them using the same word when I asked them how they breathed: ‘Naturally.’” This natural approach is criticized in a nineteenth-century manual by a certain Dr. Mandl (L’hygiène de la voix, 1876) as being contrary to nature and unnecessarily fatiguing; Mandl instead advocates what he terms diaphragmatic respiration. Instead of inflating the chest and contracting and relaxing the abdomen, the chest remains motionless and the stomach inflates. The “scientific” reasons that Mandl invokes ended up convincing the authorities, and gradually the conservatories followed suit and abandoned the old method. Although Podestà observed intercostal breathing among the great singers he encountered, it seems not to have occurred to him that they might have been doing it for a reason, and that this essential aspect of their technique could not be altered without serious consequences. He did not have the courage to go against the preachings of the scientific community in favor of experience and risk being called a charlatan. He simply adopted the new data and padded the so-called progressive theory with his pronouncements on diaphragmatic respiration. Certainly, breathing is crucial in the formation of sound, shading, volume, range, and agility. In Le chant, ses principes et son histoire (Paris: Heugel, 1881), Théophile Lemaire and Henri Lavoix write: The breathing method called diaphragmatic . . . in fact seems the simplest and easiest. However, by a singular error, many professors, especially the masters who authored the method at the Conservatoire, have adopted the kind of breathing that Dr. Mandl terms clavicular, which we strongly reject. Here is what my conservatory handbook says: “It must be observed that the act of breathing for singing differs in a way from the breathing for speaking. When one breathes, to speak or simply to refill the lungs with air, the first action is that of aspiration; the abdomen expands and pushes out a bit and, then, in a second action called expiration, contracts. These two motions proceed slowly when the body is in its natural state. On the contrary, when breathing to sing, during aspiration, the abdomen must be flattened and raised with promptitude, making the chest swell and push out; during expiration, the abdomen must return to its natural state very slowly and the chest go back down accordingly, in order to conserve and use the air as long as possible.”

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Onto this subject, the masters have embroidered numerous variations, and we found, among the best teachers, those who did not hesitate to promote these deplorable doctrines, without realizing that they did not apply them in practice or that they could not apply them. G. Duca, Manstein, Garaudé, Garulli, Lablache, M. Manuel García, Mme Mainvielle-Fodor, Fétis stood by the Conservatoire’s method. Is it not amazing that so many masters and former singers were thus misled in the principles of breathing, without having attempted to determine through observation if their doctrines were in accord with nature, and without even having noticed among themselves, while singing, that the practice was at odds with the theory?

The Conservatoire’s breathing method did not in fact correspond exactly to Mandl’s “clavicular” approach described above; all depends on how one interprets the phrase “with promptitude.” It is often overlooked that the diaphragm is situated above the abdomen and that air can abundantly fill the thorax and thus be identified as thoracic or costal breath without enlarging the stomach, and without centering on the upper lungs and effecting the kind of short, high “clavicular” breathing that often causes the shoulders to rise (inappropriate for singing). One could even argue that the kind of breathing that inflates the chest and contracts the stomach makes the diaphragm function properly, whereas the kind that leaves the thoracic cavity motionless and pushes the stomach out seriously disturbs the mechanism and cannot rightly be termed diaphragmatic. It is somewhat surprising to see the authors of this tract list so many famous singers (to whom one might add the celebrated bass Pol Plançon) and solidly affirm that they did not realize they were espousing the opposite point of view by favoring the Conservatoire’s method over that of Dr. Mandl. On what grounds do they base their accusation? It should be remembered that Podestà merely claims to have observed an intercostal type of respiration among certain great singers; it was not the singers themselves who admitted as much. And when asking for advice, he describes what he witnesses as “natural” without going into much detail. It is easy to say, on the other hand, that those who defended diaphragmatic respiration in the name of science did not realize they were not putting it to practical use, or had not used it during their singing careers. After their retirement, singers commonly teach some students techniques found in textbooks in order to provide coherent, ready-made explanations, leaving matters in the hands of enlightened science. When theory does not correspond to their own practice, they sometimes humbly believe they must never have understood it or failed to apply it successfully to their art, so they resolve to be more conscientious in order to help to the maximum those who put themselves in their hands. Science exerts a strong, intimidating force.

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To return to Lemaire and Lavoix, how could they deem themselves credible by asserting, without really knowing, that all those singers emeriti employed Mandl’s breathing method? It cannot be proved that they sang badly, nor that they sang well with a breathing method so contrary to the latest discoveries. What seems more likely is that diaphragmatic respiration in singing sprang from Mandl and that, before this scientific revelation, singers (those he cites, as well as others) did not practice it. In other words, with the gradual dissemination of the new technique, the bel canto style as it was known up to then died. And yet, vestiges of it remained for a long time; toward the end of the nineteenth century, when diaphragmatic respiration had not yet supplanted the old style, certain singers observed by Podestà continued to use another, more “natural” technique. Taking a closer look at Battistini’s text, we note that he uses neither the word dark nor its quasi-synonym covered, both of which are now standard terms in modern voice teaching. Their absence would worry today’s conservatory professors and students, because for them their usage indicates an essential mechanism, conveyed by competent instruction, inculcating the belief that high notes are always “open” or light. Thus persuaded, students learn to criticize singers of the past they have never heard. However, those who go out of their way to verify the claim soon discover it to be inaccurate. Battistini provides the most eloquent evidence to the contrary: contemporary press commentary as well as his recordings indicate that the voice in no way lacked high notes, that the highs were neither shouted nor too “open,” and that they remained reliable and strong, without pronounced vibrato, throughout his career. And yet, Battistini found no need to refer to registers, the passaggio, or “covering.” Could he have solved the equation with only the terms he employed? With the thought of the correct tone and its memorization, the use of breath, and the exercise of reducing tension? Can respiration (in singing, when mastered correctly, more commonly called support) unify the registers and ensure the perfect emission of tone in the high notes? Battistini leads us to think so. Does all this constitute what he called “placement of the voice”? To the reader he seems to be Oedipus before the sphinx: the answer is too glaringly obvious to be put into words. Nor did Battistini point to pronunciation as a guideline for the young singer, because he knew that singing is above all the correct formation of the tone, whether set to a text or not. It is in fact the ability to emit all notes freely, without tension, which allows for the differentiation of syllables, vowels, and consonants in many languages. Yet one often hears preached just the opposite: namely, that pronunciation must guide the voice. Hence, we reencounter the intellectual approach to singing. The intellectual approaches singing through reflection and knowledge rather than developing his learning capacity by trust-

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ing his own instinct. He opens himself up to observation, but prefers to arm himself with his own stock of knowledge and analytical method; it is a form of protection, though a self-limiting one. To view singing on the whole as the articulation of a text results in nothing short of disaster. Is it any wonder, when that which provides the foundation of one’s obsession is relegated to the back burner? How could a text come across clearly when the very element that must carry it is unable to, because of faulty instruction? One might even see this philosophy taken one step further, in claims that the singer should stop paying attention to vocal production and be guided by emotion only, in order that the feelings ring true. This negation of technique, besides being unrealistic, removes all the dignity and justification from the true art of singing. Pronunciation is to music what realism is to painting: an exterior form that can reveal mastery or virtuosity. But remember, this sort of exact reproduction is not art in itself. How many teachers today preach that a singer must articulate clearly in order for the voice to “carry,” because it is easier for them to judge the clarity of the words than to resolve vocal problems? This is putting the carriage before the horse, turning the most essential element into a minor detail. Many believe that singers whose words don’t come across clearly are placing undue emphasis on the voice, when in fact it is precisely their vocal shortcomings (owing to a neglect of practice) that prevent them from becoming free enough to emit distinctly comprehensible syllables. Overwhelmed by their vocal problems, they give up trying to articulate. In any case, the question is not whether a beautiful voice that articulates well is admirable and desirable (the answer is obvious) but, when the result is imperfect, what the most effective means of improving it is. Before making one’s voice understood, one must learn to listen to oneself and to produce a timbre that is round, dense, clear, not easily buried by the sound of an orchestra, and that can sustain a singing line, a continuum of sound and timbre that the listener can hear and follow easily. Of course, this is a technical matter—otherwise one could sing any way one pleased. And one facet of a singer’s activity is physical, requiring a workout comparable to that of a dancer or a gymnast. The singer should never neglect the body’s role in helping to realize what the mind wills. Battistini said, “To be ready to attain the mastery of a professional and the self-confidence of an accomplished singer, one must sing every day. The wearing out of a voice is not due to constant use and too many performances, but rather to its incorrect employment and inadequately prepared assignments.”39 One contemporary observer of Battistini recalled how he was “surprised to hear him enunciate very distinctly, almost without moving his lips. When I made a remark to him about this, I had the impression that he was looking at

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me with some curiosity: ‘You saw that?’ ‘Yes, maestro . . . How can I do it?’ ‘As I do.’ After a moment of silence: ‘And how do you do it?’ ‘I just do . . .’”40 Podestà describes Battistini practicing an aria on various vowels and dynamics, like a vocalise. In other words, he did not profess to find the right interpretation by studying the words and making use of their meaning and articulation (indeed, the subject is conspicuously absent from his remarks on singing), and yet, according to his contemporaries (as if his discs were not evidence enough), his pronunciation was excellent and his expressivity as fine as it could be. For him, singing was first and foremost the production of tone, which, handled correctly, made the voice free to conquer all other challenges. It is the same logical method set forth in the old treatises, from Tosi to García. When one sings words to music, if the voice cannot be produced independent of the action of consonants, the vocal organ receives a certain shock that destroys the intensity, assurance, and liaison of the notes. As a precaution against these pitfalls, one must, among all the steps required to sing, distinguish the nature of the functions and the mode of action appropriate to each of the four principal mechanisms of the vocal apparatus.41

Knowing how to produce tone without its being adversely affected by pronunciation is a very useful concept, though one that, alas, is widely ignored! Battistini’s mastery of it produced noticeable results, as reflected in this review: “The singer’s great art is evident . . . in the clarity and crystalline purity that he gives every tone; nothing is lost on the listener, neither one word of recitative nor the nuance of one note, in spite of the warm temperament of the execution.”42 Of course, mastering the art of even pronunciation is closely linked to the ability to sustain and renew the breath, which, by creating the “column of air” of bel canto, allows the movement of the jawbone without damaging the tone. The “cushion of air” generated in the mouth softens the disparity of sound among the various vowels and permits a continuity in a place where consonants could otherwise produce breaks, while tonal emission remains free and susceptible to nuancing. In 1918, there appeared a modest volume by J. Algier titled La technique des anciens chanteurs italiens. In its preface, the author pays homage to Battistini, who inspired him to write the work, and who seems also to have contributed certain passages or whose shadow one detects behind certain remarks, as we shall see. Four years later, a British reporter announced the two Queen’s Hall recitals and reviewed the one given the month before in Paris, at the Salle Gaveau; interestingly, in his article he also mentions Algier’s work, calling it the best one devoted to the art of singing. One suspects that Battistini may have given the reporter his personal endorsement of Algier’s work (later that

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same year Battistini would write the aforementioned articles for the publications Lyrica and Le Monde Musical; hence he was undoubtedly preoccupied with matters concerning the teaching of singing technique). What follows are substantial extracts from Algier’s text touching on a number of topics discussed above, namely, a distrust of scientific progress and an advocacy of bel cantist respiration, just as Podestà observed in his “six singers.” The reader need not be intimidated by the length or the technical nature of this citation, which should be viewed as one of the rarest testimonies of an old technique lost in the wake of so-called progress. It is not to extol the ancient Italian school that moves me to write these pages, nor to celebrate the incontestable merits of the small number of living singers still carrying on its traditions. My goal is to show the benefits that can be drawn from its teachings and to contribute in whatever way I can to the revival of an art whose current state of decline is no secret to anyone. In an already distant past, when I was embarking on a study of the art of singing, vague notions of physiology had permeated most of the conservatories. Popular scientific treatises were rampant, and the word “science” on everyone’s lips. Rare were the teachers who did not pepper their lessons with a few choice anatomical terms. . . . Amid this muscular comedy, the laryngeal cartilage and muscle played but a small role, serving only to explain in broad terms the production of the voice and the mechanics of the registers. The star of the show was the diaphragm—the protagonist, the hero, the savior of the play. It must be said that, to ensure its success, it was not really known if it was advisable to push the stomach out or not. But that was of no importance; the main thing was to possess the “diaphragmatic method,” the rational method. Thus, the grossest errors took on the aspect of scientific truths. Meanwhile, the voices drifted by the wayside. . . . The conclusions I reached were meant to have formed the subject of a lengthy treatise. I was preparing to write it, when an event occurred that prompted me to condense the result of my research into a shorter work and publish it right away. It was the arrival in Paris of M. Battistini, the brilliant success of his debut at the Opéra (22 March 1917), and the renewed interest manifested by the Parisian public in the school of which this great singer is today the clearest and most faithful representative. Hence this modest text. May I offer here my warmest thanks to M. Battistini for the good grace with which he consented to facilitate my task by confirming my opinions on a few obscure points in the old treatises. . . . According to the old method, the abdominal wall remains absolutely motionless throughout the act of breathing in (inspiration). I’ll point out for the record that in this mode of respiration the raising of the thorax causes the lower abdominal wall to draw inward slightly. From the pedagogical

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Chapter 5 standpoint, I don’t believe one should make too much of this fact; the overconscientious student might be tempted to give his abdominal muscles an “activity” that is incompatible with the rule I just described. To explain: In order for a muscle to be employed with order and regularity, it is necessary that it be supported (“checked,” in a way) by a muscular action that is antagonist, which is to say, opposite. Every motion therefore involves a dynamic (positive) action and a contrary, antagonist (negative) action. If the motion is reversed, the dynamic action becomes antagonist, and the antagonist dynamic. The muscles of the abdominal wall being the functional antagonists of the diaphragm and lifters of the thorax, it follows that, during inspiration, they must contract to some extent. However, because their contraction is slight, automatic, unconscious, they have been intentionally disregarded in the above description. The idea of inactivity must be understood only in the dynamic sense. That said, we can now examine the advantages that result from these physiological circumstances: In the first place, ease in the movements of the diaphragm, since no excess antagonism impedes its mechanism; second, facility and strength in expiration, since the (dynamic) action of the abdominal muscles is devoted to it entirely. If the action of these muscles were employed the wrong way—that is to say, during inspiration—it would not only hinder the diaphragmatic mechanism but also cause a considerable loss of energy, to the detriment of expiration. It would compress the bulk of the abdominal organs, causing the singer nothing but discomfort. . . . In the year 1855 the curiosity of singing teachers was aroused by some new theories whose exposition first appeared in print in La Gazette Musicale, in an article by the Hungarian physician Dr. Mandl, and later in his book titled L’hygiène de la voix. Its guiding principal is as follows: what one must try to achieve, above all in inspiration, is a minimum of effort. The action of the thoracic muscles entail a great expense of energy. This must be avoided, but by what means? Through the employment of the abdominal approach. Of what does this respiratory approach consist? Dr. Mandl tells us: “Abdominal respiration is that which goes to the base of the thorax; it is thus called because the abdominal walls are pushed outward during inspiration, while the thorax and the shoulders remain motionless. . . . One muscle, the diaphragm, then functions; the effort expended to put it in motion is minimal, for it only involves the displacement of soft and moveable organs of the abdominal cavity. When a prolonged expiration is required for singing or speaking, the counteraction between the inspirational and expirational muscles (vocal counteraction) occurs entirely on those very organs, and the thoracic walls feel no fatigue.” These strange theories caught on and became so deeply rooted in our consciousness that they still have the force of law in numerous singing conservatories. That is why I insist on demonstrating that they are untenable, inasmuch as they are applied to the art of singing. To that end, it suffices to bring to light their incompatibility with the practical resolution of the three

Posterity cardinal issues of respiratory technique, namely: (1) to make (when necessary) an ample supply of air; (2) to prolong expiration; (3) to regulate the outflow of breath. First point: Physiology teaches us that, of the three diameters of the lung (transverse, front-to-back, and vertical), the transverse is the greatest, so much so that, with regard to the volume of air inspired, the length of this diameter cannot be compensated even by the two others combined. Which leads us to say that, to amass an ample supply of air, the most useful movement of the respiratory mechanism is the lateral expansion of the thorax. Now, this expansion (as well as front-to-back expansion) is due to the contraction of the side-lifting muscles. Second point: It is known that expiration is normally a matter of pulmonary elasticity. The lung, after having been distended by the various inspirational actions, regains its shape by virtue of the elasticity of its tissue. This elasticity tends to accelerate expiration and, consequently, to shorten its span. “When a prolonged expiration is required for singing or speaking,” the logical thing would be to counteract pulmonary elasticity with an opposite force. That force has its source only in the contraction of the thoracic muscles. Therefore, it is difficult to understand why Dr. Mandl systematically rejects their help and desperately insists on having the diaphragm and abdominal muscles do the job, engaging them in a battle whose clear outcome is the useless compression of the abdominal organs. Third point: Finally, with regard to regulating the flow of breath, one notes that this flow (particularly at the start of the sung phrase) is dependent upon the muscles of the abdominal wall. Common sense tells us that the action of these muscles should be facilitated, achieved by providing them with solid support through the immobilization of the thorax— precisely the reason for contracting the thoracic muscles, those very muscles that Dr. Mandl would just as soon ignore. That’s where the obsession with minimal effort leads. But is energy really saved when following Dr. Mandl’s recommended instructions? It may be stated unequivocally, no. In other words, they go against their intended goal. Everyone knows that repeated muscular contraction leads, after a certain length of time, to the unfortunate reaction known as “fatigue.” The amount of energy that a muscle in action can then provide is reduced. It follows that in the course of repeating a specific movement, the use of a single muscle will bring on fatigue sooner than if the task had been divided among several. Witness a stone-cutter who hammers with small rhythmic blows; you cannot tell if his effort is concentrated in the arm or in the back. This division of labor over the whole body allows even a lanky individual to work all day without too much fatigue and still achieve a considerable productivity (P. Souriau, L’esthétique du mouvement). For that, all the muscular actions need only be moving in the same direction, united in a common rhythm. This occurs in the respiratory mode advocated by the Old School, in which

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Chapter 5 not only the thoracic muscles work function in the same direction and follow a common rhythm, but the effort is divided among a large number of them, including several particularly strong ones. That is what enables many Italian singers who have reached the end of a long and busy career to meet the sometimes back-breaking challenge of a leading role.

The last image brings Battistini inevitably to mind, and young singers of today can only be struck by the immediacy of these issues, since Dr. Mandl’s “low” respiration theory is still widely taught as a kind of miracle remedy. The followers of such a practice feel so superior that they believe themselves to be in the avant-garde, like apprentice actors discovering Stanislavski. It is probably the feeling of belonging to an elite group, almost a religious sect, that makes them forget to verify whether or not this method is effective. It is said that if anyone asked Battistini how much breath he needed to sing his interminable phrases, he would have answered: “No more than what it takes to smell a rose.” It is true that when one sings one breathes through the mouth and not the nose, but Battistini does not say he proceeds in the same manner, only that he does not require enormous amounts of breath. He alludes to the lightness of the mechanism, which is quite different from the “heavy” mechanism of support from below. But respiration is not the only vital concern to the young singer. The formation of tone constitutes his main preoccupation. Algier continues his pertinent reflections: In the days before the invention of the laryngoscope, there was no real science of the larynx. The singing teacher of old would have been quite surprised to hear one speak of the thickness, thinness, gaps, or closeness of the vocal cords, as well as of the numerous types of glottises, the variety of which has so fascinated physiologists. . . . His amazement would have known no bounds had he been told that vocal tone originated at the level of the lower cords. In truth, the old teachers understood the attack of the tone quite differently. They felt it originated where it had to exist, which is to say endure, and they formulated this rule, which, in all voices without exception, whatever the vocal register: the sensation that accompanies the formation of tone must be felt simultaneously on the roof of the mouth and in the front part of the head. This made a particularly agreeable impression on the listener. The origin of the tone did not reach his ear in the form of a shock or explosion. Instead, it had the character of an eclosion, a tonal apparition, analogous to that which might be perceived upon the reprise of an aural sensation that is temporarily suspended during the execution of a single held tone. Compared to the physiological claptrap that has been disseminated on the subject of the famous coup de glotte, the intellectual foresight of these men was surely nearer to the truth than the false knowledge that has so long

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been pounded into us. For today, without being the victim of an outmoded illusion, no one doubts that at the moment the tone is attacked all sense of shock at the level of the lower vocal cords can, with any effort, be avoided—while still allowing the cords to meet. Remarkably, all laryngeal sensation, whatever the type, was considered by the Ancients to be the sign of an incorrect vocal maneuver, to be avoided at all costs. . . . Which leads us to the problem of placement of the tone. From a strictly scientific point of view, we need not concern ourselves with whether or not a definitive solution to this problem has been found. Of more importance to us is the purely practical side of the issue, relating to vocal technique. Any student who, guided by a good teacher, focuses conscientiously on a study of pure tone, free of nasality and gutturalism, ends up discovering the vocal moves necessary for making the voice sound beautiful. These moves, which differ depending on the degree of pitch or volume and according to the timbre of the tone, are accompanied by particular sensations, equally variable, localized in the mouth and in the head. This is called “placement of the tone.” These sensations, at first vague and fleeting, become fixed and precise through exercise and regular attention, the student gradually becoming more sensitive to them. Once they become clearly tangible, they represent for the singer the criterion for handling his voice. . . . The singer must keep two kinds of facts in mind. On the one hand, physical facts: the pitch, the volume, the timbre of the tones. On the other, a sense of their placement. A correlation exists between these two types of facts: given the vocal tone of whatever pitch, volume, and timbre, the seat of placement rises every time one moves (1) up a tone; (2) to a lesser volume; (3) to a higher vowel. In the vowel series [i],[e],[E],[a], for example, the [i] is the highest. The seat of placement lowers as one approaches the [a]. One realizes this as one sings these vowels in succession, on any one note chosen at random, preferably at mid-range. And if your student complains that this rule is too general, too flexible, here is what you must tell him: It is precisely because of its general nature, its flexibility, and because it eschews fixed points of placement corresponding to predetermined tones, that this rule can be adapted to any vocal individuality. It is not an immediate cure-all, even for singing the simplest phrase; it is no substitute for hard work. It merely helps you to analyze the relationships that exist among the vocal facts that present themselves to your observation—relationships that, once identified, will allow you later to control how you handle your voice and to acquire that rare gift: the evenness of the voice.

