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Updated: May 3, 2025
La Malanotte, he said, was dissatisfied with her opening cavatina, and at rehearsal had presented the maestro with the MS. of that passage torn into fifty atoms, declaring in a haughty tone that she would never sing it again. This was too unlike Adelaide to be true; but I tried to swallow my vexation in silence, and with difficulty restrained myself from insulting the addle-pated young puppy.
Rossini wrote it for one of the loveliest women God ever made, Adelaide Montresor. I knew her very well. She was the wife of a French gentleman, a friend of mine, M. Montresor, at one time very prosperous in fortune. Adelaide was a Veronese, of good family, and had studied music only en amateur. Her maiden name was Malanotte. Oh, yes, of course, you have heard of her.
In eight short years after that brilliant season at Venice, Adelaide Montresor, better known as 'La Malanotte, the idol of the European musical public, the short-lived infatuation and passion of the celebrated Rossini, was a hopeless invalid, and worse, presque folle. "I received the news, strange to say, one evening at the opera in St.
My friend left me alone. I sat by the window, watching the waving of the tasselled branches of the acacia, and the purple fiery vapor that arose from the overflowing Vesuvius; and I thought of Adelaide Malanotte, and wondered at the strange, fatal necessity attendant on genius, its spiritual labor and pain.
Numberless stories were told of the bewitching tyranny 'La Malanotte, as she was called, loved to exercise over her distinguished admirer, which were interpreted by the uncharitable as the caprice of a mistress in the first flush of her loving power. I had to listen in silence to such stories, and feel grateful that Montresor did not hear them also.
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