tative he was an old nun," and that in all that he sang there was
"a whimsical tone of lamentation sufficient to sour the gayest allegro,"
Metastasio says that in his happy moments he could please excessively,
but the caprices of his voice and temper made these happy moments very
uncertain.

Caffarelli's arrogant, vain, and turbulent nature seems to have been the
principal cause of his troubles. The numerous anecdotes current of him
turned mainly on this characteristic, so different from the modesty and
reticence of Fari-nelli. Metastasio, in a lively letter to the Princess
di Belmonte, describes an amusing fracas at the Viennese Opera-House.
The poet of the house, Migliavacca, who was also director of rehearsals,
became engaged in altercation with the singer, because the latter
neglected attendance. He rehearsed to Caffarelli in bitter language
the various terms of reproach and contempt which his enemies throughout
Europe had lavished on him. "But the hero of the panegyric, cutting the
thread of his own praise, called out to his eulogist, 'Follow me if
thou hast courage to a place where there is none to assist thee,' and,
moving toward the door, beckoned him to come out. The poet hesitated
a moment, then said with a smile: 'Truly, such an antagonist makes me
blush; but come along, since it is a Christian act to chastise a madman
or a fool,' and advanced to take the field." Suddenly the belligerents
drew blades on the very stage itself, and, while the bystanders were
expecting to see poetical or vocal blood besprinkle the harpsichords
and double basses, the Signora Tesi advanced toward the duelists. "Oh,
sovereign power of beauty!" writes Metastasio with sly sarcasm; "the
frantic Caffarelli, even in the fiercest paroxysms of his wrath,
captivated and appeased by this unexpected tenderness, runs with rapture
to meet her, lays his sword at her feet, begs pardon for his errors,
and, generously sacrificing to her his vengeance, seals, with a thousand
kisses on her hand, his protestations of obedience, respect, and
humility. The nymph signifies her forgiveness with a nod, the poet
sheathes his sword, the spectators begin to breathe again, and the
tumultuous assembly breaks up amid sounds of laughter. In collecting the
numbers of the wounded and slain, none was found but the poor copyist,
who, in trying to part the combatants, had received a small contusion
in the clavicula of the foot from an involuntary kick of the poet's
P