Angelo Masini (1844–1926), a colleague of Battistini’s in the first part of his career and (according to the critics) a great influence on him, was considered

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one of the leading bel canto tenors of his time. Battistini refers to him in two of his articles as a model, as does Podestà. Masini summed up his singing technique with the formula: “One must sing like this:  and not like this: .” One must imagine, to understand these arrows, the profile of a singer turned to the left as for example in the drawing of Battistini by Andersen, 1925. I agree with this image, which is the opposite of what is frequently taught today. Masini’s first arrow produces a relaxation, a dilatation, not a precise spot for the tone to lean or exert pressure on, one might say an inward flow of air. Whoever strives to push the voice outward while singing produces, according to the same principle, a corresponding tension in reverse, a laryngeal tightening. Those who never discover this truth, instinctively at least, have no career ahead of them. The act of singing is a paradox, a mirror image concept. Sonky (Théorie de la musique vocale, 1911) indicates an upward movement toward the roof of the mouth, as reflector, analogous to that of Masini. Indeed, there was for a long time a saying that advised anyone who wanted to sing high or loud to proceed like an archer pulling his arrow very far back. The current way of thinking, which invariably depicts singing as a sort of rationed expiration, is incompatible with the notion that the best way to control and minimize expiration is to engage in the opposite procedure, inspiration, resulting in laryngeal relaxation, pharyngeal expansion, and raising of the soft palate. Thus, Félia Litvinne’s phrase that “one must sing in the lid and not in the jar” falls directly in the line of bel canto tradition—a difficult concept for singers trained in the modern scientific method to comprehend. Those who focus their attention on what happens in the throat might wrongly think that Litvinne is advising them to lighten the voice or to opt for the head register. In fact, they may have been taught in all seriousness that to sing louder or higher, subglottal tension must be increased. Fatal error! Because it is easier to increase one’s factual knowledge than to develop one’s artistic sensibility and good judgment, many young singers content themselves with following academic instructions and breathing from the diaphragm, singing from the throat, and resorting to various tricks to disguise the passaggio, if only to avoid tackling the more complicated question of whether or not these procedures are beneficial. It is true that the singer cannot hear himself, but he can make a recording of his voice and compare his singing to that of “good models,” and, by imitation, try to comprehend what to do and how to do it. Of course, one must have already attained a certain level of proficiency to be able to profit from such self-listening and to be able to understand the meaning of the approaches cited above.

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THE LAST VESTIGES OF BEL CANTO In the 1940s, there appeared a book by Victor Andréossy titled L’esprit du chant: Essai sur la philosophie de l’art du chant. Its author, without claiming to possess the accomplished vocal skill of certain great singers, gives them credit for their thoughts on their profession; however, he draws on some of their opinions to criticize the intrusion of scientific knowledge into the realm of singing. Everything indicates that singers sang better in the Age of Ignorance. Therefore it must be believed that the singing teachers of yore based their knowledge on principles other than those on which our contemporary specialists draw. But what were those principles? Were they ever formally set down, and is there any trace of them? If they had been explicitly recorded in the form of strict rules, it is certain they would have come down to us. Such is not the case, however. The truth is that they were never set down as rules, because the very essence of singing naturally eludes any written transcription. That being the case, it clearly would appear that this art cannot be taught in the way modern pedagogues intend it to be. It only belongs to a particular type of education, one that essentially evokes and develops what the potential singer carries within himself. This education is hermetic, and, as such, it calls on virtues foreign to the science. It is a matter of the spirit.43

How can Andréossy claim there are no traces of the principles of bel canto? Was he totally unaware of the advice by Masini, Litvinne, and others (cited above)? It is more likely that he did not understand the meaning of their advice, no matter how precise their descriptions, which, in their quaintly poetic way, are more useful than dry textbook prose. It must not be assumed that bel canto boils down to a mysterious dream; it really involves a concrete vocal method that effectively develops a singer’s endurance, range, and agility. In his book, Andréossy quotes a conversation he had with Battistini at the Grand-Théâtre in Genève in March of 1921, when the baritone told him: “In the old days, they wrote little and sang a lot. Today, they write a lot and sing less and less.”44 Andréossy does not approach the subject of singing from the standpoint of an artist, but his passion for the art being deep, it is interesting to have a look at a sample of what he has to say about it. The problem of the larynx: For the majority of singing teachers, this is the crucial point of their instruction. We know that opinions are extremely divided on this subject. There are, so to speak, as many opinions as there are

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Chapter 5 methods of singing. Each claims to be correct and to deny the validity of all others. It must be emphasized . . . that the so-called scientific methods are just as uncertain as the others. Nevertheless, among the various formulated opinions, two distinct tendencies stand out. One of them, advocated by the majority, in a way amounts to the official thesis. The other, generally ignored, attacks the classic dogma head-on. The first one expresses the notion that the voice is formed by the breath vibrating in contact with the vocal cords. The second is that it is formed by the breath itself resonating against the walls of the mouth and the brain cavity. As for us, we do not hesitate to say we favor the second method, for it really involves a method, which is to say, a manner of doing, and not a physiological law. However, the laryngologist is not wrong in affirming that the vocal cords are the principal organ of the voice. In nature, that’s how things actually work. But singing, real singing, goes beyond nature. It is the business of art. Now, the distinguishing role of art is precisely to make up for the deficiencies of nature or to challenge it in response to a need of the spirit. In such circumstances, it involves creating sounds that nature does not produce. Physiological conditions are from that moment modified. In practice, the perfection of the singing implies a certain quality of timbre attained only when the vocal cords are not brought into play. The larynx being placed low and the glottal lips apart, this position is maintained during expiration. Thus the breath expelled from the lungs passes freely from the trachea into the pharynx to fill the various oral and nasal cavities, where, vibrating under the effect of its own pressure, it constitutes a tone. This is the column of air Caruso refers to. It is the principle on which the art of whistling is based. And Caruso, who was an excellent whistler, did not neglect this stimulating exercise to develop and discipline his breathing—an empirical approach that he used to his advantage. Indeed, it is free from all glottal vibration that air passes through the lips to be transformed into whistling. This state of absolute purity, indispensable to the function it must perform, shows that the vocal cords have let it pass unscathed, hence they were separated. Besides, it is just as easy to whistle breathing in as it is breathing out. In both cases, the glottal-laryngeal position is the same. . . . However, such is the effect of nature, that this position seems impossible and arbitrary when the question of singing arises. Instinctively we are induced to localize the mental sound in the larynx and to pinch the throat as soon as we wish to emit a sung note. But, as we said, what is natural is not art. The purer, the more harmonious and velvety the sound, the less it is sullied with glottal resonance. Between the raucous speech of primitive people and free song there is a difference in quality which goes from physical matter to spiritual thought, from the “too human” to stylized humanity through art. It is the symphonic voice, that victory of mind over body,

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incomprehensible to the common man, but delectable to the true musician. Very few singers achieve it. . . .45

Andréossy gives no names here, but from the singers he refers to elsewhere in his book it is easy to guess which ones he was thinking of, and they are indeed exceptional: Lilli Lehmann, Faure . . . and Battistini. Still, his book would be of little value were it not for the occasional word of wisdom that emerges between the lines. In his effort to rid singing of the scientific deadlock, Andréossy goes too far. There was no need to bring the spiritual into play, with its intangible and subjective implications; it would have sufficed to state that the individual singer commands his body through the physical sensations and the performance that his senses provide him—and therein lies the difference between that which occurs involuntarily and that which is willfully achieved. Andréossy quite rightly points out that he is expressing a way of looking at an issue that aims for a practical method of singing that the singer can use to exploit his potential. He is not concerned with proving or disproving scientific findings. Nevertheless, some of his comments need to be clarified. For example, instead of mentioning the vibration of the breath against the roof of the mouth, it seems more correct to say that it is the volume of air breathed in that increases resonance. Andréossy is right in his description of “glottal lips apart” and “vocal cords . . . not brought into play,” for that is how the singer will feel it. He is absolutely correct to point out that the act of inspiration is crucial, but he should not recommend keeping the throat in the position of inspiration during the expiratory phase of singing, or imply that the breath is violently expelled. Expiration must not be willfully forced, but reduced enough to facilitate the contrary act of inspiration. Too much stiffness is likely to generate tension and produce a veiled or bellowed tone, similar to that which results from adjoining the vocal cords and pushing air out, a procedure found in so many “rational” treatises. When he speaks of whistling while inhaling or exhaling he is not far from the mark, but he does not go into enough detail. He instinctively senses the correlation between throaty singing and vulgarity or savagery, as well as the sublime nature of bel canto (he uses the terms “pure” and “harmonious”), but he fails to develop these points further. Nonetheless, this text is perhaps the last literary vestige of a forgotten art. It sheds light on some topics, only to leave other important issues in the shadows. What more can one expect from a text published at a time when subjectivism had so profoundly affected the art? Soon the singer would think of his sound as something very inward and personal, produced for himself rather than for the space it must fill in an auditorium; likewise would he concern himself with intimately experiencing the emotion of the character, wrongly believing it to be the only way to share it with an audience.

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* * * After having read this book, readers will surely have found one or more explanations for the neglect into which Battistini has now fallen. One reason for what can only be termed ingratitude must stem, ironically, from the fact that Battistini’s accomplishment went beyond excellent singing; his artistry was sovereign, unique. Hence all the anecdotes we have seen in this book illustrating the power of the artist, stories stretched to the point of pure fabrication. Undeniably, Battistini disturbs certain intellectuals who think they can impose their own values on the artist. They sense the threat he poses from the liberal spirit that shines through his artistry. Many probably fear that his example might inspire the singer of tomorrow to free himself in matters of style, for example, by encouraging him to exercise his interpretive powers to the extent that the music seems to become his own. Our era is in fact torn between an obsession with performing music exactly as written and the desire to hear fresh, “clean sweep” interpretations. One need only look at how conductors and stage directors refer to an opera they are putting together: one claims to have no other purpose in mind but selfeffacement in the presence of the score (implying that his version is the correct one), while his colleague prides himself on reinventing the work in accordance with contemporary values. Battistini leads us in a third direction, where the assimilation of tradition allows for a revitalization, an extension, a blossoming of the self. He makes us think about what singers of the past can teach us. Moreover, every singer achieves the fulfillment of his art thanks to the emulation of a model that allows him to conceive, evaluate, and perfect what he does. For that, he has to be familiar with the work of other singers. But since the dawn of the preceding century, ears have burned with the desire to shatter idols and drag art into the street. We are no longer sure what trends we advocate, and we even believe that in so behaving we have managed to preserve our freedom of choice. No wonder we identify more with the sordid than the sublime. The field of singing is merely the most obvious example of a devastation taken to extreme. Now, to develop his vocal resources, a singer must refine his analytical powers and sharpen his reflexes, in order to distinguish the bad from the good and know which direction to take. A singer’s artistry makes him great, but so does the influence he exerts on those who follow in his footsteps. He cannot ignore this facet of his work, and Battistini indeed proved his sense of responsibility in this regard. Certainly, each era and each individual is equally responsible for the role models they choose for themselves and relate to; nevertheless, there are good influences and bad influences, and it is only too obvious that trying to imitate certain famous singers whose voices do not allow one to hear clearly what should be heard and cultivated (for whatever reason) constitutes something less than progress, whether in terms of technique or in terms of subtlety of interpretation.

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One should also beware of imitating singers whose careers were short, no matter how appealing their voices; one should keep in mind that by emulating them one runs the risk of sliding quicker into the abyss that engulfed them, even before having reached their level. So many young students, carried away by “dark timbres,” try to lower the voice, thinking they can obtain similar results. They do not realize that in doing so they are cutting their strength in half, at a period in their lives when it is unusual to have so much to spare. Nor do they notice a loss of agility and nuance, or that they are compromising their high notes. Every voice is unique, but the mechanism that produces it is the same, at least when it involves singing in the bel canto style. Undoubtedly, the generation of singers after Battistini, or more precisely, of those who began their vocal studies while he was still performing, was particularly rich in baritone voices: Amato, Ancona, Danise, De Luca, Galeffi, Giraldoni, Granforte, Ruffo, Sammarco, Scotti, Stracciari, Tagliabue, Viglione-Borghese, and so on. Battistini offers a standard that can only inspire the young singer to develop his potential without compromising, without cheating. He can open ears to possibilities unknown to dark voices, for not only its timbre but also the handling of the voice differs from what one is taught these days (and no one who listens to his records can deny it). If Battistini is not the only singer who can do this, he is certainly one of the finest examples one might point to. Clearly, his reputation and his singing (thankfully, preserved on records) should not be the objects of blind worship, but of practical instruction.

NOTES 1. See Mario Tiberti in Il Musicista, 14 November 1942. 2. Terziani taught composition and voice at the Accademia di Santa Cecilia in Rome after 1875. 3. See Francesco Palmegiani, Mattia Battistini: Il re dei baritoni (Milan: Stampa d’Oggi, 1949), 9. 4. Mustafà was known for his ethereal piano, which he taught to his students. Emma Calvé, who studied with him for a time, always said it took her years of practice to master it. It can be heard on her recording of “Ma Lisette,” for example, and Battistini left numerous examples—such as the high A-flat in “Errar sull’ampio mar” or the F-sharp in “Ah! non mi ridestar.” Whether or not he was directly influenced by Mustafà’s vocal aesthetic, Battistini seems to have kept in touch with the castrato, who in 1898 sent him a photograph of himself and Verdi, dedicating it “to the celebrated lyric artist Mattia Battistini, in token of esteem and admiration.” 5. L’Arpa di Bologna, 16 March 1879.

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6. Rivista Independente, 21 March 1880. 7. La Roumanie, 10 November 1899. 8. Le Courrier Musical, March 1917. 9. Weekly Dispatch, 19 June 1887. 10. The World, 22 June 1887. 11. Illustrated London News, 25 July 1875. 12. George Bernard Shaw, “Jean de Reszke’s Otello,” The World, 22 July 1891; and “Faust and Ancient Instruments,” The World, 28 May 1890. 13. Battistini, in Listok (Odessa), 1 March 1904. 14. Sergei Yurevich Levik, The Levik Memoirs: An Opera Singer’s Notes, trans. Edward Morgan (London: Symposium, 1995). 15. “To Be or Not to Be a Monk—The Battistini Question,” Musical America, 7 May 1927, 9. 16. See J. B. Steane, Voices: Singers and Critics (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1993), 88; and booklet essay by Boris Semeonoff, for Great Singers at La Scala CD (Nimbus NI 7858). 17. See Charles Tenroc, Le Courrier Musical, 15 January 1918. 18. Remember that today, to take advantage of the wider dynamic range of modern engineering processes, a voice is recorded not necessarily at its true volume, but in proportion to the distance between its loudest and softest extremes. Thus, on one’s home stereo a small voice can sound louder than it is in real life, just as a harpsichord miked at a higher level than a symphony orchestra can sound louder than the orchestra. 19. Professor E. Olkhovsky, introduction to the Russian translation of Mattia Battistini by Francesco Palmegiani (Moscow: Muzyka, 1966), 11. 20. Ary Moiseyevich Pazovsky, A Conductor’s Notes (Moscow, 1966), 348. There is little doubt that the “respected colleague” to whom Battistini refers was Titta Ruffo. 21. Pazovsky, A Conductor’s Notes. 22. Olkhovsky, introduction to Mattia Battistini, 9. 23. Levik, Memoirs. 24. Stowo, 26 March 1896. 25. Kalbeck, Neues Wiener Tageblatt, 8 June 1910. 26. Interview in Morning Post, 10 May 1923. 27. Pierre Lalo, Le Temps, 16 April 1917. 28. An exception is Desmond Shawe-Taylor, who observes that “compared with other [early-twentieth-century] Italian singers, [Battistini] was extremely restrained” (“Mattia Battistini,” Opera 8, no. 5 [May 1957]). 29. Mario Podestà, unpublished reminiscences. Podestà did in fact study with De Lucia. When he returned to Paris in 1921, the progress he had made influenced his classmate Georges Thill to audition for Battistini, then in Nice. As we have seen above, Battistini advised Thill to go to Naples, too. 30. Podestà, unpublished reminiscences. 31. Levik, A Quarter of a Century in Opera. 32. Podestà, unpublished reminiscences. 33. Podestà, unpublished reminiscences. 34. Lyrica, October 1922.

Posterity

313

35. Jean-Baptiste Faure, La voix et le chant (1886). 36. Georges Didsbury, article in La Rééducation Auditive-Vocale-Respiratoire. 37. R. Husson, The Singer’s Voice:A Study of the Main Physiological and Acoustical Phenomena of a Singer’s Voice (Moscow, 1974). 38. Battistini, in Le Monde Musical, December 1922. 39. Battistini, quoted by Olkhovsky, introduction to Mattia Battistini. Olkhovsky adds that Battistini had mastered one of the greatest secrets of bel canto, which consisted of avoiding singing di fibra, that is to say, without overloading the timbre or pushing the voice, thus allowing maximum sonority and resonance. 40. Nick Tzico, Le lexique du chanteur. 41. Manuel García, Nouveau traité de l’art du chant (1863). 42. Gazette (Kiev), 27 March 1902. 43. Victor Andréossy, L’esprit du chant: Essai sur la philosophie de l’art du chant (Genève: Perret-Gentil, 1942; reprint: Editions d’aujourd’hui, 1979), preface, 10–11. 44. Andréossy, L’esprit du chant, 52. 45. Andréossy, L’esprit du chant, 193–96.

