The operatic war wagin’ between Abbey and Mapleson set me to thinkin’ how utterly New York has forgotten the very name of one man to whom it is as much as any other indebted for Italian opera. I refer to Signor Lorenzo Da Ponte.
This gentleman, for he was a thorough gentleman of the old and best school, had been in Europe at one time a man of note. He had had interviews on art and musical subjects with the Emperor Joseph of Austria, and had been an intimate friend of Mozart, the illustrious composer. This was honor enough for one man, but somehow this honor hadn’t done him any material or pecuniary good, and so Signor Lorenzo Da Ponte, at the age of sixty, when most men have finished life, came over to this city and began a new life in New York. He had one thing which was quite equal to wealth–health. He was as vigorous at sixty as most men at forty, had always lived regular and temperately. So he had a sound body with a sound mind, two points which are fortunes in ‘emselves. With these, and a good education, and a few first-class introductions, he commenced life in New York. He got a professorship of Italian language and literature at old Columbia College, and also gave lessons in Italian to private parties–ladies and families. Between these two schools he managed not to fall to the ground, and kept the wolf a little ways off from the door.
He was a fine lookin’ man, careful in his dress, polite and dignified in his manner, amiable and pure in his personal character; so he soon made warm friends among the really best people.
He was an enthusiast about everything relatin’ to his native land, and did a great deal towards renderin’ Italy known and respected in the United States. He always came to the front by word or by pen, whenever Italy was concerned, and in this respect set a good example to those Americans, who, the moment they leave their country commence to abuse it, or to be ashamed of it.
He always cherished the idea of introducin’ Italian opera into this country, and was heart and soul with Dominick Lynch in introducin’ Garcia and Malibran to the New York public. He used to say the very proudest moment of all his long life was the first evenin’ that Italian opera was produced here in New York. On that memorable occasion, the old gentleman wept for very joy, like a child, and seemed for a while in a fair way to be goin’ mad with excitement and glory.
For thirty years the enthusiastic old Italian gentleman lived, honored and beloved in this city. His presence was always sought for in all prominent public and social assemblies, and he was treated with as much respect as a Vanderbilt is now, and yet he did not have a dollar in the world outside his small salary as professor, and his small fees as tutor. But he lived chiefly on light wines and macaroni, and kept his dress suit in good order by the closest attention to neatness and economy. On the wages of a clerk he lived like a first-class gentleman.
Finally, havin’ outlived his generation, two generations in fact, havin’ reached the ripe old age of ninety years, still in the possession of his faculties, the good old gentleman was called away to a better place, let us trust, than even New York.
He died, as he lived, a gentleman–passed away honored, loved and lamented. It was a good death to die.
Old Dr. Francis was his physician, and after bolsterin’ him up as long as possible with medicine and hope, at last notified him that his time had come. The old Italian took the news calmly and sent for a priest, and then for his friends. So many gentlemen and ladies responded to this last appeal, so many prominent people were so anxious to pay their last respect to him, that the doctor was obliged to use a good deal of delicate discrimination, so as to lessen the crowd, without offendin’ anyone.
At last, when the little room in which he was dyin’ was full as it could conveniently be, the door was closed, and the window opened. It was an afternoon in August, warm but not sultry, and the old gentleman’s white head as venerable as Bryant’s or Longfellow’s, was gently laid on the pillows, with his head turned towards the settin’ sun.
A number of leadin’ Italian residents stood near the dyin’ man, and some of the old Italian opera troupe knelt at the foot of the bed. Signor Bagioli and Signor Fornassi were among those present.
The dyin’ man was too faint to speak, but he smiled sweetly upon all around, and pressed the hands of those who thronged towards him. The majority of the men, and all the women, were in tears.
At last, in obedience to an expressive sign from the old gentleman, which the Italians understood, the singers present joined in a little air from one of his favorite operas. At first the music was interrupted by the sobs of the singers, but, to please their listener, the vocalists soon controlled ‘emselves, and rendered the aria magnificently.
The old man smiled delightedly, raised his head on the pillows, waved his hands in gratitude, said somethin’ about Italy, fell back on his pillows, and passed away in happiness to a better world.
New York has forgotten Signor Lorenzo Da Ponte, and his name does not figure among the list of her successful men. But if to live healthy and honored till ninety and then to die among your lovin’ and lamentin’ friends, to the sound of delicious music, is not success, then let us all wish not to be successful.
[Editor’s notes: In addition to being librettist to Mozart, Salieri, and others, Da Ponte was an intimate friend of Casanova, and shared many of his indulgences in pleasure. Da Ponte fathered several children in Europe, including five by his longtime mistress, Nancy Grahl. In America, Da Ponte adopted a daughter, Maria Cooke (likely another illegitimate child of Da Ponte’s). Maria married composer Antonio Bagioli, one of those at Da Ponte’s deathbed.
Maria was rumored to have been seduced by New York politician Dan Sickles, who was a language student of Da Ponte’s. Many years later, Sickles married the daughter of Maria and Bagioli, Teresa Bagioli. Sickles, out of jealousy, killed Philip Barton Key (son of Francis Scott Key), whom Sickles suspected of having an affair with Teresa.]
