insisted on the complete fusion of the vocal and instrumental, the dramatic and the musical elements, and demanded from the chorus, as well as the solo-singers, an entire absorption in their parts, and an intelligent rendering of each situation. His love for the grandiose and the awe-inspiring led him to employ all the resources of decoration, and what then seemed enormous masses of musicians, singers, and dancers; and also to employ the strongest accents and most startling contrasts. 'His forte,' says Dorn, 'was a hurricane, his piano a breath, his crescendo made every one open their eyes, his diminuendo induced a feeling of delicious languor, his sforzando was enough to wake the dead.'[1] In this respect he exacted the very utmost from his singers and musicians. A story is still told in the Berlin orchestra of a bass passage in one of his operas which he could not get loud enough, though he repeated it again and again, the players in vain doing their utmost, till at last to Spontini's delight the cellists hit on the idea of singing their notes as well. He insisted on Milder putting her whole force into Statira's exclamation 'Cassander!'[2] and on one occasion she so overstrained herself as to lose her voice for the rest of the evening. From that moment he considered her useless, and in 1829 had her pensioned off. Seidler-Wranitzky was delicate, and her style more suited to Lieder and serious music, so she found little favour with him, in spite of her exquisite singing. 'Il faut braver, Madame,' shouted he, when she showed symptoms of exhaustion at a rehearsal of the 'Vestale'; and he was scarcely moved when she fainted. It was not because he wrote unvocally, or overloaded his voices with accompaniment, that his parts were so trying—for he was too thorough an Italian not to rely upon the voice for his chief effects; but it was his propensity to extreme contrasts, and his want of consideration in rehearsing. It soon became a general complaint among women singers that Spontini ruined the voice. Seidler asked leave to retire on this account in 1826; in 1823 Milder begged that 'Olympia' might not be given more than once a fortnight, and Schechner refused an engagement because she was afraid of Spontini's operas. Even Schulz, who was devoted to him, was so angry in March 1824 at the continual strain of her heavy parts, as to lose her temper at rehearsal, and speak so rudely that she would have been punished had he not changed his mind.
Spontini's appearance at the head of his musicians was almost that of a general leading an army to victory. When he glided rapidly through the orchestra to his desk every member of the band was in position, and on the alert to begin. At such moments he looked an aristocrat to the backbone, but also an autocrat who would insist on subjugating all other wills to his own. The pedantic side of his character also came out in many little traits—he could only conduct from a MS. score, and his desk must be of a certain peculiar construction. His bâton was a thick stick of ebony with a solid ivory ball at each end; this he grasped in the middle with his whole fist, using it like a marshal's staff.[3]
By May 14, 1821, the 'Vestalin,' 'Cortez,' and 'Olympia' had all been produced according to the composer's own ideas at the Berlin opera, where they long remained stock-pieces. But their frequent repetition was more to gratify the King than the public, and indeed the theatre had soon to be filled by a large issue of free admissions. Thus, for 'Olympia,' on Dec. 21, 1821, Spontini obtained from the office 50 free tickets, besides buying 25 more. In Sept. 1824 he urged the Intendant not to raise the prices for grand operas (meaning his own), or the public would soon cease to come at all, and begged to have 'ordinary prices' in large letters on the bills for the next performance of the 'Vestalin.' A new opera of his was however still an exciting event, partly because of his own personality and position, partly because the public was sure of a splendid spectacle. He was, bound to furnish two grand operas every three years; 'Olympia' counted as one, and by the end of 1821 he was thinking of the second. After much consideration he chose the 'Feast of Roses,' from Moore's 'Lalla Rookh,' influenced no doubt by the success of his earlier Festspiel, and the prospect, welcome to a slow worker, of using portions of his old material; but the subject did not seem very congenial. The libretto was written by Herklots, librettist to the Opera. On March 22 Spontini wrote to Brühl that he was working 17 hours a day on the first act, and that there were only two. The first performance of 'Nurmahal' took place May 27, 1822, in honour of the marriage of the Princess Alexandrina of Prussia, to whom the Emperor dedicated the PF. score (Schlesinger). This is not, as has often been said, merely a revised version of 'Lalla Rukh,' comparatively little of that music having been used in it. The introductory march became no. 8 of the opera; Nourmahal's song, no. 26; the drum chorus of genii no. 20; and the ballet-music was mostly retained. A song was also introduced from his 'Dieux rivaux,' and the ballet from the 'Danaïdes' (nos. 10 and 14).
The merits of the librettos of the 'Vestalin,' 'Cortez,' and 'Olympia,' outweigh their defects. Not so however that of 'Nurmahal'; its plot and characters are alike insipid, and it is in fact a mere pièce d'occasion. The oriental colouring, which must have been its attraction for Spontini, still forms its sole interest. But, inferior as it is to 'Oberon,' it gives a high idea of its author's dramatic instinct, when we consider the utter inability of French and Italian composers as a rule to deal with the fantastic and mythical. Its best numbers are the first finale, the duet no. 17, and the duet with chorus no. 20. There is a striking passage in the finale—the lovers lying on opposite sides of the stage, and the people dancing about them to a bacchante-like strain, when suddenly the dance ceases, and