Postscript Liza Mrosovsky-Shaw

It is a privilege to be asked to contribute this postscript to the English trans-

lation of Jacques Chuilon’s wonderful book about Mattia Battistini. A great deal of complex and unusual source material has been gathered together and set out in an accessible way. There are many searching comments on the nature of art in general and opera in particular. The last part of the book combines a scholarly treatise on voice production with, as it were, a bel canto master class on paper, offering Battistini’s recordings as “live” illustrations. Music critics of today would do well to seek inspiration from the reviewers of Battistini’s time. They wrote with such deep musical appreciation and enthusiasm, discussing how favorite arias were sung (detailing even individual notes), referring to the composer’s score, assessing the acting, and evoking the audience’s reaction, at each particular performance. As for Battistini himself, he leaps from the pages of the book, in gorgeous costume, singing gloriously! It is a pleasure, too, for me, as Battistini’s granddaughter, to set down some hitherto not generally known facts about Battistini’s private life. Given the adulation that Battistini received in Russia, it is only human that he should have formed a relationship with a young “admiratrice.” Her name was Varvara Grigorievna Kovalensky (1878–1946), the youngest child of Catherine Pompeievna Schabelsky (1835–1912) and Lieutenant General Grigori Grigoreivich Kovalensky (1820–1884), of the Mizhegozadsky Dragoons (awarded the Order of St. Vladimir second class for distinguished service at the Siege of Kars in 1878). In January 1900, Varvara had a son, Petya (1900–1972), who was accepted as Battistini’s child by Battistini himself and by Varvara’s family. However, marriage was impossible, as Battistini, already married and a devout Catholic, could not divorce his wife. 315

316

Postscript

Nevertheless, for ten years Petya’s parents remained in contact, cooperating especially over their son’s religious upbringing as a Catholic. Battistini had decided as early as 1902 that Petya, from age seven until entering university, must go to the Collegio Nazareno, a residential school in Rome run by monks. Battistini had strict views on child rearing, influenced by his involvement in the upbringing of his many nephews, an attitude consistent with his extremely disciplined approach to his singing. Until 1907, Varvara was free to travel with Petya from Russia, as she did, extensively, mostly in Italy and Sicily. She was accompanied by her then (or future?) husband, Vladimir Pavlovich Mrosovsky, a mechanical engineer turned landscape painter from St. Petersburg. Vladimir’s uncle, Iosif Ivanovich Mrosovsky, was military governor of Moscow at the time of the 1917 revolution, and is mentioned both by Nicholas II and by Alexandra in their correspondence, and also by Leon Trotsky in his History of the Russian Revolution. Vladimir’s sister, Helene de Mrosovsky, was a successful society photographer in St. Petersburg, her sitters including, for example, the ballerina Matilda Felixovna Kshessinskaya and the composer Rimsky-Korsakov (a distant relative of the Schabelskys). In 1907, Petya duly entered the Collegio Nazareno under the name of Pietro Kovalensky. Both his parents visited him, though separately and probably infrequently. Varvara, who was often in Russia, sent many affectionate postcards to her son in Rome. However, in the summer of 1910, when Varvara visited, she found Petya in the sanatorium, very ill. She impulsively removed him, for good, and Battistini broke off relations with her, never seeing her or Petya again. Battistini believed his son’s future was hopeless unless he was brought up a Catholic. Despite their quarrel, in the 1920s Varvara and Battistini resumed correspondence and were reconciled. By that time, Vladimir Mrosovsky had perished in St. Petersburg in the revolution, Varvara had emigrated to America, and Petya, now known as Peter Mrosovsky, had attended a liberal boarding school in England, graduated from Cambridge University, become a British citizen, and gotten a job with an oil company. Although Battistini never publicly acknowledged his son, he left him a sum of money in his will. Peter eventually received this legacy after other beneficiaries had unsuccessfully contested the will in the Italian courts. Peter married and had five children, creating the family life that he had never had as a child himself. His voice, though musically totally untrained, was lovely. His children can remember especially his rendering of “Vittoria, Vittoria!” Peter was also exceptionally photogenic and an excellent mimic. There exist now numerous descendants of Battistini, some of whom show modest musical talent, but, so far, that golden voice has not recurred.

Appendix Mattia Battistini Chronology Thomas G. Kaufman

T

his chronology, incomplete as it is, would not have been possible without the help and cooperation of friends and colleagues all over the world. These include the author of this title, Jacques Chuilon; Elsa Boscardini of Rieti; Francisco Bueno of Valencia; Brubo Cagnoli of Terni; Alfred De Cock of Brussels; Nino Dentici of Bilboa; Andrew Farkas of Jacksonville; Giorgio and Valeria Gualerzi of Turin; Stanley Henig of Lancaster, England; Lim Lai of San Francisco; Carlo Marinelli of Rome; Antonio Massissimo of Mataro; Kornel Michalowski of Poznan; Mario Moreau of Lisbon; Andrés Moreno of Seville; François Nouvion of Houston; Mariola Szydlowska of Czestochowa, Poland; and many others. In the following list, a single asterisk denotes a local (city) premiere, while double asterisks denote a world premiere. Standard abbreviations include s. for soprano, ms. for mezzo-soprano, t. for tenor, b. for baritone, bs. for bass, and cond. for conductor. Exact dates or exact numbers of a series of performances are only given where there is certainty. Spring 1878, Rome: Palazzo Pericoli June 13?

Concert

Spring 1878, Rieti: Chiesa San Francesco June 13?

Concert

317

318

Appendix

Summer 1878, Bagnorea (Viterbo): Chiesa San Bonaventura July 13 July 15

Concert Concert

Summer 1878, Rieti: Chiesa-Cattedrale Aug. 25

Religious concert

Autumn 1878, Chiaravalle Sept. Sept.

Concert Concert

Autumn 1878, Rome:Teatro Argentina Nov. 9

La favorita

Nov. 26

Il trovatore

Dec. 11

Concert

Galletti-Gianoli ms. Rossetti t. Pinto bs. Mancinelli cond. Colonna s. Galletti-Gianoli ms. Rossetti t. Pinto bs. Mancinelli cond.

Carnival 1878–1879, Ferrara:Teatro Tosi-Borghi Jan. 25

La forza del destino

Feb. 18

Rigoletto

Pierangeli s. Zani ms. Franchini t. Ciccotti bs. Sangiorgi cond. Pierangeli s. Zani ms. Franchini t. Sangiorgi cond.

Winter 1879, Ferrara: Accademia Filarmonica (Concurrent with the season at the Teatro Tosi-Borghi) Feb. 7

Concert

Lent 1879, Bologna:Teatro Brunetti Mar. 16

La forza del destino

Apr. 2

Ruy Blas

Bonal s. De Sparta ms. Lestellier t. Gasperini bs. Cimini cond. Bonal s. De Sparta ms. Giraud t. Cimini cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

319

Spring 1879, Chieti:Teatro Maruccino Apr. 22

Il Guarany

May 7

**L’Assedio di Cesarea (G. Persiani)

Creny s. Giraud t. Paoletti bs. Mancinelli cond. Creny s. Zanchi ms. Giraud t. Paoletti bs. Mancinelli cond.

Summer 1879, Perugia:Teatro Morlacchi July 15

Gli Ugonotti

Aug. 29 Sept. 10

Dinorah Concert

Fossa s. Ortisi t. Giraudet bs. Viviani bs. Mancinelli cond. Rinaldi s. Signoretti t.

Autumn 1879, Rome: Casa Maglioni Nov. 30

Concert

Carnival and Spring 1879–1880, Rome:Teatro Apollo Dec. 27

Gli Ugonotti

I puritani Feb. 26

Lucia di Lammermoor

Apr. 4

Lohengrin

Apr. 29

Sardanapolo

Turolla s. Boronat s. Synnerberg ms. Stagno t. Nannetti bs. Roveri bs. Mancinelli cond. Dalty s. Stagno t. Roveri bs. Mancinelli cond. Dalty s. Ambrosi t. Roveri bs. Mancinelli cond. Giovannoni-Zacchi s. Bonheur ms. Stagno t. Roveri bs. Mancinelli cond. Boronat s. Synnerberg ms. Celada t. Mancinelli cond.

Spring 1880, Ravenna:Teatro Alighieri May 16

L’Africana

May 23

Concert

Theodorini s. Ricci s. Guardenti t. Fiorini bs. Antonietti cond.

320

Appendix

Spring 1880,Trento:Teatro Sociale June 14?

Aida

Gabbi s. Theodorini ms. Guardenti t. Bedogni bs.

Autumn 1880, Florence:Teatro Pagliano Oct.

L’Africana

Dec. 2 Dec. 14

Ernani Concert

D’Angeri s. (later Tabacchi s.) Varesi s. Tamagno t. (later D’Avanzo t.) Visconti bs. Pierangeli s. D’Avanzo t.

Autumn 1880, Florence: Societa Filarmonica (Concurrent with the season at the Teatro Pagliano) Dec. 3

Concert

Carnival 1880–1881,Turin:Teatro Regio Dec. 26

**La Regina di Nepal

Jan. 6

Rigoletto

Mar. 3

Lucia di Lammermoor

Turolla s. Rambelli ms. Patierno t. Navarrini bs. Pedrotti cond. Leria s. Rambelli ms. Runcio t. Navarrini bs. Bordato s. Vergnet t. (later D’Avanzo t.) Navarrini bs.

Spring and Summer 1881, Buenos Aires:Teatro Colon May 21

Ruy Blas

May 24

La favorita

June 1

L’Africana

June 14

Aida

June 26

Gli Ugonotti

Giunti-Barbera s. Visconti ms. Clodio t. Visconti bs. Bassi cond. Leavington ms. Clodio t. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Boronat s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Giunti-Barbera s. Leavington ms. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Boronat s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

July 13

La forza del destino

321

Borghi-Mamo s. Leavington ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

Summer and Autumn 1881, Rio de Janeiro:Teatro Pedro II Aug. 17

L’Africana

Aug. 29

Aida

Sept.

Rigoletto

Sept. 12

Gli Ugonotti

Sept. 19

La forza del destino

Oct. 12

Il Guarany

Borghi-Mamo s. Boronat s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Leavington ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Dalti s. Clodio t. (later Tamagno t.) Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Boronat s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Leavington ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

Autumn 1881, Sao Paulo:Teatro Sao Jose Nov. 5

*L’Africana

Nov. 6 Nov. 15

Rigoletto Il trovatore

Nov. 19

Il Guarany

Nov. 29

Gli Ugonotti

Borghi-Mamo s. Dalti s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Dalti s. Tamagno t. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Visconti ms. Tamagno t. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Dalti s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

Spring and Summer 1882, Buenos Aires:Teatro Colon Mar. 5

Il Guarany

Borghi-Mamo s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

322

Appendix

Mar. 21

L’Africana

Mar. 26

Il trovatore

Mar. 28

La forza del destino

Apr. 19

Aida

May 3

Faust

May 24

Ernani

June 1

Gli Ugonotti

July 8

La traviata

Borghi-Mamo s. Bordato s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Rambelli ms. Tamagno t. Visconti bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Rambelli ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Rambelli ms. (later Scalchi ms.) Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Marconi t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borelli s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Gargano s. Scalchi ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borelli s. Tamagno t. Bassi cond.

Summer and Autumn 1882, Rio de Janeiro:Teatro Pedro II Aug. 21 Aug. 25

La traviata Gli Ugonotti

Sept. 4

La forza del destino

Sept. 9

Faust

Sept. 11

Aida

Sept. 16

Rigoletto

Sept. 26

L’Africana

Oct. 11

Il Guarany

Borelli s. Tamagno t. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Gargano s. Scalchi ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Visconti bs. Bassi cond. Borelli s. Rambelli ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Gargano s. Scalchi ms. Marconi t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borelli s. Scalchi ms. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Gargano s. Marconi t. Visconti bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond. Borghi-Mamo s. Tamagno t. Castelmary bs. Bassi cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Oct. 20

La favorita

323

Scalchi ms. Marconi t. Visconti bs. Bassi cond.

Autumn and Winter 1882–1883, Madrid:Teatro Real Dec. 18

La favorita

Jan. 8

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mei-Figner ms. Lestellier t. Rapp bs. Goula cond. Donadio s. Masini t. Nannetti bs. Fiorini bs. Goula cond.

Spring 1883, Seville:Teatro San Fernando Mar. 27 Mar. 31

La traviata Il barbiere di Siviglia

Apr. 15

I puritani

Gargano s. Stagno t. Perez cond. Gargano s. Stagno t. Uetam bs. Carbone bs. Perez cond. Gargano s. Stagno t. Uetam bs. Perez cond.

Spring and Summer 1883, London: Covent Garden May 8

I puritani

May 15

Il trovatore

May 21 June 18

La favorita Lohengrin

June 19

La traviata

Sembrich s. Marconi t. De Reszke bs. Bevignani cond. Lucca s. Tremelli ms. Mierzwinski t. Bevignani cond. Tremelli ms. Marconi t. Albani s. Fursch-Madi ms. Maas t. De Reszke bs. Bevignani cond. Patti s. Nicolini t. Dupont cond.

Summer 1883, London: Guildhall July 9

Concert

Autumn and Winter 1883–1884, Madrid:Teatro Real Oct. 20

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Oct. 25

Poliuto

Gargano s. Masini t. Nannetti bs. Goula cond. Valda s. Bulterini t. Perez cond.

324

Appendix

Nov. 2

L’Africana

Nov. 7

Rigoletto

Dec. 1

Gli Ugonotti

Dec. 15 Dec. 20

La traviata La favorita

Jan. 13 Jan. 24

Ernani Crispino e la comare

Mar. 2

Linda di Chamonix

Mar. 11

Martha

Theodorini s. Gini-Pizzorni s. Masini t. Nannetti bs. Goula cond. Valda s. (later Gargano s.) Borghi ms. Masini t. Goula cond. Theodorini s. Gargano s. Masini t. Nannetti bs. Goula cond. Gargano s. Masini t. Goula cond. Borghi ms. (later Mazzoli-Orsini ms.) Rossetti t. (later Masini t.) Nannetti bs. Perez cond. Andreef s. Bertini t. Vecchioni bs. Gargano s. Cabrero ms. Rossetti t. Nannetti bs. Gargano s. Borghi ms. Hernaiz t. Nannetti bs. Gargano s. Borghi ms. Engel t. Fiorini bs.

Spring 1884,Turin:Teatro Regio Apr. 27

La favorita

May 14

I puritani

Pasqua ms. Gayarre t. Silvestri bs. Faccio cond. Repetto-Trisolini s. Gayarre t. Silvestri bs. Faccio cond.

Autumn and Winter 1884–1885, Madrid:Teatro Real Nov.

Rigoletto

Nov. 13

Faust

Nov. 25

La favorita

Nov. 26

Amleto

Fons s. (later Devries s.) Masini t. Pomé cond. Devries s. (later Bulicioff s.) Rambelli A. Masini (later L. Signoretti t.) Silvestri bs. Perez cond. Pasqua ms. Masini t. (later Anton t.) Rapp bs. Devries s. (later Cocetina s.) Mariani ms. Silvestri bs. Pomé cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Dec. 17

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Dec. 25

Lucia di Lammermoor

Jan. 9 Feb. 7

La traviata L’Elisir d’Amore

Feb. 19

Crispino e la comare

Feb. 28

**Baldassare (Villate)

Mar. 17

Ernani

Apr. 9

Maria di Rohan

Apr. 20

Linda di Chamonix

325

Fons s. Masini t. Baldelli bs. Rapp bs. Perez cond. Sembrich s. Signoretti t. Povoleri bs. Pomé cond. Sembrich s. Masini t. Pomé cond. Theodorini s. Masini t. Baldelli bs. Pomé cond. Theodorini s. Silvestri bs. Baldelli bs. Perez cond. Theodorini s. Masini t. Silvestri bs. Pomé cond. Theodorini s. Masini t. Baldelli bs. Perez cond. Mantilla s. Rambelli ms. Lombardi t. Perez cond. Lodi s. Lombardi t. Silvestri bs. Baldelli bs. Pomé cond.

Autumn 1885, Florence:Teatro Nuovo Oct. 8

Maria di Rohan

Bulicioff s. Garulli t.

Autumn 1885, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Oct. 31

Ernani

Nov. 12

Maria di Rohan

Nov. 19

Un ballo in maschera

Nov. 28

Rigoletto

Cattaneo s. Sani t. Wulmann bs. Mascheroni cond. Bulicioff s. De Luttichau ms. Pasquali t. Mascheroni cond. Cattaneo s. Colonnese s. De Luttichau ms. Sani t. Mascheroni cond. Lary-Valero s. De Luttichau ms. Valero t. Wulmann bs. Mascheroni cond.

Winter 1886, Paris:Theatre Italien Battistini was engaged to sing at the Theatre Italien, but the season was cancelled.

326

Appendix

Spring 1886, Naples:Teatro San Carlo Mar. 24

La favorita

Apr. 7

Il barbiere di Siviglia

De Giuli ms. Anton t. Navarrini bs. Gialdini cond. Lodi s. Stagno t. Maini bs. Gialdini cond.

Summer 1886, Madesimo (Sondrio) Aug. 8

Concert

Autumn and Winter 1886–1887, Madrid:Teatro Real Oct. 2 Oct. 13

Oct. 16

Dec. 8 Dec. 28 Jan. 12

Jan. 20 Feb. 24

Guglielmo Tell

Perez s. Tamagno t. Uetam bs. Mancinelli cond. Aida Kupfer-Berger s. Pasqua ms. Tamagno t. Silvestri bs. Mancinelli cond. Faust Kupfer-Berger s. Oxilia t. (later Gayarre t.) Uetam bs. Perez cond. Linda di Chamonix De Vere Sapio s. De Lucia t. Uetam bs. Perez cond. Il barbiere di Siviglia Gargano s. De Lucia t. Uetam bs. Baldelli bs. Perez cond. *La Regina di Saba (Goldmark) Kupfer-Berger s. Pasqua ms. Gayarre t. Silvestri bs. Mancinelli cond. Dinorah Gargano s. De Lucia t. Mancinelli cond. Luisa Miller Kupfer-Berger s. Oxilia t. Mancinelli cond.

Spring 1887, Rome:Teatro Apollo Apr. 26

Don Carlo

Summer 1887, Rome: Sala Esposizione May 8

Concert

Borelli s. Novelli ms. Marconi t. Lorrain bs. Scarneo bs. Mascheroni cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

327

Spring 1887, London:Theatre Royal Drury Lane June 15

Rigoletto

June 20

Il barbiere di Siviglia

June 22

Lohengrin

Toresella s. Runcio t. Navarrini bs. Arnoldson s. De Lucia t. De Reszke bs. Ciampi bs. Randegger cond. Hauck s. Tremelli ms. De Reszke t. De Reszke bs.

Carnival 1887–1888, Milan:Teatro Alla Scala Feb. 12

La favorita (9)

Mar. 3

L’Africana

Mar. 8

Lohengrin (6)

Stuarda-Savelli ms. Gayarre t. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond. Kupfer-Berger s. Gayarre t. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond. Kupfer-Berger s. Vidal ms. Gayarre t. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond.

Spring 1888, Rome:Teatro Argentina Apr. 11

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Apr. 13

La favorita

Arnoldson s. De Bassini t. Maini bs. Purarelli bs. Mascheroni cond. Stahl ms. Gayarre t. Wulmann bs. Mascheroni cond.

Autumn and Winter 1888–1889, Lisbon:Teatro Sao Carlos Oct. 31

Ernani

Nov. 14

Ruy Blas

Nov. 17

Faust

Nov. 29

Maria di Rohan

Dec. 14

Dinorah

Miglie s. Migliori t. Meroles bs. Campanini cond. Tetrazzini s. Prandi ms. Signorini t. Borucchia bs. Campanini cond. Tetrazzini s. Prandi ms. Degenne t. (later Valero t.) Meroles bs. Pontecchi cond. Tetrazzini s. Prandi ms. Migliori t. Pontecchi cond. Van Zandt s. Prandi ms. Paroli t. Borucchia bs. Campanini cond.

328

Appendix

Dec. 31

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 5

**Donna Branca (Keil)

Feb. 21

Amleto

Mar. 23

*Otello

Van Zandt s. (later Pacini s.) Degenne t. Solda bs. Fraziosi bs. Tetrazzini s. Bruno ms. Brogi t. Meroles bs. Campanini cond. Pacini s. Pasqua ms. Paroli t. Borucchia bs. Tetrazzini s. Brogi t. Campanini cond.

Spring 1889, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Apr. 20

Concert

Spring and Summer 1889, Buenos Aires:Teatro Dell’Opera May 18

La favorita

May 30

Rigoletto

June 6

Ernani

June 11

Il barbiere di Siviglia

June 18

Faust

June 20

Amleto

July 2

Un ballo in maschera

July 7

La forza del destino

July 9

Gli Ugonotti

July 18

Otello

Aug. 13

Simon Boccanegra

Mantelli ms. Masini t. Mariani bs. Mancinelli cond. Toresella s. Sommelius ms. Masini t. Mancinelli cond. Ricetti s. De Negri t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Theodorini s. Masini t. Wulmann bs. Graziani bs. Mancinelli cond. Toresella s. Masini t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Toresella s. Mantelli ms. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Theodorini s. De Negri t. Mancinelli cond. Ricetti s. Mantelli ms. De Negri t. Mancinelli cond. Theodorini s. Toresella s. Mantelli ms. Masini t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Theodorini s. De Negri t. Mancinelli cond. Ricetti s. De Negri t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

329

Summer 1889, Montevideo:Teatro Solis Aug. 27

Otello

Aug. 29

Ernani

Sept. 1

Amleto

Sept. 3

Simon Boccanegra

Sept. 8

Rigoletto

Sept. 10

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Theodorini s. De Negri t. Mancinelli cond. Ricetti s. De Negri t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Toresella s. Mantelli ms. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Ricetti s. De Negri t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond. Toresella s. Sommelius ms. Masini t. Mancinelli cond. Theodorini s. Masini t. Wulmann bs. Mancinelli cond.

Carnival and Spring 1890, Milan:Teatro Alla Scala Jan. 15

Simon Boccanegra

Feb. 15

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 25

Ernani

Apr. 7

Amleto

Cataneo s. De Negri t. (later Cardinali t.) Navarrini bs. Faccio cond. Repetto-Trisolini s. Lombardi t. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond. Cataneo s. Cardinali t. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond. Calvé s. Litvinne ms. Navarrini bs. Faccio cond.

Spring 1890, Bilbao:Teatro Arriaga June 4

Gli Ugonotti

June 13

*Lohengrin

June 18

L’Africana

Borelli s. Occhiolini s. Lucignani t. Uetam bs. Goula cond. Arkel s. Pasqua ms. Cardinali t. Borucchia bs. Goula cond. Arkel s. Occhiolini s. Lucignani t. Borucchia bs. Goula cond.

