He has forgotten how, since the day that I was coaxed to run away from my father's elegant home and marry the tenor singer of an opera troupe and the professor who taught me the gamut at boarding-school. Miss, you may believe him, for Sebastian Barilli means what he says." "One hundred thousand dollars!
"At one concert, yes, in Naples," the young lady made answer. "And at two or three matinées" And then she turned to him, with a bright look. "You know this, Leo? I am offered no I was offered an engagement to sing in opera; oh, yes; it was the impresario from Malta he comes to Naples Pandiani makes us all sing to him then will I go to Malta, to the opera there? No!" "Why not, Nina?
'He was always merry, was Tom, and such a singer, that if there was any encouragement for native talent, he'd have been at the opera.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she could do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to some grand lady. "I would not be the 'femme de chambre' even of the queen." "And 'figurante' at the opera?" "Much rather." "You are smiling?" "Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds!
When, therefore, he was sixteen years old and began to take a solemn interest in an opera singer at Munich, to weep over the beauty of her singing, and to seek her acquaintance, the father began to protest. This was Mlle. Keiserin, the daughter of a cook, and Mozart was later a little ashamed of his easy enthusiasm.
At least he ought to write to her, answer her letters, full of tender laments, which she did not suspect were lying unopened and neglected in a pile of yellow cards. The artist listened to this with a shrug of the shoulders as if he was hearing about the sorrows of a distant planet. "Let's go and see Milita," he said. "There isn't any opera to-night."
"Then, Silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre, Nor yet sweet Beauty's power forbear to praise; Again let charms divine thy strains inspire, And Laura's voice shall aid the poet's lays." Mr. Sheridan was now approaching the summit of his dramatic fame; he had already produced the best opera in the language, and there now remained for him the glory of writing also the best comedy.
Sloth and luxury reign there supreme. In Paris I found a letter from the Impresario Mapleson, who proposed that I should go to London with an Italian company, and play at Drury Lane on the off-nights of the opera.
"Were you angry at me, Norma?" he asked, in a quiet, businesslike voice. "Angry?" she echoed, surprised. But her colour rose. "No, Chris. Why should I be?" "There is no reason why you should be, of course," he answered, simply, almost indifferently. And immediately he went by her and into his room. On the memorable night of her first grand opera Norma and Chris dined at Mrs. von Behrens's.
You dear, good Liszt! do see what you can do! Help me! Help me, dear Liszt!" At last she came, and he wrote Heine a letter of rejoicing. But once with him, she began again her opposition to his high-flying theories. She wanted him to write a popular French opera for Paris.