me. One Sunday
morning I spent an hour alone with Rossini, and I had to give him full
particulars of the proceedings at the opera. These were characteristic
of the taste of the day. The libretto of Beethoven's opera was
completely changed, Florestan being replaced by Jean Galeas, Pizarro by
Duke Sforza. The Minister becomes Charles VIII., and Fidelio the
Countess Isabelle; the whole story turned into a political intrigue, and
Fidelio, the devoted wife, changed into a plotting and ambitious spouse.

A story in which a woman, actuated by her affection alone, nobly worked
for her husband's deliverance, must have been thought too tame to put
before a Parisian public, and so the stronger motives were introduced.

The press was unanimous in its condemnation of the work itself, not of
the garbled version. "Cette musique est tres ennuyeuse," said one;
"Enfin c'est symphonique!" wrote another. "Si Beethoven n'avait pas
senti la faiblesse de sa production, il aurait ecrit un deuxieme opera."

"Yes," said Rossini, remarking on the press and the public, "that is
just what I should have expected. Do you know what I owe my success to?
To my crescendos. Ah, my crescendos! What an impression they made on
them. Afterwards, to be sure, when I thought it well to give up that
little trick, they said, 'He's no longer what he was; he's beginning to
decline.'

"You know what happened to my friend T---- i, the tenor. He went to
F---- o, and asked him how much he would take for a good notice in his
paper.

"'Un billet de mille,'[11] said F.

"'Ah! I'm afraid I can't afford that,' sighed T.; 'couldn't you do it
for 500 frcs.?'

"'Impossible, mon cher monsieur,' replied F. 'J'y perdrais!'"[12]

Who was responsible for the irreverent production of "Fidelio"? I am
afraid it was, to a great extent, Berlioz and Madame Viardot. That I say
with bated breath, for nothing could exceed my respect for those
heaven-born musicians. But I wonder to-day, as I wondered then, why they
should ever have planned this adaptation of "Fidelio" to the French
stage. It was an unfortunate selection, if only because many numbers of
the chief part had to be transposed to suit Madame Viardot's voice. She
had but lately achieved one of her greatest triumphs in the character of
Orpheus. A grander or a more beautiful rendering of Gluck's masterpiece
cannot be imagined; the grave full-toned quality of her voice seemed to
suit the part of the bereaved husband, who goes