Summer 1890, Cadiz:Teatro Principal Aug. 11

Gli Ugonotti

Bulicioff s. Rawner t. Ercolani bs. Urruttia cond.

330

Appendix

Aug. 12

Ernani

Aug. 15

La favorita

Aug. 20

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Aug. 23

L’Africana

Aug. 26 Aug. 30

Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto

Sept.

Linda di Chamonix

Paoli s. Suagnez t. Ercolani bs. Urruttia cond. Mas ms. Suagnez t. Ercolani bs. Urruttia cond. Pacini s. Lombardi t. Ercolani bs. Urruttia cond. Bulicioff s. Suagnez t. Urruttia cond. Paoli s. Urruttia cond. Garditano s. Suagnez t. Urruttia cond. Pacini s. Urruttia cond.

Autumn and Winter 1890–1891, Madrid:Teatro Real Oct. 9

*Otello

Oct. 28

Amleto

Nov. 9

La traviata

Nov. 22

Simon Boccanegra

Dec. 3

Il trovatore

Dec. 30

La Cenerentola

Mar. 4

Gli Ugonotti

Mar. 14

Tannhäuser

Tetrazzini s. Durot t. Mancinelli cond. Sembrich s. (later Pacini s.) Stahl ms. Borucchia bs. Mancinelli cond. Sembrich s. (later Bellincioni s.) Lucignani t. (later Stagno t.) Perez cond. Mendioroz s. Lucignani t. Uetam bs. Mancinelli cond. Tetrazzini s. Stahl ms. Durot t. Mancinelli cond. Stahl ms. Bonora t. Baldelli bs. Mancinelli cond. Tetrazzini s. Pacini s. Stahl ms. Lucignani t. Uetam bs. Borucchia bs. Mancinelli cond. Tetrazzini s. Guercia ms. Lucignani t. Mancinelli cond.

Autumn and Winter 1891–1892, Lisbon:Teatro Sao Carlos Nov. 4

La favorita

Vidal ms. Bayo t. Visconti bs. Mancinelli cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Nov. 19

Rigoletto

Nov. 21

Gli Ugonotti

Nov. 26

Ernani

Dec. 15

La traviata

Dec. 26

Otello

Jan. 12

Linda di Chamonix

331

Boronat s. Pagnoni ms. Bayo t. Visconti bs. Mancinelli cond. Gabbi s. Boronat s. Pagnoni ms. Gabrielescu t. Tansini bs. Mancinelli cond. Zilli s. Gabrielescu t. Tansini bs. Mancinelli cond. Boronat s. Bayo t. Mancinelli cond. Gabbi s. Gabrielescu t. Mancinelli cond. Boronat s. Pagnoni ms. Bayo t. Tansini bs. Rossi bs. Mancinelli cond.

Lent 1892, Rome:Teatro Argentina Mar. 14

Rigoletto

Brambilla s. Garbini-Mazzoni ms. Colli t. Rapp bs. Podesti cond.

Spring 1892, Palermo: Politeama Garibaldi Apr. 5

Ernani

Apr. 11

Rigoletto

Gilboni s. Signoretti t. Navarrini bs. Mugnone cond. Brambilla s. Bellincioni ms. Cremonini t. Mariani bs. Mugnone cond.

Spring 1892, Rome:Teatro Costanzi May 17

Simon Boccanegra

Darclée s. De Negri t. Broglio bs. Mascheroni cond.

Summer 1892, Cadiz:Teatro Principal Aug. 18?

Rigoletto

Aug. 20?

Un ballo in maschera

Landi s. Pagnoni ms. Salvaterra t. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Landi s. Pagnoni ms. Russitano t. Bimboni cond.

332

Appendix

Aug. 23

La favorita

Aug. 25?

L’Africana

Aug. 31?

Faust

Sept. 3?

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Sept. 5?

Maria di Rohan

Pagnoni ms. Emiliani t. Meroles bs. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Landi s. Emiliani t. Meroles bs. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Emiliani t. Meroles bs. Bimboni cond. Pacini s. Emiliani t. Meroles bs. Merly bs. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Pagnoni ms. Emiliani t. Bimboni cond.

Summer and Autumn 1892, Gibraltar:Teatro Benatar Sept. 14?

Maria di Rohan

Sept. 15

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Sept. 17

Ernani Un ballo in maschera Faust

Laborda s. Pagnoni ms. Emiliani t. Bimboni cond. Pacini s. Emiliani t. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Sotorra t. Meroles bs. Bimboni cond. Laborda s. Sotorra t. Bimboni cond. Bimboni cond.

Autumn 1892, Florence:Teatro La Pergola Nov. 10

**I Rantzau (Mascagni)

Toresella s. De Lucia t. Broglio bs. Ferrari cond.

Autumn 1892, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Nov. 26

*I Rantzau (Mascagni)

Darclée s. De Lucia t. Broglio bs. Mascagni cond.

Carnival 1892–1893, Naples:Teatro San Carlo Dec. 29

Maria di Rohan

Jan. 22

La favorita

Feb. 11

Linda di Chamonix

Darclée s. Zanon ms. Avedino t. Bonicioli cond. Giudice ms. De Lucia t. Di Grazia bs. Lombardi cond. Darclée s. Giudice ms. (later Zanon ms.) De Lucia t.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Feb. 20

Crispino e la comare

333

De Grazia bs. Frigiotti bs. Lombardi cond. Darclée s. Giudice s. De Lucia t. Colonnese bs. Frigiotti bs. Lombardi cond.

Winter 1893, St. Petersburg: Acquarium Theatre Mar. Mar. Mar. Mar.

11 14 25 30

Amleto Maria di Rohan Faust Ernani

Sembrich s. Darclée s. Grani t. Darclée s. Marconi t. Darclée s. Grani t. Silvestri bs.

Spring 1893, Moscow:Teatr Scialoponthine Apr. 12 Apr. 13

Faust Ernani

Darclée s. Marconi t. Silvestri bs. Darclée s. Grani t. Silvestri bs.

Summer 1893, Berlin: Kroll Oper Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug.

22 24 25 30

La favorita Faust Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto

Autumn and Winter 1893–1894, Moscow:Teatr Scialoponthine Dec.

La favorita Ernani

Giannini t. Tansini bs. De Macchi s. Dimitrescu t. Tansini bs.

Winter 1894, St. Petersburg: Acquarium Theatre Jan. Jan. Jan. Jan.

8 10 13 20

Feb. 2

La favorita Pagliacci La traviata Faust Rigoletto

Stahl ms. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Sembrich s. Garulli t. Cotogni b. Sembrich s. Marconi t. Sembrich s. Stahl ms. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Sembrich s. Stahl ms. Marconi t. Nannetti bs.

334

Appendix

Feb. 7

Don Giovanni

Feb. 21

Linda di Chamonix

Mar. 3

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Rebuffini s. (later Durand s.) Sembrich s. Boronat s. Garulli t. Nannetti bs. Boronat s. Stahl ms. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Sembrich s. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Caracciolo bs.

Lent and Spring 1894, Moscow:Teatr Bolshoi Mar. 18 Mar. 20 Mar. 25

Otello La traviata Faust

Mar. 28

Rigoletto

Apr. 7 Apr. 14

Il demone *I Medici (Leoncavallo)

Carrera s. Tamagno t. Prevost s. Lucignani t. Carrera s. Mantelli ms. Baldini t. Beltramo bs. Prevost s. Mantelli ms. Baldini t. Beltramo bs. Litvinoff s. Carrera s. Prevost s. Tamagno t. Navarrini bs. Beltramo bs.

Autumn 1894,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Dec. 18 Dec. 20 Dec. 22

Ernani La favorita L’Africana

Bonaplata-Bau s. Cardinali t. Guerrini ms. Valero t. Bonaplata-Bau s. Cardinali t.

Winter 1895, St. Petersburg:Teatr Acquarium Jan. 7

L’Africana

Jan. 11

La traviata

Jan. 13

Pagliacci

Jan. 13

La favorita (acts 2 and 3)

Jan. 14

Faust

Jan. 23

Tannhäuser

Pacary s. Leone s. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Marconi t. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Garulli t. Cotogni b. Podesti cond. Guerrini ms. Marconi t. Podesti cond. Pacary s. Marconi t. Nannetti bs. Pacary s. Guerrini ms. Garulli t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Jan. 25

Rigoletto

Feb. 11

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 18

Don Giovanni

Mar. 17 Mar. 19 Mar. 22

Concert Il demone Amleto

335

Sembrich s. Guerrini ms. Marconi t. Sembrich s. Marconi t. Silvestri bs. Pacary s. Sembrich s. Leoni s. Garulli t. Nannetti bs. Sembrich s. Guerrini ms. Calvé s. Guerrini ms.

Lent 1895, St. Petersburg: Salle de la Noblessse Mar. 21 Apr. 2

Concert Concert

Spring 1895,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 16

Faust

Apr. 19 Apr. 20

Lucia di Lammermoor Rigoletto

Apr. 22

Il barbiere di Siviglia

May 9 May 10

Un ballo in maschera Don Giovanni Linda di Chamonix

May 15 May 19 May 26

Concert La favorita Amleto

Dombroska s. Skulska s. Garulli t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Garulli t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Skulska ms. Valero t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Garulli t. Sillich bs. Carbonetti bs. Pacini s. Pacini s. Valero t. Sillich bs. Carbonetti bs.

Autumn 1895,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Oct. 26

Amleto

Nov. 4

Faust

Nov. 6 Nov. 19

Don Giovanni Gli Ugonotti

Pacini s. Guercia ms. Pini-Corsi t. Sillich bs. D’Arneyro s. Pasqua ms. Piccaluga t. D’Arneyro s. Pacini s. Sillich bs. D’Arneyro s. Piccaluga t. Sillich bs.

336

Appendix

Nov. 26 Dec. 12

La favorita Un ballo in maschera

Sillich bs.

Autumn 1895, Moscow Dec. 4

Concert

Autumn and Winter 1895–1896, St. Petersburg:Teatr Acquarium Dec. 7

La traviata

Dec. 9

La Gioconda

Dec. 15

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Dec. 18

Rigoletto

Dec. 20

Lohengrin

Dec. 21

Faust

Jan. 2

Don Giovanni

Jan. 9

Il demone

Jan. 11

Otello

Jan. 18

Il trovatore

Jan. 24

Amleto

Sembrich s. Borgatti t. Podesti cond. Gabbi s. Stahl ms. Cappelli ms. De Lucia t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. De Lucia t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Stahl ms. De Lucia t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Gabbi s. Stahl ms. Borgatti t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Stahl ms. De Lucia t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Pacini s. Gabbi s. Borgatti t. Silvestri bs. Gabbi s. Stahl ms. Borgatti t. Podesti cond. Gabbi s. Tamagno t. Podesti cond. Gabbi s. Stahl ms. Tamagno t. Silvestri Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Borgatti t. Silvestri bs.

Winter 1896, St. Petersburg: Salle de la Noblesse Feb. 12 Feb. 14

Concert Concert

Winter 1896, Concert Tour Cities visited include Minsk (February 27) and Vilnius (March 6).

Mattia Battistini Chronology

337

Spring 1896,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Mar. 17

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 19

La favorita

Mar. 25 Apr. 6 Apr. 12 Apr. 18

Otello Amleto Don Giovanni I puritani

Apr. 28

Il barbiere di Siviglia

May 10

Ernani

Labia s. Dylewska ms. Piccaluga t. Sillich bs. Heller ms. Stampanoni t. Sillich bs. Litvinoff s. Piccaluga t. Pacini s. D’Orio ms. Sillich bs. Labia s. Pacini s. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Stampanoni t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Stampanoni t. Sillich bs. Nunzio s. Piccaluga t. Sillich bs.

Autumn 1896,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 10

Maria di Rohan

Nov. 18 Nov. 20 Nov. 23

Don Giovanni Ernani Rigoletto

Nov. 25 Nov. 27 Dec. 4 Dec. 6 Dec. 12

Un ballo in maschera Amleto I puritani Il barbiere di Siviglia La favorita

Zilli s. Monti-Baldini ms. Apostolu t. Pacini s. Sillich bs. Zilli s. Giannini t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Monti-Baldini ms. Apostolu t. Sillich bs. Giannini t. Pacini s. Pacini s. Colli t. Pacini s. Colli t. Monti-Baldini ms.

Autumn and Winter 1896–1897, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Dec. 18

La traviata

Dec. 21

Tannhäuser

Dec. 31

Un ballo in maschera

Jan. 14

Rigoletto

Sembrich s. Brogi t. (later De Lucia t., then Masini t.) Podesti cond. McIntyre s. Carotini ms. Brogi t. Silvestri bs. McIntyre s. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Brogi t. Rossi bs. Silvestri bs. Sembrich s. (later Tetrazzini s.) Carotini ms. De Lucia t. (later

338

Appendix

Jan. 15

Faust

Jan. 19

Otello

Jan. 21

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 1 Feb. 5

Ernani Il trovatore

Feb. 6

Dinorah

Feb. 19

Il demone

Feb. 22

Gli Ugonotti

Mar. 5

Amleto

Masini t.) Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Carotini ms. De Lucia t. (later Masini t.) Rossi bs. McIntyre s. Tamagno t. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Masini t. Rossi bs. Cesari bs. McIntyre s. Brogi t. Rossi bs. McIntyre s. Vidal ms. Tamagno t. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Carotini ms. Silvestri bs. Sembrich s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Rossi bs. McIntyre s. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Brogi t. Rossi bs. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Sembrich s. Carotini ms. Silvestri bs.

Winter 1897, St. Petersburg: Salle de la Noblesse Mar. 14

Concert

Lent 1897, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Mar. 15 Mar. 16 Mar. 17

La favorita Il barbiere di Siviglia Il demone

Carotini ms. Masini t. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Tetrazzini s. Masini t. Rossi bs.

Spring 1897, Moscow:Teatr Bolshoi Mar. 21

Gli Ugonotti

Mar. 24 Mar. 27 Apr. 7 Apr. 12

Il barbiere di Siviglia Rigoletto *Andrea Chenier Don Giovanni

McIntyre s. Pacini s. Duc t. Vinchi bs. Pacini s. Bayo t. Lucenti bs. Pacini s. Russitano t. Lucenti bs. De Nuovina s. Russitano t. De Nuovina s. Pacini s. McIntyre s. Bayo t.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

339

Spring 1897,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 26

Il demone

Apr. 30 May 3 May 11 May 14 May 21 May 30

Il barbiere di Siviglia Un ballo in maschera Faust Amleto Don Giovanni Pagliacci

Olghina s. Monti-Baldini ms. Surkiervich t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Colli t. Sillich bs. Piccaluga t. Litvinoff s. Piccaluga t. Sillich bs. Pacini s. Litvinoff s. Pacini s.

Autumn 1897, Concert Tour Cities scheduled on this tour include Berlin (October 25), Leipzig (November 2), and Hamburg (November 4). Autumn 1897,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 11 Nov. 13 Nov. 18 Nov. 20 Nov. 21 Nov. 23 Nov. 29 Dec. 3

La traviata Amleto La favorita Faust Il barbiere di Siviglia Rigoletto Don Giovanni Il demone

Olghina s. Myszuga t. Pacini s.

Pacini s. Bonci t. Pacini s. Bonci t. Pacini s.

Autumn and Winter 1897–1898, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Dec. 11

Rigoletto

Dec. 12

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Dec. 14

I puritani

Dec. 26

Faust

Dec. 29

Don Giovanni

Jan. 2

Il trovatore

Pacini s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Pacini s. Masini t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Pacini s. Bonci t. Uetam bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Bonci t. Uetam bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Di Benedetto s. Pacini s. Bonci t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Di Benedetto s. (later Bonaplata-Bau s.) Pasqua ms.

340

Appendix

Jan. 8

Poliuto

Jan. 9

Il demone

Jan. 14

Otello

Jan. 18

*Andrea Chenier

Jan. 27

Amleto

Feb. 4

La traviata

Feb. 6

Eugene Onegin

Feb. 10

La favorita

Feb. 27

Don Pasquale (as Malatesta)

Tamagno t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Bonaplata-Bau s. Tamagno t. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Di Benedetto s. Tamagno t. Podesti cond. Di Benedetto s. Carotini ms. Tamagno t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Pacini s. Carotini ms. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Pasqua ms. Masini t. Rossi bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Cotogni b.

Spring 1898,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 18 Apr. 22 Apr. 27 Apr. 30 May 7 May 13 May 18

Dinorah Don Giovanni Amleto Il demone Il barbiere di Siviglia La traviata Un ballo in maschera

Pacini s. Morlacchi t. Pacini s. Pacini s. Russitano t. Pacini s. Russitano t. Russitano t.

Autumn 1898,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 28 Nov. 30 Dec. 3 Dec. 6 Dec. 8

La forza del destino Dinorah Amleto Il demone Rigoletto

Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Pacini s. Pacini s. Russitano t. Pacini s. Russitano t.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Dec. 10 Dec. 14 Dec. 16

Faust Don Giovanni La favorita

Dec. 19 Dec. 22

Il trovatore Un ballo in maschera

341

Russitano t. Pacini s. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Sillich bs. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t.

Winter 1898–1899, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Dec. 28

Eugene Onegin

Dec. 31

Faust

Jan. 2

Rigoletto

Jan. 8

Il demone

Jan. 11

Un ballo in maschera

Jan. 20

Ruslan e Ludmilla

Jan. 22

I puritani

Jan. 27

La traviata

Feb. 5

La favorita

Feb. 6

Tannhäuser

Feb. 26

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 16

Amleto

Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Marconi t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Giachetti s. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Marconi t. Arimondi bs. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Tetrazzini s. Giachetti s. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Podesti cond. Tetrazzini s. Marconi t. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Caruso t. Podesti cond. Carotini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Giachetti s. Carotini ms. Marconi t. Silvestri bs. Tetrazzini s. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Cesari bs. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Arimondi bs.

Winter 1899, St. Petersburg: Imperial Theatre Feb. 18

Don Pasquale

Arnoldson s. Masini t. Arimondi bs.

342

Appendix

Spring 1899,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 22 Apr. 24 May 4 May 9? May 11

May 12 May 29

L’Africana Un ballo in maschera Eugene Onegin La favorita Il demone Rigoletto Don Giovanni La traviata Ernani

Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Monti-Baldini ms. Russitano t. Russitano t.

Autumn 1899, Bucharest:Teatrul Nacional Nov. 16

Don Giovanni

Nov. 17?

Ernani

Nov. 19? Nov. 22

La favorita? Un ballo in maschera

Mezzetti s. Mintalescu s. Kaendiaz s. Bajanero t. Teddonescu bs. Spetrino cond. Strassers s. Bajanero t. Teddonescu bs.

Autumn 1899,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 25 Dec. 1 Dec. 4

Ernani Eugene Onegin Un ballo in maschera

Dec. 16

La Gioconda Faust

Dec. 18 Dec. 20 Dec. 21

Don Giovanni Il barbiere di Siviglia Eugene Onegin Amleto

Kruszelnicka s. Didur bs. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Korolowicz-Wayda s. Russitano t. Didur bs. Huguet s. Pandolfini t. Huguet s.

Winter 1899–1900, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Dec. 28

La traviata

Jan. 3

Aida

Arnoldson s. Caruso t. Podesti cond. Kruszelnicka s. Cucini ms. Caruso t. Arimondi bs.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Jan. 7 Jan. 11

Il demone Un ballo in maschera

Jan. 13

Faust

Jan. 15

Amleto

Jan. 25 Jan. 29

Eugene Onegin La favorita

Jan. 31

Dinorah

Feb. 2

Rigoletto

Feb. 13

“La Resurrezione di Lazaro” “Stabat Mater”

Feb. 16

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 21

Ernani

Mar. 2

Maria di Rohan

343

Arnoldson s. Granados t. Kruszelnicka s. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Caruso t. Arimondi bs. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Granados t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Cucini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Silvestri bs. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Kruszelnicka s. Caruso t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Caruso t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Tetrazzini s. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Cesari bs. Kruszelnicka s. Granados t. Arimondi bs. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Caruso t.

Winter 1899–1900, St. Petersburg: Imperial Theatre (Concurrent with the season at the Grande Salle du Conservatoire) Dec. 30

Aida

Jan. 15 Feb. 10

La favorita? La traviata

Kruszelnicka s. Cucini ms. Caruso t. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Caruso t. Podesti cond.

Lent 1900, Moscow:Teatr Bolshoi Mar. 10

Eugene Onegin

Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Masini t. Arimondi bs.

344

Appendix

Mar. 14

Dinorah

Mar. 20

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 24

Faust

Mar. 27

“La Resurrezione di Lazaro”

Apr. 1

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Rossetti t. Silvestri bs. De Lerma s. Tetrazzini s. Carotini ms. Caruso t. Arnoldson s. Carotini ms. Caruso t. Silvestri bs. De Lerma s. Caruso t. Silvestri bs. Podesti cond. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Silvestri bs.

Spring 1900,Vilnius: Municipal Theatre Apr. 9

Un ballo in maschera

Apr. 11

Rigoletto

Apr. 13

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Luciani s. Zawner ms. De Grandi t. Fornari s. Zawner ms. Percopo t. Ferraiolo bs. Fornari s. Percopo t. Giommi bs.

Spring 1900,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 22 Apr. 26 Apr. 30 May 2 May 4 May 5 May 7 May 11 May 16 May 24 May 28

L’Africana Eugene Onegin Rigoletto Il trovatore Il barbiere di Siviglia Don Giovanni Dinorah La favorita Amleto Un ballo in maschera Aida

Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Korolowicz-Wayda s. Russitano t. Russitano t. Tetrazzini s. Tetrazzini s. Morlacchi t. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Tetrazzini s. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Russitano t. Didur bs. Sillich bs.

Autumn 1900,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 14

La Gioconda

Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Veroli ms. Constantino t. Didur bs. Dylinski bs. Podesti cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Nov. 16

Pique dame

Nov. 19

Pagliacci Amleto

Nov. 21

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Dec. 5

Don Giovanni La traviata Eugene Onegin Don Giovanni La favorita

Dec. 8

345

Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Floryanski t. Floryanski t. Huguet s. Carotini ms. Morlacchi t. Sillich bs. Huguet s. Constantino t. Didur bs. Dylinski bs. Sillich bs. Huguet s. Manucci t. Kruszelnicka s. Floryanski t. Carotini ms. Cochinis t.

Winter 1900–1901, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Dec. 27

Il trovatore

Dec. 30

La Gioconda

Jan. 2

I puritani

Jan. 7

Rigoletto

Jan. 12

La traviata

Jan. 15

Faust

Jan. 24

Un ballo in maschera

Jan. 27

Eugene Onegin

Feb. 5

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 7

La forza del destino

Kruszelnicka s. Fabbri ms. Longobardi t. Fiegna bs. Zuccani cond. Kruszelnicka s. Fabbri ms. Zawner ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Wermez s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Wermez s. (later Arnoldson s.) Masini t. (later Constantino t.) Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Zawner ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Kruszelnicka s. Wermez s. Fabbri ms. Longobardi t. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Masini t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Kruszelnicka s. Fabbri ms. Longobardi t. Brombara b. Arimondi bs.

346

Appendix

Feb. 8

Pagliacci

Feb. 15

Amleto

Feb. 18

Ernani

Feb. 19

Il demone

Arnoldson s. Longobardi t. Brombara b. Arnoldson s. Fabbri ms. Arimondi bs. Kruszelnicka s. Longobardi t. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond.

Lent 1900, Moscow:Teatr Bolshoi Mar. 4

Rigoletto

Mar. 5

Faust

Mar. 6

I puritani

Mar. 7

Pagliacci

Mar. 9

Il trovatore

Mar. 10

Eugene Onegin

Mar. 12

Ernani

Mar. 13

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 15

Amleto

Mar. 28

La traviata

Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Pacini s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Longobardi t. Brombara b. De Lerma s. Fabbri ms. Longobardi t. Fiegna bs. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond. De Lerma s. Longobardi t. Arimondi bs. Pacini s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Silvestri bs. Zuccani cond. Arnoldson s. Fabbri ms. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Zuccani cond.

Spring 1901,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 14

Tannhäuser

Apr. 19

Eugene Onegin

Kruszelnicka s. KorolowiczWayda s. Floriansky t. Didur bs. (later Sillich bs.) Kurolevich s. Floriansky t. Didur bs.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Apr. 22

La Gioconda

Apr. 26 May 14 May 17 May 27

Pique Dame Pagliacci *Ruy Blas La traviata

347

Kruszelnicka s. Aranda ms. Innocenti t. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Innocenti t. Hepner s. Innocenti t.

Autumn and Winter 1901–1902,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 18 Nov. 19 Nov. 27

Werther Carmen Un ballo in maschera

Dec. 2

Eugene Onegin

Dec. 12

La Gioconda

Dec. 27

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Jan. 1

Ernani

Kruszelnicka s. Bel Sorel s. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Russitano t. Didur bs. Kruszelnicka s. Carotini ms. Veroli ms. Russitano t. Didur bs. Korolowicz-Wayda s. Constantino t. Sillich bs. Bianchini-Cappelli s. Constantino t. Didur bs.

Winter 1902, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Jan. 11 Jan. 16 Jan. 17

La traviata Werther Faust

Jan. 19

Carmen

Jan. 23

Un ballo in maschera

Jan. 31

Eugene Onegin

Feb. 2

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Feb. 6

Il demone

Feb. 9

Guglielmo Tell

Arnoldson s. Marconi t. Arnoldson s. Balliere s. Arnoldson s. Pagnoni ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Kruszelnicka s. Constantino t. Kruszelnicka s. Tetrazzini s. Pagnoni ms. Marconi t. Arnoldson s. Pagnoni ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Arnoldson s. Pagnoni ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs. Tetrazzini s. Mariacher t. Arimondi bs.

348

Appendix

Feb. 25

Maria di Rohan

Feb. 27

Pagliacci

Mar. 5

Ernani

Mar. 8 Mar. 9

Otello Rigoletto

Kruszelnicka s. Pagnoni ms. Constantino t. Arnoldson s. Mariacher t. Brombara b. Kruszelnicka s. Constantino t. Fiegna bs. Zuccani cond. Kruszelnicka s. Mariacher t. Arnoldson s. Pagnoni ms. Constantino t. Arimondi bs.

Lent 1902, Odessa: Municipal Theatre Mar. 17

Maria di Rohan

Mar. 19

Ernani

Mar. 21

Amleto

Mar. 23

Faust

Mar. 24

Eugene Onegin

Mar. 25

Don Giovanni

Mar. 27

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 28

Rigoletto

Adaberto s. Monti-Brunner ms. Constantino t. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Barrientos s. Monti-Brunner ms. Quarti t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Monti-Brunner ms. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Barrientos s. Montecucchi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Barrientos s. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Tamanti-Zavaschi s. Constantino t. Abbate cond.

Spring 1902, Kiev:Teatr Solozoff Apr. 7

Maria di Rohan

Apr. 9

Ernani

Adaberto s. Zawner ms. Constantino t. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Apr. 12

Amleto

Apr. 13

Eugene Onegin

Don Giovanni

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Rigoletto

349

Padovani s. Monti-Brunner ms. Quarti t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Monti-Brunner ms. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Padovani s. Montecucchi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Padovani s. Constantino t. Vecchioni bs. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Padovani s. Zawner ms. Constantino t. Abbate cond.

Spring 1902, Kharkov: Municipal Theatre Apr. 28

Maria di Rohan

Apr. 29

Ernani

Apr. 30

Amleto

May 2

Eugene Onegin

May 5

Don Giovanni

May

Rigoletto

May

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Adaberto s. Zawner ms. De Grandi t. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. De Grandi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Padovani s. Monti-Brunner ms. Quarti t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Monti-Brunner ms. Montecucchi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Tamanti-Zavaschi s. Vecchioni bs. Aschieri s. Zawner ms. Santini-Zuccola t. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Padovani s. Montecucchi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond.

Spring 1902, Rostov May

Maria di Rohan Ernani

Adaberto s. Zawner ms. De Grandi t. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. De Grandi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond.

350

Appendix

Don Giovanni

May 15

Adaberto s. Tamanti-Zavaschi s. Montecucchi t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond.

Amleto Rigoletto

Spring 1902, Ekaterinoslav May May 19

Maria di Rohan? Ernani Eugene Onegin Il barbiere di Siviglia

Spring 1902, Odessa: Salle De La Bourse May 27

Concert

Spring 1902, Odessa: Municipal Theatre May 29

Il demone

Lubkowska s.

Summer 1902, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Aug. 24

Maria di Rohan

Summer 1902, Contigliano (Rieti): Collegiata Aug. 31

Messa solenne

Dianni t.

Autumn and Winter 1902–1903,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Nov. 26 Nov. 29 Dec. 3 Dec. 4 Dec. 15 Dec. 20 Dec. 22 Dec. 23 Jan. 3

Eugene Onegin Rigoletto Werther Il barbiere di Siviglia Amleto Ernani Dinorah Un ballo in maschera Guglielmo Tell

Jan. 15

Don Giovanni

Kruszelnicka s. Pinkert s. Anselmi t. Kruszelnicka s. Pinkert s. Anselmi t. Sillich bs. Pinkert s. Kruszelnicka s. Dimitrescu t. Pinkert s. Kruszelnicka s. Dimitrescu t. De Revers s. Dimitrescu t. Sillich bs.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

351

Winter 1903, St. Petersburg:Teatr Acquarium Jan. 20

Rigoletto

Jan. 21 Jan. 22 Jan. 24

Carmen La traviata Il barbiere di Siviglia

Jan. 27 Jan. 29

Faust Gli Ugonotti

Feb. 15 Feb. 20

Un ballo in maschera Lucia di Lammermoor

Boronat s. Makarova ms. Ventura t. Ventura t. Boronat s. Ventura t. Boronat s. Marconi t. Navarrini bs. Marconi t. Navarrini bs. Boronat s. Marconi t. Navarrini bs.

Winter 1903, Kharkov Feb. 26 Feb. 28 Mar. 1

Rigoletto Eugene Onegin Concert

Lent 1903, Kiev:Teatr Solozoff Mar. 9

Rigoletto

Mar. 11

Eugene Onegin

Mar. 14

Ernani

Mar. 16

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 17

Il demone

Mar. 18

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 21

Linda di Chamonix

Mar. 23?

Maria di Rohan

Galvany s. Armanini t. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Monti-Brunner ms. Apostolu t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Cardinali t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Colombati s. Monti-Brunner ms. De Grandi t. Vecchioni bs. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. Armanini t. Vecchioni bs. Abbate cond. Galvany s. Armanini t. Vecchioni bs. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Galvany s. Monti-Brunner ms. Armanini t. Vecchioni bs. Ferraioli bs. Abbate cond. Adaberto s. De Grandi t. Abbate cond.

352

Appendix

Spring 1903, Odessa: Russian Theatre Mar. 29

Rigoletto

Mar. 30

Linda di Chamonix

Apr. 2

La Gioconda

Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr.

Il barbiere di Siviglia Il demone Eugene Onegin Concert Concert Un ballo in maschera

4 5 7 8 9 10

Galvany s. Goretta ms. Bassi t. Ferraioli bs. Galvany s. Monti-Brunner ms. Bassi t. Adaberto s. Goretta ms. Monti-Brunner ms. Bassi t. Galvany s. Adaberto s. Adaberto s. Goretta ms. Bassi t.

Spring 1903, Odessa: Catholic Church Apr. 17

Concert

Spring 1903, Odessa: Salle de la Bourse Apr. 21

Concert

Spring 1903, Odessa: Municipal Theatre Apr. 24 Apr. 29

Werther Concert

Jacoby s.

Summer 1903, Brescia:Teatro Grande Aug. 20 Aug. 28

Amleto Rigoletto

Pinkert s. Luppi bs. Pinkert s. Krismer t. Luppi bs.

Autumn 1903, Rome:Teatro Adriano Oct. 28

Ernani

Oct. 31

Linda di Chamonix

Nov. 6

Amleto

Adaberto s. Barrera t. Baldelli bs. Zuccani cond. Barrientos s. Degli Abbati ms. Acerbi t. Baldelli bs. Zuccani cond. Barrientos s. Degli Abbati ms. Baldelli bs. Zuccani cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

353

Autumn 1903,Vilnius: Municipal Theatre Dec. 2

Maria di Rohan

Dec. 4

Eugene Onegin

Dec. 7

Ernani Rigoletto Il demone Un ballo in maschera Tosca

De Vila s. Armanini t. Coniglio cond. Marchesi-Coniglio s. Monti-Brunner ms. Coniglio cond. De Vila s. Albiach t. Vecchioni bs. Coniglio cond. Armanini t. Coniglio cond. Coniglio cond. De Vila s. Coniglio cond. De Vila s. Armanini t. Coniglio cond.

Autumn 1903, Riga Dec. 19

Maria di Rohan

Dec. 21

Ernani

Dec. 24 Dec. 26 Dec. 30

Tosca Amleto Rigoletto Il demone? Un ballo in maschera? Eugene Onegin

De Vila s. Armanini t. Coniglio cond. De Vila s. Albiach t. Coniglio cond.

Armanini t.

Winter 1904, Minsk Jan.

*Maria di Rohan Werther Ernani Il demone Rigoletto

De Vila s. Armanini t.

Winter 1904,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Jan. Jan. Jan. Jan.

21 25 27 29

Concert Rigoletto Il barbiere di Siviglia La favorita

Cucini ms.

354

Appendix

Feb. 1 Feb. 5 Feb. 11 Feb. 15 Feb. 28 Mar. 2 Mar. 7 Mar. 11

Eugene Onegin Il trovatore Guglielmo Tell Tannhäuser Faust Tosca La traviata Don Giovanni

Gilion t. Gilion t.

Orbellini s.

Lent 1904, Kiev:Teatr Solozoff

Mar. 25 Mar. 29 Apr. 11? Apr. 12? Apr. 17

Rigoletto Eugene Onegin Il demone Il barbiere di Siviglia Don Giovanni Pagliacci Faust La traviata

Spring 1904, Florence:Teatro Verdi May 5 May 17

Ernani Un ballo in maschera

Chelotti s. Bieletto t. Rossato bs. Chelotti s. Cristalli t.

Autumn 1904, Rome:Teatro Adriano Nov. 24

Maria di Rohan

Dec. 7

Zampa

Dec. 14

Werther

Corsi s. Berti-Cecchini ms. De Neri t. Sebastiani cond. Corsi s. Rossi ms. Eral bs. Sebastiani cond. Peri di Stefani s. Felici-Rudolfi s. Tessari b. Zinetti cond.

Carnival 1904–1905, Naples:Teatro San Carlo Dec. 29

Maria di Rohan

Jan. 8

Rigoletto

Corsi s. Patalano ms. Apostolu t. Mugnone cond. Pacini s. Bonci t. Mugnone cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

355

Winter 1905,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Jan. 26 Feb. 4 Feb. 11 Feb. 15 Feb. 16 Feb. 20 Feb. 22 Mar. 3

Pagliacci *Andrea Chenier Eugene Onegin La traviata Ernani Un ballo in maschera Werther *Zampa

Farrar s. Barrera t. Farrar s. Corsi s. Corsi s. Corsi s. Carotini ms. Barrera t. Podesti cond.

Lent and Spring 1905, St. Petersburg: Petit Theatre Mar. 23

Faust

Mar. 25 Mar. 30

La traviata Il demone

Apr. 10 Apr. 15

*Zampa Il barbiere di Siviglia

Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Navarrini bs. Cavalieri s. Anselmi t. Arnoldson s. Constantino t. (later Masini t.) Arnoldson s. Constantino t. Boronat s. Masini t. Navarrini bs.

Summer 1905, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Aug. 30 Sept. 11

**Per la patria (Cocchi) Linda di Chamonix

Pollini s. Cecchi t. Pollini s. Aranda-Didur ms. Alemanni t. Bordogni bs. Borucchia bs.

Autumn 1905, Madrid:Teatro Reale Oct. 25

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Pacini s. Constantino t. Baldelli bs.

Autumn 1905, London: Covent Garden Nov. 15

Rigoletto

Nov. 21

Faust

Clasenti s. Zaccaria ms. Giorgini t. Wulmann bs. Mugnone cond. Melba s. Trentini ms. Zenatello t. Didur bs. Mugnone cond.

356

Appendix

Nov. 23

Don Giovanni

Strakosch s. Gilibert-Lejeune s. Clasenti s. Giorgini t. Didur bs. Mugnone cond.

Autumn and Carnival 1905–1906, Naples:Teatro San Carlo Dec. 19

Un ballo in maschera

Dec. 29

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Jan. 1

Rigoletto

Jan. 4

Pagliacci

Jan. 13

Don Giovanni

Micucci s. Trentini s. Monti-Baldini ms. De Marchi t. Panizza cond. Pacini s. De Lucia t. Walter bs. Wigley bs. Mascagni cond. Pacini s. Anselmi t. Walter bs. Zinetti cond. Orbellini s. De Marchi t. Zinetti cond. Micucci s. Timroth s. Pacini s. (later Trentini s.) Giorgini t. Walter bs. Wigley bs. Wulmann bs. Mascagni cond.

Carnival 1906, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Feb. 6

Un ballo in maschera

Feb. 22

Rigoletto

De Lerma s. Benincori s. Garibaldi ms. Marconi t. Ferrari cond. Pinkert s. Garibaldi ms. Marconi t. Arimondi bs. Ferrari cond.

Lent and Spring 1906, St. Petersburg: Petit Theatre Mar. Mar. Mar. Mar. Mar.

6 8 10 13 15

Mar. 27

Rigoletto Linda di Chamonix Il barbiere di Siviglia La traviata Faust *Thaïs

Boronat s. Figner t. Navarrini bs. Boronat s. Figner t. Navarrini bs. Boronat s. Anselmi t. Cavalieri s. Anselmi t. Arnoldson s. Figner t. Navarrini bs. Cavalieri s.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

357

Spring 1906, Moscow:Teatr Solodovnikoff Apr. 17 Apr. 18 Apr. 20

Il demone La traviata Il barbiere di Siviglia

Cavalieri s.

Spring 1906,Warsaw Apr. 24

Concert

Spring 1906, Kiev Apr. 29

Il demone

Spring 1906, London: Bechstein Hall June

Concert

Spring and Summer 1906, London: Covent Garden June 13

Rigoletto

June 29

Eugene Onegin

July 7

La traviata

July 14

Aida

July 17

Don Giovanni

Alda s. (later Melba s.) Gilibert ms. Caruso t. Journet bs. Campanini cond. Destinn s. Kirby-Lunn ms. Altchevsky t. Journet bs. Campanini cond. Melba s. Caruso t. Campanini cond. Destinn s. Kirby-Lunn ms. Caruso t. Campanini cond. Destinn s. Nicholls s. Donalda s. Caruso t. Journet bs. Messager cond.

Autumn 1906, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Nov. 27

Maria di Rohan

Corsi s. Blanco ms. Saludas t. Golisciani cond.

358

Appendix

Dec. 4

Ernani

Dec. 15

Werther (as Werther)

David s. Biel t. Navarrini bs. Golisciani cond. Ferraris s. Verger ms. Franco t. Golisciani cond.

Carnival 1906–1907, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Jan. 3

Faust

Jan. 15

Werther

Jan. 26

Thaïs

Prassino s. (later d’Albert s.) Garibaldi ms. Krismer t. Rossi bs. Ferrari cond. Prassino s. Figoriti s. Cigada b. Ferrari cond. Melis s. Matassini t. Mariani cond.

Lent and Spring 1907, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Feb. 24

La traviata

Feb. 25

Faust

Feb. 28

La Dannazione di Fausto

Feb. 29

Rigoletto

Mar. 10

Tosca

Mar.

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 27

Thaïs

Arnoldson s. (later Bellincioni s., then Cavalieri s.) Colli t. (later Anselmi t.) Polacco cond. Arnoldson s. Paganelli ms. Colli t. Navarrini bs. Polacco cond. Arnoldson s. Colli t. Polacco cond. Sins s. Paganelli ms. Colli t. Fiegna bs. Polacco cond. Bellincioni s. Anselmi t. Polacco cond. Sins s. Colli t. Navarrini bs. Polacco cond. Cavalieri s. Brombara b. Polacco cond.

Spring 1907, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Apr. 20

Werther

Apr. 25

Thaïs

Bellincioni s. Figoriti s. Cigada b. De Angelis cond. Bellincioni s. De Angelis cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

359

Autumn 1907, Madrid:Teatro Real Nov. 21

Maria di Rohan

Nov. 30 Dec. 14

Werther Tannhäuser

Corsini s. (later Ikso s.) Marsan ms. Garcia-Rubio s. Rayer t. Villar s. Colazza t. Navarrini bs.

Winter 1907–1908, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Dec. 28

Werther

Jan. 1

Tannhäuser

Jan. 14

Amleto

Jan. 23

Maria di Rohan

Ferraris s. Verger ms. Astillero b. Podesti cond. Pasini-Vitale s. Darnis s. Vignas t. Nicoletti-Kormann bs. Beidler cond. Solis s./Corsi s. Verger ms./Carotini ms. Ghelardini t. Nicoletti-Kormann bs. Podesti cond. Corsi s. Carotini ms. Ghelardini t. Podesti cond.

Winter 1908,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Feb. 1

Amleto

Feb. Feb. Feb. Feb.

La favorita Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto Il barbiere di Siviglia

13 15 22 27

Stajewska s. Olowska ms. Ostrowski bs. Leliva t. Korolowicz-Wayda s. Leliva t. Tracikiewiczowna s. Leliva t. Tracikiewiczowna s. Lewicki t. Ostrowski bs. Dylinski bs.

Lent 1908, Lwow:Teatr Municipal Mar. 3

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 5

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 8

La traviata

Lopatynska s. Dianni t. Langer cond. Szymanowskas. Dianni t. Mossoczy bs. Paszkowski bs. Ribera cond. Bohuss s. Dianni t. Ribera cond.

360

Appendix

Lent 1908, St. Petersburg: Petit Theatre Mar. 16

Maria di Rohan

Mar. 17

Faust

Mar. 20

Ernani

Mar. 26

La favorita

Corsi s. Paganelli ms. Pintucci t. Golisciani cond. Arnoldson s. Paganelli ms. Giorgi t. Navarrini bs. Golisciani cond. Corsi s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Golisciani cond. Corsi s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Golisciani cond.

Spring 1908,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Mar. 31 Apr. 2

Un ballo in maschera Don Giovanni

Apr. 7

Il demone

Korolowicz-Wayda s. Szipanek s. Wertheimowna s. Pitynska s. Lewicki t. Dylinski bs. Ostrowski bs.

Spring 1908, Seville:Teatro San Fernando Apr. 27

Ernani

May 1

Rigoletto

May 5

Un ballo in maschera

May 8

Maria di Rohan

May 12

La favorita

Gagliardi s. Cavalieri s. Torres de Luna bs. Podesti cond. Pola s. Carotini ms. Cortada t. Torres de Luna bs. Podesti cond. Gagliardi s. Carotini ms. Goiri t. Podesti cond. Gagliardi s. Carotini ms. Cortada t. Podesti cond. T. Carotini ms. J. Palet t. V. Podesti cond.

Spring 1908, Malaga:Teatro Cervantes May 17

Maria di Rohan

May 19

Ernani

Gagliardi s. Carotini ms. Cortada t. Podesti cond. Gagliardi s. Goiri t. Torres de Luna bs. Podesti cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

361

Autumn 1908,Turin: Politeama Chiarella Nov. 3

Maria di Rohan

Nov. 14

Ernani

Corsi s. Corsini ms. Pintucci t. Gui cond. Burchi s. Maurini t. Dammacco b. Gui cond.

Carnival 1908–1909, Naples:Teatro San Carlo Dec. 28

*Thaïs

Granville s. Massa t. Queirolo bs. Zuccani cond.

Winter 1909,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Jan. 26 Jan. 29 Feb. 6 Feb. 10 Feb. 16

Amleto Il barbiere di Siviglia Concert Ernani Rigoletto Eugene Onegin

Oleska s.

Lent 1909, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Mar. 1

Amleto

Mar. 2

Ernani

Mar. 3

Rigoletto

Mar. 6 Mar. 10

Thaïs La traviata

Boronat s. Navarrini bs. Truffi cond. Leghini s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Truffi cond. Boronat s. Pintucci t. Truffi cond. Cavalieri s. Truffi cond. Cavalieri s. Pintucci t. Truffi cond.

Spring 1909, Lwow:Teatr Municipal Apr. 6

Eugene Onegin

Apr. 7

Faust

Apr. 13

Un ballo in maschera

Bohuss s. Lowcynski t. Stermicz cond. Bohuss s. Lowcynski t. Okonski bs. Stermicz cond. Sollohub s. Milowska s. Tarnawski bs. Stermicz cond.

362

Appendix

Apr. 15

Rigoletto

Apr. 17 Apr. 19 Apr. 27

Il barbiere di Siviglia Il demone La traviata

Szymanowska s. Tarnawski bs. Stermicz cond. Szymanowska s. Tarnawski bs. Bohuss s. Stermicz cond. Szymanowska s. Lowcynski t. Stermicz cond.

Spring 1909, Prague: Neues Deutsches Theater May 8

Ernani

May 13

La favorita

May 19

Il barbiere di Siviglia

May 27

Rigoletto

De Lys s. Barrera t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. Tessaroli ms. Salvaneschi t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Salvaneschi t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Salvaneschi t. Vigna cond.

Autumn 1909, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Dec. 2

La favorita

Dec. 15

Ernani

Dec. 18

Rigoletto

Guerrini ms. Palet t. Rossato bs. Spetrino cond. Llacer s. Pintucci t. Rossato bs. Spetrino cond. Simeoli s. Julia ms. Pintucci t. Rossato bs. Sperino cond.

Carnival 1910, Florence:Teatro Della Pergola Jan. Jan. Jan. Jan.

11 18 25 27

Maria di Rohan Rigoletto Il barbiere di Siviglia Gala concert

De Lys s. Lara t. Nevada s. Mancini t. Nevada s. Huarte t.

Carnival 1910, Parma:Teatro Regio Jan. 30

Maria di Rohan

Feb. 5

Concert

Zanatta s. Lopez Nunez t. Capelli t. Gui cond. The original (Vienna) version of the opera was used, hence Gondy was sung by a tenor.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

363

Lent 1910,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Feb. 21

Mar. 12

Thaïs Un ballo in maschera Ernani Werther

Raccanelli s. Kaftal s. Verger ms. Ischierdo t. Ischierdo t. Fiore bs. Verger ms.

Lent 1910, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Mar. 21

Ernani

Mar. 23

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 24

Amleto

Mar. 27

Rigoletto

Mar. 28

La traviata

Burchi s. Pintucci t. Mansueto bs. Truffi cond. Burchi s. Marchini s. Paganelli ms. Isalberti t. Truffi cond. Finzi-Magrini s. Donati ms. Mansueto bs. Truffi cond. Boronat s. Paganelli ms. Carpi t. Truffi cond. Boronat s. Pintucci t. Truffi cond.

Spring 1910, Moscow Apr. 6

Amleto

Spring 1910, Prague: Deutsches Landestheater May 19

*Maria di Rohan

May 22

Ernani

May 25

Rigoletto

May 27

Il barbiere di Siviglia

May 29

La traviata

De Lys s. Lollini ms. Dani t. Vigna cond. De Lys s. Fazzini t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Dani t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Dani t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Lys s. Piccaver t. Vigna cond.

Spring 1910,Vienna: Hofoper June 3 June 7

Ernani Rigoletto

June 12

Maria di Rohan

De Lys s. Fazzini t. Arimondi bs. De Hidalgo s. Lollini ms. Piccaver t. Arimondi bs. Vigna cond. De Lys s. Lollini ms. Lara t. Vigna cond.

364

Appendix

June 16

Il barbiere di Siviglia

De Hidalgo s. Lara t. Tabecchi bs. Arimondi bs.

Autumn 1910,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Oct. 26

Eugene Onegin

Autumn 1910, Budapest Nov. 1

Don Giovanni

Autumn 1910, Bucharest: Lyric Theatre Nov. 9?

Ernani

Nov. 11?

Rigoletto

Nov. 14

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Nov. 16

Un ballo in maschera Maria di Rohan

Bianchini-Cappelli s. Maurini t. Lucenti bs. Duffau s. Monti-Brunner s. Bolis t. Duffau s. Dammacco t. De Bernau bs. Lucenti bs. Bianchini-Cappelli s. Monti-Brunner s. Maurini t. Bianchini-Cappelli s.

Autumn 1910, Florence:Teatro Della Pergola Dec. 1

Don Giovanni

Linda di Chamonix

Lawrence s. Paradisi s. De Hidalgo s. Naldi t. Navarrini bs. Tamanti b. Medosi bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Lollini ms. Ingar t.

Carnival 1910–1911, Milan:Teatro Alla Scala Dec. 21

Simone Boccanegra

Agostinelli s. Scampini t. Cirino bs. Serafin cond.

Winter 1911, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Jan. 28

Ernani

Pucci s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Truffi cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Jan. 30

Rigoletto

Feb. 3 Feb. 5

Thaïs Don Giovanni

Feb. 8

La traviata

365

Boronat s. Paganelli ms. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Truffi cond. Cavalieri s. Truffi cond. Arnoldson s. Pucci s. Galvani s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Truffi cond. Boronat s. Pintucci t. Truffi cond.

Lent and Spring 1911, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Mar. 11

Macbeth

Mar. 15

Guglielmo Tell

Apr. 12

Don Sebastiano

Gagliardi s. Sala t. Mansueto bs. Mancinelli cond. Russ s. Zamco t. (later Gilion t.) Mansueto bs. Mancinelli cond. Guerrini ms. Ferrari-Fontana t. Brondi bs. Mancinelli cond.

Spring 1911,Vienna: Hofoper May 3 May 6 May 10

La traviata Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera

Kurz s. Maikl t. Kurz s. Kittel ms. Maikl t. Elizza s. Kurz s. Kittel ms. Miller t.

Spring 1911, Prague: Neues Deutsches Theater May 19

Don Giovanni

May 21

Un ballo in maschera

May 23

Amleto

May 25

Rigoletto

Autumn 1911,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Dec. 1

*Quo vadis? Tosca

Laurence s. De Hidalgo s. Piccaver t. Navarini bs. Vigna cond. Laurence s. De Hidalgo s. Ceresoli ms. Navarini bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Ceresoli ms. Piccaver t. Navarini bs. Vigna cond. De Hidalgo s. Piccaver t. F. Navarini bs. Vigna cond.

366

Appendix

Dec. 14 Dec. 25

Un ballo in maschera Ernani La Dannazione di Fausto

Lahowska s. Genzardi t.

Winter 1912, St. Petersburg: Grande Salle du Conservatoire Jan. 23 Jan. 25 Jan. 27

Thaïs Tannhäuser Rigoletto

Feb. 5 Feb. 10

Tosca Un ballo in maschera

Cavalieri s. Russ s. Carasa t. Arimondi bs. Boronat s. Garbin t. Arimondi bs. Cavalieri s. Garbin t. Russ s. Carasa t. Arimondi bs.

Lent 1912, Moscow:Teatr Solodovnikoff Feb. 28 Feb. 29 Mar. 1 Mar. 2 Mar. 8

Ernani La traviata Il barbiere di Siviglia Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto

Galvany s. Giorgini t. Giorgini t. Galvany s. Giorgini t.

Lent 1912, Odessa: Municipal Theatre Mar. 17?

Ernani

Mar. 19

Un ballo in maschera

Mar. 20 Mar. 21

Amleto La traviata Pagliacci? Rigoletto?

Karpova s. Rosanoff t. Nicolsky bs. Karpova s. Zweifel s. Rosanoff t. Monska s. Labia s.

Spring 1912, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Apr. 7

Un ballo in maschera

Apr. 9

Ernani

Rakowska s. Graziani s. Mareck ms. Scampini t. Cirino bs. Vitale cond. Capella s. Scampini t. Cirino bs. Vitale cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

367

Spring 1912,Vienna:Volksoper Apr. 22 Apr. 24 Apr. 27

Un ballo in maschera Quo vadis? L’Africana

Engel s. Ziegler t.

Spring 1912, Prague: Neues Deutsches Theater May May May May

4 6 8 11

Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera L’Africana Ernani

Francillo-Kaufmann s. Bland s. Bland s. Dimano t. Lefler s. Dimano t.

Autumn 1912,Trieste: Politeama Rossetti Oct. 19

Maria di Rohan

Corsi s. Verger ms. Parola t.

Autumn 1912,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Oct. 29 Oct. 31 Nov. 1 Nov. 8 Nov. 19

Il demone Tosca La Dannazione di Fausto Quo vadis? Un ballo in maschera

Swarecka s. Ruskowska s. Genzardi t. Lachowskiej s. Genzardi t. Swarecka s. Dygas t.

Autumn 1912, Berlin: Hofoper Nov. 30 Dec. 2 Dec. 5

Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto La traviata

Carnival 1912–1913, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Dec. 27

Maria di Rohan

Jan. 4

Don Carlo

Capella s. Lucci ms. Pintucci t. Vitale cond. Capella s. Garibaldi ms. Johnson t. (later Taccani t.) De Angelis bs. Vitale cond.

368

Appendix

Winter 1913, St. Petersburg:Teatr Narodiago Doma Feb. 4 Feb. 17 Feb. 20

Un ballo in maschera Il Demone Tosca

Dygas t.

Lent 1913, Moscow:Teatr Solodovnikoff Feb. 27 Mar. 1 Mar. 3 Mar. 5

Un ballo in maschera Tosca Rigoletto Ernani

Lent 1913, Kiev:Teatr Solozoff Mar.

Ernani Un ballo in maschera Il demone Tosca Maria di Rohan

Karpova s. Karpova s. Karpova s. Pintucci t. Karpova s. Pintucci t.

Spring 1913, Odessa: Municipal Theatre Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr.

6 8 10 12 13 15

Il demone Un ballo in maschera Ernani Pagliacci Tosca Maria di Rohan

Karpova s. Rosanoff t. Karpova s. Rosanoff t. Karpova s. Rosanoff t.

Spring 1913,Vienna:Volksoper Apr. Apr. Apr. Apr.

24 26 28 30

Pagliacci Un ballo in maschera L’Africana La traviata

Summer 1913, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Sept.

Un ballo in maschera

Viscardi s. Santoro s. Verger ms. Saludas t. (later Bari t.)

Mattia Battistini Chronology

369

Summer 1913,Todi:Teatro Comunale Sept.

La favorita

Ceresoli ms. Eliseo t.

Autumn 1913,Vienna:Volksoper Nov. Nov. Nov. Nov.

2 4 6 8

Il trovatore Don Giovanni La traviata Un ballo in maschera

Engel s. Kalter ms. Lustman t.

Autumn 1913, Munich: Hofoper Nov. 15

Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera La traviata

Autumn 1913, Berlin: Philharmonic Nov. 27?

Concert

Autumn 1913, St. Petersburg Dec. 9 Dec. 11

Concert Concert

Autumn 1913, Moscow:Teatr Solodovnikoff Dec. Dec. Dec. Dec. Dec.

16 18 20 22 29

Rigoletto Ernani Un ballo in maschera Maria di Rohan *Thaïs

Melis s.

Winter 1914, St. Petersburg:Teatr Narodiago Doma Jan. 20

Rigoletto

Jan. 23

Un ballo in maschera

Sari s. Rubadi ms. Polverosi t. Villani bs. Boninsegna s. Rubadi ms. Pintucci t. Villani bs. Ottoboni bs.

370

Appendix

Jan. 26

Il demone

Jan. 28

Ernani

Jan. 31

Il trovatore

Feb. 4 Feb. 13

Tosca Pagliacci

Sari s. Rubadi ms. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Boninsegna s. Pintucci t. Navarrini bs. Boninsegna s. Rubadi ms. Zerola t. Villani bs. Boninsegna s. Pintucci t. Sari s. Pintucci t. Anceschi b.

Lent 1914, Kharkov:Teatr Mussura Feb. Feb. Feb. Feb. Feb.

21 23 24 27 29

Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera Maria di Rohan? Ernani Il barbiere di Siviglia

Coppola t. Truffi cond. Coppola t. Truffi cond. Coppola t. Truffi cond. Truffi cond.

Lent 1914, Kiev:Teatr Solozoff Mar. 9 Mar. 10 Mar. 12

Thaïs Ernani Maria di Rohan

Sari s. Boninsegna s. Tedeschi t. Boninsegna s. Tedeschi t.

Lent 1914, Odessa: Municipal Theatre Mar. 15 Mar. 17 Mar. 19

Ernani Maria di Rohan Pagliacci

Boninsegna s. Seliavin t. Boninsegna s.

Spring 1914, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Apr. 2

La favorita

Spring 1914, Hamburg: Stadt Theater Apr. 25 Apr. 28

Rigoletto Amleto Il barbiere di Siviglia

Casazza ms. Lazaro t. Bardi bs. Vitale cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

371

Spring 1914, Munich Concert Autumn 1914, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Oct. 19

Concert

Autumn 1914, Bologna:Teatro Del Corso Nov. 21

Ernani

Dec. 2?

Rigoletto

Russ s. Fazzini t. Masini-Pieralli bs. Bavagnoli cond. D’Oria s. Rotondi t. Lanzoni bs. Bavagnoli cond.

Carnival 1914–1915, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Jan. 1 Jan. 5

Thaïs Il barbiere di Siviglia

Bellincioni-Stagno s. Vitale cond. De Hidalgo s. Georgevsky t. Walter bs. Pini-Corsi b. Vitale cond.

Winter 1915, Bari:Teatro Petruzelli Jan. 23

Maria di Rohan

Pavoni s. Zaccarini ms. Piliego t.

Lent 1915, Rome:Teatro Quirino Mar. 13

Dinorah

De Hidalgo s. Luigioni ms. (later Pieroni ms.) Pini-Corsi t. Belli bs. Mascagni cond.

Lent 1915, Genoa: Politeama Genovese Mar. 18

Maria di Rohan

Bellincioni-Stagno s. Zaccarini ms. Piliego t. La Rotella cond.

Spring 1915, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Apr. 7

Rigoletto

Finzi-Magrini s. Perini ms. Lazaro t. Berardi bs. Vitale cond.

372

Appendix

Spring 1915, Rome:Teatro Adriano Apr. 24

Ruy Blas

Rossini s. Passari ms. Perico t. Arimondi bs. Zuccani cond.

Summer 1915,Terni: Politeama Ternano Sept. 18

Lucia di Lammermoor

Benigni s. Ciaroff-Ciarini t. Cerquetelli cond.

Autumn 1915,Terni:Teatro Comunale Oct. 30

Rigoletto

Benigni s. Vornos ms. Ciaroff-Ciarini t. Cerquetelli cond.

Autumn 1915, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Nov. 3

Rigoletto

Benigni s. Vornos ms. Ciaroff-Ciarini t.

Autumn 1915, Florence: Politeama Nov. 18

Maria di Rohan

Zanatta s. Lucchini ms. Re t.

Carnival 1915–1916, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Dec. 28

La forza del destino

Mazzoleni s. Besanzoni ms. De Tura t. (later Tommasini t.) Bettoni bs. Vitale cond.

Winter 1916, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Jan. 8

Maria di Rohan

Jan. 13

La traviata

Jan. 16

Rigoletto

Isaia s. Lucci ms. Quarti t. Padovani cond. Pareto s. Nadal t. Padovani cond. Pareto s. Lucci ms. Palet t. Nicoletti-Kormann bs. Padovani cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Jan. 25

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Jan. 27

Un ballo in maschera

373

Pareto s. Santhui t. Paterna bs. Mugnoz bs. Padovani cond. Viscardi s. Frau ms. Palet t. Padovani cond.

Winter 1916, Lisbon: Coliseo Dos Recreios Feb. 8

Maria di Rohan

Feb. 10

Ernani

Feb. 12

Rigoletto

Feb. 15

La traviata

Feb. 19

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Toschi s. Marescotti t. Puccetti cond. Lopez s. Tincani t. Marisches bs. Puccetti cond. Tagelli s. Marescotti t. Puccetti cond. De Martini s. Marescotti t. Puccetti cond. Tagelli s. Marescotti t. Marisches bs. Fiore bs. Puccetti cond.

Winter 1916, Madrid:Teatro Real Mar. 4

Ernani

Mar. 18 Mar. 23

*Thaïs Rigoletto

Nieto s. Cunego t. Mansueto bs. Panizza cond. Vix s. Panizza cond. Capsir s. Polverosi t. Torres de Luna bs.

Spring 1916, San Sebastian:Teatro Victoria Eugenia Apr. 23

Ernani

Apr. 26

La traviata

Apr. 27

Rigoletto

Nieto s. Elias t. Torres de Luna bs. Galvany s. Nadal t. Saco del Valle cond. Galvany s. Barea ms. Nadal t. Torres de Luna bs. Saco del Valle cond.

Spring 1916, La Corugna:Teatro Rosalia Castro Apr. 30? May 2 May 4

Ernani La traviata Rigoletto

Nieto s. Torres de Luna bs. Ottein s. Nadal t. Ottein s. Nadal t.

374

Appendix

Spring 1916, Paris: Comedie Francaise May 24

Concert

Autumn 1916, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Nov. 4

Tannhäuser

Nov. 8

Ernani

Nov. 18

*Maruxa

Nov. 18

Pagliacci

Nov. 27

Tosca

Dec. 2

*Il segreto di Susanna

Nieto s. Camozzi s. Fazzini t. Ricceri bs. Lamote de Grignon cond. Nieto s. Fazzini t. Masini-Pieralli bs. Padovani cond. Nieto s. Ros s. Marescotti t. Pini-Corsi bs. Padovani cond. Ross s. Elias t. F. Bonini b. Sabater cond. Zeppili s. Schipa t. Padovani cond. Zeppili s. Padovani cond.

Autumn 1916,Valencia:Teatro Principal Dec. 8

Ernani

Dec. 10

La traviata

Forni s. De Tura t. Rossato bs. Vehils cond. Ottein s. Maurini t. Vehils cond.

Carneval 1916–1917 Milan-Teatro Alla Scala Jan. 4

Ernani

Mazzoleni s. Fusati t. Mansueto bs. Panizza cond.

Carneval 1917, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Jan. 27 Feb. 6

Thaïs Rigoletto

Feb. 10 Feb. 17

La traviata La vecchia aquila

Melis s. Vitale cond. Marchal s. Zinetti ms. Hackett t. Vitale cond. Marchal s. Hackett t. Vitale cond. Campigna s. Lafuente t. Vitale cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

375

Lent 1917, Monte Carlo: Salle Garnier Feb. 27

Ernani

Mar. 6

Il demone

Mar. 13

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Heldy s. Faletti t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond. Kruszelnizka s. Georgevsky t. Jehin cond. De Hidalgo s. Georgevsky t. Journet bs. Pini-Corsi b. Lauweryns cond.

Spring 1917, Paris: Paris Opera Mar. 22 Mar. 25

Maria di Rohan Rigoletto

Mar. 29

Thaïs

De Lys s. Re t. Vigna cond. Capsir s. (later Campredon s.) Lollini ms. Krismer t. (later Re t.; then O’Sullivan t.) Berthon s. O’Sullivan t.

Spring 1917, Monte Carlo: Salle Garnier Apr. 3

Rigoletto

Zeppilli s. Schipa t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond.

Spring 1917, Paris: Paris Opera Apr. 14

Hamlet

Apr. 21

La favorita

Huberty bs. Büsser/Rühlmann cond. Sylva ms. Laffitte t. Huberty bs. Vigna cond.

Autumn and Winter 1917–1918, Paris: Paris Opera Dec. 1

Henri VIII

Dec. 6 Dec. 11

Thaïs Rigoletto

Dec. 22

La favorita

Demougeot s. Bonnet-Baron ms. O’Sullivan t. Gresse bs. Rühlmann cond. Vecart s. O’Sullivan t. (later Laffitte t.) Reyer ms. Laffitte t.

376

Appendix

Dec. 23 Jan. 5 Feb. 10 Feb. 16

Les virtuosi de Mazarin Hamlet Gala concert Maria di Rohan (act 3)

Vecart s.

Lent 1918, Monte Carlo: Salle Garnier Feb. 28

Rigoletto

Mar. 5

La traviata

Mar. 14

Tosca

Pareto s. Schipa t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond. Pareto s. Schipa t. Lauweryns cond. Dalla Rizza s. Schipa t. De Sabata cond.

Autumn 1918, Barcelona:Teatro Del Liceo Dec. 4 Dec. 17

Thaïs Don Giovanni

Dec. 25

La traviata

Vix s. Vitale cond. Pasini-Vitale s. Pareto s. Bosini s. Macnez t. Masini-Pieralli bs. Vitale cond. Storchio s. Macnez t. Vitale cond.

Winter 1919, Madrid:Teatro Real Jan. 2

Maria di Rohan

Jan. 5

Pagliacci

Jan. 7

Thaïs

Nieto s. Capuana s. Cortis t. Falconi cond. Nieto s. Zenatello t. Cortis t. Sacco del Valle cond. G. Vix s. A. Cortis t. G. Falconi cond.

Winter 1919, Paris: Paris Opera Jan. 29

Rigoletto

Feb. 1

Thaïs

Feb. 14

Henri VIII

Vécart s. Courso ms. Laffitte t. Huberty bs. Vigna cond. Visconti s. Dubois t. Narçon bs. Rühlmann cond. Demougeot s. Lapeyrette ms. Dubois t. Gresse bs. Narçon bs.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

377

Lent 1919, Monte Carlo: Salle Garnier Mar. 2

Rigoletto

Mar. 8 Mar. 11

Thaïs Il barbiere di Siviglia

Mar. 18

La traviata

Mar. 22 Mar. 27

Tosca *Ruy Blas

Raffaelli s. (later Borghi-Zerni s.) Schipa t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond. Lubin s. Warnery t. Jehin cond. De Hidalgo s. Schipa t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond. Borghi-Zerni s. Gigli t. Jehin cond. Lubin s. Gigli t. De Sabata cond. Villani s. Lollini ms. Lappas t. Journet bs. Lauweryns cond.

Summer 1919, Deauville Casino Aug.

Concert La traviata Tosca Ernani

Summer 1919, Ostend Aug.

Concerts

Carnival 1919–1920, Rome:Teatro Costanzi Jan. 10

La forza del destino

Zola s. Casazza ms. Grassi t. De Angelis bs. (later Pinza bs.) Vitale cond. (later Santini cond.)

Winter 1920, Paris:Theatre Des Champs Elysees Feb. 27

Quo vadis? (10)

Lafargue s.

Winter 1920, Cannes:Theatre Municipal Mar. 13?

Don Giovanni

Morlet s. Vallin s. Ritter-Ciampi s. Trantoul t. Aquistapace bs. Hahn cond.

378

Appendix

Mar. 17

Rigoletto

Mar. 19 Mar. 23

La traviata Thaïs

Ritter-Ciampi s. Laffite t. Aquistapace bs. Ritter-Ciampi s. Laffite t. Vally s. Messager cond.

Spring 1920, Zurich: Stadt Theater June 15

Rigoletto

June 19

La traviata

June 20

Un ballo in maschera

June 25

Il barbiere di Siviglia

Borghi-Zerni s. Serena s. Tedeschi t. Autori bs. Falconi cond. Borghi-Zerni s. Tedeschi t. Falconi cond. Russ s. Donatello s. Famadas t. Falconi cond. Borghi-Zerni s. Salvati s. Autori b. Paterna bs. Falconi cond.

Summer 1920, Concert Tour Cities visited include Berne, Basel, Lucerne, and Zurich.

Summer 1920, Stockholm Stadium Sept. 18

Concert

Summer 1920, Stockholm Auditorium Sept. 24

Concert

Autumn 1920, Stockholm: Royal Opera Oct. 1

Rigoletto

Oct. 4 Oct. 7

Tosca La favorita

Autumn 1920,Vienna:Volksoper Oct. 24

Rigoletto

Andrejewa-Skilondz s. Stockman t. Edström s. Johannsen t.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

379

Autumn 1920,Trieste: Politeama Rossetti Nov. 25

Rigoletto

Tumbarello-Mule s. Massucci ms. Lauri-Volpi t. Del Castillo bs. Baroni cond.

Carnevale 1920–1921, Padua:Teatro Verdi Dec. 21?

Rigoletto

Dal Monte s. Ticozzi ms. Salvaneschi t. Rossi bs.

Winter 1921, Rome:Teatro Argentino Jan. 20

Concert

Winter 1921, Nice: Nice Casino Jan. 24

Rigoletto

Jan. 31

Tosca

Feb. 15

La traviata

Feb. 18

Thaïs

Vecart s. Eguileor t. Vigna cond. Fani s. Eguileor t. Vigna cond. Van Brandt s. Eguileor t. Miranne cond. Kousnezoff s.

Winter 1921, Nice:Theatre Municipal (Concurrent with the season at the Casino) Jan. 26

La Gioconda

Burchi s. Dalmas ms. Eguileor t. Vigna cond.

Winter 1921, Paris: Paris Opera Feb. 21

Rigoletto

Summer 1921, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano July 16

Ernani

Ritter-Ciampi s. Courso ms. Laffitte t. Gresse bs.

380

Appendix

Autumn 1921, Concert Tour Cities visited include Berlin (September 24), Copenhagen (September 27? and 30?), Oslo, and Stockholm (October 4). Autumn 1921, Zurich: Stadt Theater Un ballo in maschera Rigoletto Autumn 1921, Berlin: Hofoper Nov. 3 Nov. 7 Nov. 13

Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera Tosca

Catopol s. Hutt t. Land s. Kirchner t. Labia s. Taalen t.

Autumn 1921, Concert Tour Cities visited include Stockholm (November 23) and Zurich (November 28).

Winter 1922, Berlin: Hofoper Jan. 9

Otello

Kemp s. Slezak t.

Winter 1922, Monte Carlo: Salle Garnier Mar. 4

La favorita

Mar. 7 Mar. 12

Thaïs Il barbiere di Siviglia

Lahowska ms. Borgioli t. Lanskoy bs. Lauweryns cond. Heldy s. Jehin cond. Di Veroli s. Borgioli t. Huberdeau bs. Lanskoy bs. Lauweryns cond.

Spring 1922, Paris: Opera Comique Mar. 24

La traviata

Apr. 3

Tosca

Kousnezoff s. Lapelletrie t. Catherine cond. Kousnezoff s.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Spring 1922, Paris: Paris Opera Apr. 8

Rigoletto

Ritter-Ciampi s. Hackett t. Vigna cond.

Spring 1922, Paris: Salle Gaveau Apr. 23

Concert

Spring 1922, London: Queen’s Hall May 3 May 12

Concert Concert

Summer 1922, Berlin Sept.

Concert

Autumn and/or Winter 1922–1923, Concert Tour The only city confirmed to date is San Sebastian in late December or early January.

Spring 1923, London: Queen’s Hall May 12 May 18

Concert Concert

Spring 1923, Prague: Neues Deutsches Theater May 25

Tosca

Summer 1923, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Aug. 19

Tosca

Summer 1923, Concert Tour The only city confirmed to date is Munich in late August or early September.

381

382

Appendix

Summer 1923, Stockholm Sept.

Tosca Il barbiere di Siviglia?

Autumn 1923 Concert Tour Cities visited include Malmo and Stockholm.

Autumn 1923, Berlin: Hofoper Nov. 19

Tosca

Salvatini s.

Autumn 1923, Prague Nov.

Concert

Autumn 1923,Vienna:Volksoper Dec. 4

La traviata

Dec. 6

Tosca

von Debicka s. Ludwig t. Weingartner cond. Rantzau s. Grosavescu t. Kaiser cond.

Autumn 1923, Basel: Stadt Theater Dec. 13

La traviata

Darth s.

Autumn 1923, Zurich: Stadt Theater Dec. 16 Dec. 18

Tosca Concert

Autumn 1923, Berne: Salle Du Casino Dec.

Concert

Winter 1924,Vienna:Volksoper Mar. 5

Un ballo in maschera

Pfiffer-Lox s. Böhm s. Besalla s. Rittersheim t. Weirich cond.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Mar. 8

Tosca

Mar. 2

Rigoletto

Mar. 12

L’Africana

383

Rantzau s. Grosavescu t. Kaiser cond. Gerö s. Rittersheim t. Kaplan bs. Krauss cond. Rantzau s. Rittersheim t. Markowski bs. Weingartner cond.

Winter 1924,Warsaw: Philharmonic Mar. 17

Concert

Spring 1924, Poznan:Teatr Wielki Mar. 26

Rigoletto

Mar. 28

Un ballo in maschera

Spring 1924,Warsaw:Teatr Wielki Apr. 2 Apr. 4

Rigoletto Un ballo in maschera

Spring 1924, Berlin Apr. 23

Concert

Spring 1924, London: Queen’s Hall May 21 May 25

Concert Concert

Spring 1924, London: Royal Albert Hall June 1

Concert

Autumn 1924, Concert Tour

Marynowicz-Madeyowa s. Szafranska ms. Bedlewicz t. Urbanowicz bs. Cywinska s. Szafranska ms. Walinski t. Urbanowicz bs.

384

Appendix

Cities visited include Stockholm (October), Berlin (October), Vienna (October), Berlin (October 30), Dresden (November 9), Berlin, Prague, and Vienna (November 20). Autumn 1924,Vienna: Staatsoper Nov. 27 Nov. 29

La traviata Un ballo in maschera

Kurz s. Tauber t.

Winter 1925,Vienna: Staatsoper Mar. 20

Ernani

Kurz s. Slezak t. Zec bs.

Spring 1925, Concert Tour Cities visited include Prague (April) and Berlin (April). Spring 1925, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano May 22

Concert

Summer and Autumn 1925, Concert Tour Cities visited include Dresden (July), Baden Baden (October 3), Leipzig (October 17), Dresden (October 20), and Prague (October 30). Autumn 1925,Vienna: Staatsoper Nov. 5

Rigoletto

Nov. 9 Nov. 21

Ernani Un ballo in maschera

Autumn 1925, Budapest: Operahaz Dec.

Tosca Un ballo in maschera La traviata

Kurz s. Paalen ms. Grosavescu t. (later Piccaver t.) Zec bs. Kurz s. Grosavescu t. Zec bs. Nemeth s. Kurz s. Paalen ms. Maikl t.

Mattia Battistini Chronology

Winter 1926, Rome Concerts Spring 1926, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano May 22

Concert

Autumn 1926, Concert Tour Cities visited include Dortmund (September), Mannheim (September), Berlin (October 20 and 22), Prague (October and November), Vienna (November 7), Munich (November 10?), and others. Spring 1927, Concert Tour The only city confirmed to date is Stuttgart on May 2. Summer 1927 Berlin Concerts Summer 1927, Rieti:Teatro Vespasiano Aug. 27 Aug. 28 Sept. 10

Concert Concert Concert

Autumn 1927, Concert Tour Cities visited include Prague (October) and Vienna (October 16).

385

Discography

The following list attempts to present an outline of Battistini’s recorded legacy. Titles of recorded selections (in italics) are in the language in which they are sung. Unless otherwise indicated, recordings are produced by The Gramophone Company. Exact recording dates and orchestral arrangements are given when known. The composer’s name is given in this list only for material released publicly by the original recording company. An asterisk after the reference number denotes that the recording is lost and no original matrix is known to exist. (The list begins on the next page.)

387

The Demon Il barbiere di Siviglia Faust La favorita (with Tilde Carotini)

Don Giovanni Tannhäuser Eugene Onegin Don Giovanni

866c 874c 875c

Per la Patria Ernani (unknown; perhaps the first take of following title)

Recording Director Fred Gaisberg Orchestra conducted by Carlo Sabajno Members of La Scala Chorus, Aristide Venturi, conductor

Milan 1906

439z 440z 441z 442z 443z 444z 445z 446z 447z 448z 449z

Recording Director F. Hampe With piano accompaniment

Warsaw 1902

“Or limpida m’appare” “O dei verd’anni miei”

“Finch’han dal vino” (with reprise) “O tu bell’astro (Forier di morte)” “Se dell’imen la dolce cura” “Deh vieni alla finestra” “La Mantilla” “Occhi di fata” “Ancora” “Deh non plorar” “Largo al factotum” “Dio possente” “Ah, l’alto ardor (In questo suolo)”

Cocchi Verdi

Mozart Wagner Tchaikovsky Mozart Alvarez Denza Tosti Rubenstein Rossini Gounod Donizetti

882c 883c 884c 885c 886c 887c 888c 889c

876c 877c 878c 879c 879.5c 880c 881c

Ernani (with Emilia Corsi) Un ballo in maschera (perhaps second take of preceding title) Ernani (first take) Ernani (with Aristodemo Sillich) Ernani Ernani (with Corsi, Luigi Colazza, Sillich, and chorus) Don Giovanni (with Emilia Corsi) Martha La favorita Don Sebastiano Un ballo in maschera (without Battistini: duet Corsi and Acerbi) La Damnation de Faust Zampa Mozart Flotow Donizetti Donizetti Verdi Berlioz Hérold

“Su queste rose” “Perchè tremar”

Verdi Verdi Verdi Verdi

“Lo vedremo” “Lo vedremo” “Vieni meco” “O sommo Carlo” “Là ci darèm (Alfin siam liberati)” “Il mio Lionel (Povero Lionel)” “A tanto amor” “O Lisbona” “Eri tu”

Verdi Verdi

“Da quel dì” “Alla vita”

Thomas Gounod Tosti

“Come il romito fior” “Le soir” (with piano) “Amour, amour” (with piano)

“Te Deum (Tre sbirri . . . )” “Te Deum” “O vin discaccia la tristezza” “D’acqua aspergimi” “Allor che tu coll’estro” “O santa medaglia” “Ah per sempre”

3 June 1911 270ai Tosca 271ai Tosca (second take, not released) 272ai Hamlet (with chorus) 273ai Thaïs (unreleased; with Boccolini) 274ai Tannhäuser 275ai Faust 276ai I puritani

Wagner Gounod Bellini

Thomas

Puccini

Leoncavallo Leoncavallo Massenet Massenet

“Si può?” (prologue) “Un nido di memorie” “Ma come dopo” “Ah non mi ridestar” “Ah non mi ridestar” “Di Provenza il mar”

2 June 1911 260ai I Pagliacci (side one: beginning) 261ai I Pagliacci (side two: conclusion) 262ai Werther 263ai Werther 264ai Werther (second take, unpublished) 266ai La traviata (first take unreleased; second take 6 June) 267ai Hamlet 268ai 269ai

Recording Director Fred Gaisberg Orchestra conducted by Carlo Sabajno Members of La Scala Chorus, Aristide Venturi, conductor

Milan 1911

295ai 296ai

7 June 1911 292ai 293ai 294ai

6 June 1911 277ai Thaïs (first take unreleased; with Attilia Janni) 278ai Thaïs (with Attilia Janni) 279ai* Hamlet (duo with Janni; unreleased) 280ai* Rigoletto (duo with Janni; unreleased) 281ai Maria di Rohan 282ai Maria di Rohan (second take, unreleased) 283ai I puritani (first take, unreleased) 284ai I puritani 285ai La traviata 286ai Tannhäuser 287ai Tannhäuser 288ai 289ai 290ai 291ai

“La Serenata” (with piano) “La gondola nera” (with piano) “Non m’ama più” (first take, unreleased) “Non m’ama più” (with piano) “Mia sposa sarà la mia bandiera” (second take for security, unreleased)

“Piangi fanciulla” “Bella è di sol vestita” “Bella è di sol vestita” “Bel sogno beato” “Bel sogno beato” “Di Provenza (Mio figlio! . . . )” “La lotta dei bardi (Nel rimirar . . . )” “O tu bel’astro (Forier di morte)” “Culto” (with piano) “Ideale” (with piano) “O ma charmante” (with piano) “Mia sposa sarà la mia bandiera” (with piano)

“D’acqua aspergimi”

“D’acqua aspergimi”

Tosti

Tosti Rotoli

Bellini Bellini Verdi Wagner Wagner Denza Tosti Quaranta Rotoli

Donizetti

Massenet

Meyerbeer Meyerbeer Donizetti

“Quando amor m’accende” “Averla tanto amata” “Ambo nate in questa valle”

“Errar sull’ampio mar” “O Febea (Invocation)” “Cruda funesta smania”

“Decidi il mio destin” “E allor perchè?” “E allor perchè?” “O mia Gilda” “Un buon servo di visconte” “Pura siccome un angelo” “Pura siccome un angelo”

27 May 1912 218af Quo vadis? 219af Quo vadis? 220af Lucia di Lammermoor

28 May 1912 Duos with Maria Moscisca: 221af I Pagliacci (side one, beginning) 222af I Pagliacci (side two, conclusion) 222.5af I Pagliacci 223af Rigoletto 224af Linda di Chamonix 225af La traviata (first take, unreleased) 225.5af La traviata

Verdi

Verdi Donizetti

Leoncavallo Leoncavallo

Nouguès Nouguès Donizetti

Meyerbeer

“Figlia di regi”

5 May 1912 214af L’Africaine (side one) 215af L’Africaine (side two) 216af L’Africaine 217af Linda di Chamonix

Artistic Director Edmund J. Pearse Orchestra conducted by Carlo Sabajno

Milan 1912

2 June 17569b 17570b 17571b 2807c 2808c 2808.5c 2809c 2809.5c 2810c*

Don Carlo (side one) Don Carlo (second take, not released) Don Carlo (first take, not released) Don Carlo (side two; second take, released) Il trovatore (one take only)

1913 Don Giovanni La favorita (side one) La favorita (side two)

Recording Director Fred Gaisberg Orchestra conducted by Carlo Sabajno

Milan 1913

29 May 1912 226af Guglielmo Tell 227af Quo vadis? 228af Otello 229af “Delizia: Trauerwalzer No. 2, D 365” (with piano) 233af Hérodiade (with piano) 234af Macbeth (with piano) 235af Nerone (with piano) 236af

Verdi Verdi

Mozart Donizetti Donizetti Tosti Verdi

Massenet Verdi Rubenstein Denza

“Vision fuggitiva” “Pietà rispetto e amore” “Imen, Imen (Epitalamio)” “Occhi di fata” (with piano)

“Deh vieni alla finestra” “Vien Leonora” “Dei nemici tuoi (Ah mia Leonora)” “Malia” “Per me giunto (Felice ancor io son)” “Per me giunto” “Io morrò ma lieto in core” “Io morrò ma lieto in core (O Carlo ascolta)” “Il balen”

Rossini Nouguès Verdi Schubert

“Resta immobile” “Amici l’ora attesta è questa” “Era la notte”

3 June 1913 2811c* Lucia di Lammermoor (with Calliope Sainesco, Giuseppe Di Bernardo, Vincenzo Bettoni, and chorus; not released) 2811.5c* Lucia di Lammermoor: same artists as above (second take, not released) 2812c Un ballo in maschera (with Elvira Barbieri,Vincenzo Bettoni, and chorus; first take) 2812.5c Un ballo in maschera (with Barbieri, Bettoni, and chorus; second take, not released) 2813c Ernani (with Barbieri, G. Tommasini, and Bettoni; first take, not released) 2813 1/2c Ernani (with Berbieri, Tommasini, and Bettoni) 2814c Lucia di Lammermoor (with Sainesco) 2814.5c Lucia di Lammermoor (second take, not released) 2815c Il trovatore (first take, not released) 2815.5c Il trovatore (side one; with Barbieri) 2816c Il trovatore (side two; with Barbieri) 2816.5c Faust (side one; with Barbieri and chorus) Verdi

“Ve’ se di notte”

Verdi Verdi Gounod

“Vivra contente il giubilo” “Valentin’s death (Per di quà . . . )”

Donizetti

“Soffriva nel pianto” “Soffriva nel pianto” “Mira d’acerbe lacrime” “Mira d’acerbe lacrime”

Verdi

“Vedi come un buon vegliardo”

“Vedi come un buon vegliardo”

Verdi

“Ve’ se di notte”

“Chi mi frena”

“Chi mi frena”

Faust (first take, not released) Faust (second take, not released) Faust (with Barbieri and chorus; side two) Un ballo in maschera (with Barbieri, Bettoni, and chorus; edited in England) Un ballo in maschera (second take, not released) Maria di Rohan “Voce fatal di morte”

“Ve’ se di notte”

“Ve’ se di notte”

“Valentin’s death (Stammi ad udir)”

“Valentin’s death” (conclusion) “Valentin’s death” (beginning)

Donizetti

Verdi

Gounod

21 May 1921 BA 1-1 BA 1-2 CA 2-1 Le Roi de Lahore (first take, not released) CA 2-2 Le Roi de Lahore (second take, not released) CA 2-3 Le Roi de Lahore BA 3

“O casto fior (Le barbare tribu)” “Vittoria, vittoria” (accompanied by Carlo Sabajno, piano)

“La Mantilla” (first take, not released) “La Mantilla” “O casto fior” “O casto fior” Massenet Carissimi

Recording Engineer R. R. Sooy two first violins, two second violins, one viola, one cello; one flute, one oboe, two clarinets, one bassoon; two trumpets, one French horn, one trombone, one tuba; one piano Orchestra conducted by Carlo Sabajno

Milan 1921

2822c

2821.5c

2821c

2820c

2818c 2819c

CM 25

Ruy Blas (backup take, not released)

“A miei rivali cedere”

“Voce fatal di morte” “Vien Leonor” “Urna fatale” “Egli è salvo” “Egli è salvo (E s’altra prova rinveni)”

24 May 1921 CA 10 Maria di Rohan CA 11 La favorita (with Alberto Trevisan, flute) CA 12-1 La forza del destino (first take, not released) BA 12-2 La forza del destino (first take, not released) BA 13-2 La forza del destino

26 May 1921 Recording director W. J. Bechwith

“Si vendetta” “Si vendetta (No vecchio timpani)” “Ebbrezza delirio” “Ebbrezza delirio (Così mantieni il patto)”

“O tu bell’astro (Forier di morte)” “O sommo Carlo” “O sommo Carlo”

“O tu bell’astro”

“A miei rivale cedere” “Per me giunto (Felice ancor io son)” “Per me giunto”

23 May 1921 CA 6-2 Tannhäuser CA 7-1 Ernani (first take, not released) CA 7-2 Ernani (with Giuseppe Taccani, Jannina De Witt, and chorus) BA 8-1 Rigoletto (first take, not released) BA 8-2 Rigoletto (with Lula Hayes) CA 9-1 La Gioconda (first take, not released) CA 9-2 La Gioconda (with De Witt)

22 May 1921 CA 4 Ruy Blas CA 5 Don Carlo CA 5-2 Don Carlo (second take, not released) CA 6-1 Tannhäuser (first take, not released)

Verdi

Donizetti Donizetti

Ponchielli

Verdi

Verdi

Wagner

Marchetti Verdi

La favorita (backup take, not released) Maria di Rudenz (accompanied by Carlo Sabajno, piano)

“Vien Leonora” “Ah non avea più lagrime (Egli ancora non giunge)” Donizetti

22 February 1924 Ck1418-1 La forza del destino Ck1418-2 La forza del destino (second take, not released) Ck1419-1 Don Carlo (first take, not released) Ck1419-2 Don Carlo (second take, not released) Ck1419-3 Don Carlo Ck1419-4 Don Carlo (second take, not released) Bk1422-1 Un ballo in maschera Bk1422-2 Un ballo in maschera (second take, not released) Ck1423-1 La favorita Ck1423-2 La favorita (second take, not released) 24 February 1924 Ck1424-1 Un ballo in maschera Ck1424-2 Un ballo in maschera (second take, not released)

Donizetti

Verdi

“Eri tu (Non è su lei . . . )” “Eri tu”

Verdi

Verdi

Verdi

“A tanto amor” “A tanto amor”

“O Carlo ascolta” “O Carlo ascolta” “Alla vita” “Alla vita”

“Per me giunto” “Per me giunto”

“Urna fatale (E la fè che giurai)” “Urna fatale”

Recording Director G. Dillnutt three first violins, three second violins, one viola, one cello; two flutes, one oboe, two bassoons; two trumpets, three trombones, two French horns; one piano

Milan 1924

CM 26 CM 27

Bk1433-3 Ck1434-1 Ck1432-2

Bk1433-1 Bk1433-2

Ck1432-4

Il Guarany (fourth take for backup, not released) Don Giovanni (first take, not released) Don Giovanni (second take, not released) Don Giovanni

26 February 1924 Ck1432-1 Il Guarany (first take, not released) Ck1432-2 Il Guarany (second take, not released) Ck1432-3 Il Guarany

25 February 1924 Ck1427-1 Le nozze di Figaro (first take, not released) Ck1427-2 Le nozze di Figaro Ck1428-1 Paride ed Elena (first take, not released) Ck1428-2 Paride ed Elena Ck1429

“Deh vieni alla finestra” “La Partida” (first take, not released) “La Partida” (second take, not released)

“Deh vieni alla finestra” “Deh vieni alla finestra”

“Senza tetto, senza cuna (ola dunque miei bravi)” “Senza tetto, senza cuna”

“Senza tetto, senza cuna” “Senza tetto, senza cuna”

“Non più andrai” “Non più andrai” “O del mio dolce ardor” “O del mio dolce ardor” “Si vous l’aviez compris” (with cello and piano)

Alvarez

Mozart

Gomes

Gluck Denza

Mozart

1210 1219

Symposium Symposium

Mattia Battistini, Volume I (1902–1906) Mattia Battistini Mattia Battistini Il re dei baritoni 3CD Mattia Battistini chante Verdi Battistini Mattia Battistini the Complete Recordings, Volume I (1902–1911) Mattia Battistini, Volume I Mattia Battistini, Volume II

Please visit www.chuilon.com to download free of charge fifty tracks in MP3 format.

IDIS 306 89045 89304 MR 555 NI 7831 82008-2

Tosti Giordani

Istituto Discografico Italiano Lebendige Vergangenheit Lebendige Vergangenheit Malibran Nimbus Prima Voce Romophone

Selective CD Discography (Alphabetical Order)

“Ideale” (with piano) “Caro mio ben” (with piano)

Fonotecnica Recordings, Milan, Circa 1920

Index

abdominal respiration, 301–4 Albani, E., 24, 90; chronology, 323 Albers, H., 197, 226 Algier, J., 300–301, 304 Amato, P., 200, 311 Ancona, M., 108, 150, 200, 311 Andrade, d’, F., xviii, 33, 144, 153 Andréossy, V., 307, 309, 313 Anselmi, G., 68, 138, 170, 191, 214, 265, 267; chronology, 350, 355–56, 358 Arimondi, V., 68; chronology, 341–48, 356, 362–64, 366, 372 Arnoldson, S., 34, 36, 45–46, 66, 91, 137, 140, 257, 261, 270; chronology, 327, 338–48, 355–56, 358, 360, 365 Bach, J. S., xvii, 243–44, 274 Bartok, B., 243, 269 Bastianini, E., xi, xviii, xix, 200, 274, 282 Bellincioni, G., 161, 199; chronology, 330–31, 358, 371 Bettoni, V., 198, 201; chronology, 372; discography, 394–95 Blanchard, R., 119 Bonci, A., 38, 151, 265; chronology, 339, 354

Borghi-Mamo, E., 54; chronology, 320–22 Boronat, O., 159, 161; chronology, 319–21, 331, 334, 351, 355–56, 361, 363, 365–66 Cabourg, J., 192, 201 Calvé, E., 48, 311; chronology, 329, 335 Caruso, E., x, xv, xx, 21, 74–75, 78, 122, 155, 168, 177, 183, 228, 254, 262, 269–70, 276, 280, 283, 288, 294, 296, 308; chronology, 341–44, 357 Castellano, F., 158, 162, 165, 168–69, 218–20, 268 Castelmary, A., 23, 54; chronology, 320–22 Cavalieri, L., 261; chronology, 355–58, 360–61, 365–66 Cavalli, P. F., 209 Chaliapin, F., iii, x, xviii, xx, 68, 71–84, 97, 100, 117, 147, 149, 155, 188, 221, 283, 288, 296 Clément, E., 191 Coletti, F., 29, 54 Corsi, E., 174, 184, 201; chronology, 354–55, 357, 359–61, 367; discography, 389

401

402

Index

Cotogni, A., xxii, 4, 8, 11–12, 26, 29, 57, 67, 71, 94, 105–6, 159, 241, 278–79, 284, 294; chronology, 333–34, 340 Crabbé, A., 197 Cui, C., 98, 150 Darclée, H., 49, 167–68; chronology, 331–33 De Lucia, F., 34, 36–38, 49, 78, 120, 150, 227, 289–90, 296, 312; chronology, 326–27, 332–33, 336–38, 356 Delmas, F., 208, 210 Demuth, L., 146 Devoyod, J.C., 146, 180 diaphragmatic breathing, 293–306 Didur, A., 83, 178; chronology, 342, 344–47, 355–56 falsetto, 102–4, 111, 117, 278, 280 Faure, J. B., 20, 26, 127, 209, 291, 309, 313 Figner, N., 100; chronology, 356 Fracassini, G., xxii, 2–3, 5–6, 11, 21–23, 42, 49, 53–54, 57, 83, 87–88, 125, 149, 153, 161, 167, 172–73, 199–200 Fuchs, V., 253–55, 269–70 Gailhard, P., 74–75 Gaisberg, F., 125–26, 151, 183, 200, 235, 238, 264, 269, 271; discography, 388, 390, 393 Galletti-Gianolli, I., 1–3, 5, 7–8, 10; chronology, 318 Galvany, M., 167–68; chronology, 351–52, 366, 373 Garcia, M., 184, 297, 300, 313 Gayarre, J., 29, 75, 153, 294; chronology, 324, 326–27 Gigli, B., 21, 105–6, 186, 216, 267, 280; chronology, 377 Giraldoni, E., 81, 92, 94, 96, 128, 147, 151, 182, 311 Giraldoni, L., 151

Giraud, F., 149 Giraud, L., 15; chronology, 318–19 Gobbi, T., 276 Gogorza, de, E., 282 Gorin, I., 255, 270 Graziani, F., 4, 21, 26 Grisi, G., 57, 59 Grovlez, G., 209 Gui, V., 83, 265, 269, 271; chronology, 361–62 Gunsbourg, R., 77, 80, 209, 214, 216–21, 231, 268 Hahn, R., xviii, xxv, 76, 149; chronology, 377 Hampson, T., vii, xiii Hidalgo, de, E., 216; chronology, 362–65, 371, 375, 377 Horowitz, V., 265–66, 271 Huberty, A., 77; chronology, 375–76 Husson, R., 292, 313 Ibos, G., 134–36, 152, 191, 201 Journet, M., 150, 177, 213, 216, 276; chronology, 357, 375, 377 Kaschmann, G., 17, 28, 54 Kipnis, A., ix, 79, 142–43, 149 Kurz, S., 249; chronology, 365, 384 Lalo, P., 288, 312 Lancelotti, A., xxii, 3, 6–7, 11, 47, 50, 55, 85, 86, 88, 270, 275 Lapeyrette, K., chronology, 376 Lassalle, J., 127, 178, 210 Lauri-Volpi, G., 38, 188, 221–23, 268; chronology, 379 Lehmann, L., 257, 309 Levik, S., 12, 45, 53, 68–71, 79–84, 92–93, 100, 103, 105, 130, 134–36, 143, 147, 149, 152, 180, 188, 200, 240, 280, 286, 290, 312 Litvinne, F., 48, 276, 306–7; chronology, 329

Indexe Lubin, G., 215–16; chronology, 377 Luca, de, G., 153, 187, 189–90, 196, 200, 236–37, 280, 311 Luccioni, J., 149 Magini-Coletti, A., 38, 51, 54, 147, 190, 229 Mamont-Dalski, 74 Mancinelli, L., 1–6, 15, 40; chronology, 318–19, 326, 328–31, 365 Mandl, L., 296–98, 302–4 Mapleson, L., 278 Marconi, F., 51, 105, 160; chronology, 322–23, 326, 333–35, 341, 347, 351, 356, Mario, G., 57–58, 210 Martin, J. B., 282–83 Masini, A., 23, 25–26, 47, 49, 75, 89, 100, 109, 120, 129, 261, 279, 294, 296, 305–7; chronology, 323–25, 328–29, 337–41, 343–45, 355 Maurane, C., 283 Maurel, V., 31–34, 36, 49–50, 52, 54, 58, 61, 80, 90, 119, 127, 135–36, 175, 178, 192, 195, 221, 257 Mazzantini, L., 68, 149 Melba, N., 38, 150, 178, 183, 186, 193, 255; chronology, 355, 357 Monaldi, G., 48–49 Monteverdi, C., xv, 208–9 Mustafà, D., 4, 275, 311 Mrosovsky, P., 316 Mrosovsky-Shaw, L., xiii, 315 Navarrini, F., 19, 28–29, 34, 39, 54, 68, 217–18; chronology, 320, 326–27, 329, 331, 334, 351, 355–56, 358–61, 364–65, 370 Nordica, L., 34, 36 Noté, J., 208 Novelli, E., 22 Orsini, A., 12 Oudin, E., 65, 148 Ousatov, D. A., 72–73

403

Pacini, R., 133, 151, 167–68; chronology, 328, 330, 332, 335–41, 346, 354–56 Palmegiani, F., xxii, 3, 5–7, 11–12, 22–23, 45, 47–48, 50, 55, 57, 68, 85, 86, 88, 105, 123, 125, 145, 152–53, 161, 181, 188, 199, 200, 205–6, 215, 251, 256, 260, 267–70, 275–76, 286, 311–12 Pandolfini, F., 36; chronology, 342 Panzera, C., 283 Pareto, G., 213; chronology, 372–73, 376 Pasero, T., 38 Patti, A., 8, 24, 47, 183, 193, 280, 286–87, 294; chronology, 323 Périer, J., 283 Persichini, V., 3, 4, 8, 10, 12–14, 16, 19, 189, 236, 237, 274 Piazza, L., 229 Pini-Corsi, A., 146; chronology, 335, 371, 374–75 Pinza, E., 223, 268; chronology, 377 placement (vocal), 26, 185, 258, 291–93, 298, 305 Plançon, P., xviii, 38, 77, 186, 200, 297 Podestà, M., 76–77, 149, 226, 289–91, 295–98, 300–301, 306, 312 Ponselle, R., 223, 268 Raitcheff, P., 128 Rameau, J. P., xx, 209 Reinhart, G., ix, xi, xiv Renaud, M., 189, 193, 196, 201, 208, 210, 226 Reszké, de, E., 24, 36–37, 39, 77, 186, 199; chronology, 323, 327 Reszké, de, J., 34, 36, 39, 106, 135–36, 178, 208, 262, 277–78, 312 Ronconi, G., 26, 173, 210, 228, 236 Rossi, E., 21, 115, 132–33 Rossi, L., 209 Rotoli, A., 12, 15, 193; discography, 391

404

Index

Rouché, J., 208–12, 214–15, 217–18, 226, 231–33, 267, 268 Rubini, G. B., 57–58, 210, 291, 294 Ruffo, T., 16, 96–97, 147, 183, 187, 189–90, 192, 208, 234–38, 263, 265, 269, 274, 284, 288, 296, 311, 312 Sabajno, C., 183, 196, 228; discography, 388, 390, 392–93, 395, 397 Salvini, T., 21–22, 27, 115, 132 Santley, C., 146, 178, 200 Schipa, T., 213–14, 216; chronology, 374–77 Scotti, A., 311 Segalini, S., 266, 271 Sembrich, M., 24–25, 48, 67, 262; chronology, 323, 325, 330, 333–38 Shaw, G. B., xviii, xxv, 31–33, 37, 54, 80, 120, 131, 136, 151–52, 178, 200, 278, 312 Shawe-Taylor, D., 312 Sillich, A., 108, 150; chronology, 335–37, 339, 341, 344–47, 350; discography, 389 Smirnov, D., 68 Stagno, R., 15–16, 199; chronology, 319, 323, 326, 330 Stame, A., 253, 268 Stame, L., 4 Stanislavski, K. S., 81, 304 Steane, J.B., 5, 118, 151, 234, 268–69, 281, 312

Stinchelli, E., 5 Storchio, R., 214; chronology, 376 Stracciari, R., 38, 284, 311 Strakosch, M., 46–47 Tamagno, F., 17–19, 23, 31, 63, 67, 118–22, 281, 29; chronology, 320–22, 326, 334, 336, 338, 340 Tamberlick, E., 121, 241, 294 Tamburini, A., 25–26, 105, 153 Tauber, T., 249; chronology, 384 Terziani, E., 12–13, 274–75, 311 Tetrazzini, L., 48, 129, 151; chronology, 327–28, 330, 337–38, 341, 343–44, 347 Thill, G., 191, 226–27, 268–69, 312 Torresella, F., 47 Toscanini, A., 5, 148 Tosi, P. F., xvi, xxv, 300 tremolo, 36–40 Tubeuf, A., 124–26, 151, 268 Tzico, N., 313 Vaida-Korolevich, Y., 66–67, 84, 134, 136, 148 Van Dyck, E., 134, 137–38, 191 vibrato, 35–36, 38–39, 284, 292, 298 Weingartner, F., 131, 258–59, 270; chronology, 382–83 Zenatello, G., 178; chronology, 355, 376

About the Author

Jacques Chuilon is a successful teacher of singing with students who perform with major international opera houses. Chuilon is also a self-educated musicologist. He has contributed to Opera Quarterly and Opéra International, has furnished liner notes for Nimbus Records, and has presented at numerous conferences on historic singers, notably for the Opéra Bastille, Paris. Among his published books are La voix qui chante (a complete treatise on singing technique) and Opéra opinions, which deals with the incongruities of present-day performance practice (both with Editions Romillat, Paris). For his book Battistini, le dernier divo, first published in 1996 by Romillat after fifteen years of research, Chuilon received an award from the Historic Singers Trust that made the present translation possible. He has also been rewarded by the Provincia di Rieti for his dedicated work in the memory of Mattia Battistini. Chuilon has developed expertise as a recording engineer, which he applies to his vast collection of recorded sound. Trained originally as an architect at the Beaux Arts School in Paris, he is now an active painter who has shown and sold his works in Shanghai, Hong Kong, New York, and Paris and is working on a forthcoming volume dealing with aesthetics and contemporary art. He was born in Versailles in 1954; he lives and works in Paris.

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Battistini at 22 as Alfonso in La favorita, Rome, 1878

Battistini as Iago in Othello

Battistini as Rigoletto

Battistini as William Tell

Battistini as Chevreuse in Maria di Rohan

Battistini as Dante

Battistini as Don Carlo in Ernani

Battistini as the Demon

Battistini as Ruslan

Battistini as Eugene Onegin

Battistini as Don Giovanni

Battistini as Escamillo in Carmen

Battistini as Valentin in Faust

Battistini as Werther

Battistini as Athanaël in Thaïs

Battistini in Warsaw

Battistini, 1905

Battistini in Vienna

Battistini, 1920s

Battistini at home (Colle Baccaro) in 1917, preparing Henry VIII by Saint-Saëns

Battistini at a Berlin radio session (?) with Fritz Lindemann, 1920s

Battistini in front of Royal Albert Hall, London, 1924

Battistini’s son, Peter (Petya) Mrosovsky, while at Cambridge, 1921

Peter Mrosovsky in Vienna, 1935