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 Pegasus.”

Once, while Caffarelli was singing at Naples, he was told of the arrival of Gizzielo, a possible rival, at Rome.  Unable to check his anxiety, he threw himself into a post-chaise and hastened to Rome, arriving in time to hear his young rival sing the aria d’entrata.  Delighted with Gizzielo’s singing, and giving vent to his emotion, he cried in a loud voice:  “Bravo, bravissimo, Gizzielo!  E Caffarelli che te lo dice.”  So saying, he rushed out and posted back to Naples, arriving barely in time to dress for the opera.  By invitation of the Dauphin, he went to Paris in 1750, and sang at several concerts, where he pleased and astonished the court by his splendid vocalism.  Louis XV. sent him a snuff-box; but Caffarelli, observing its plainness, said disdainfully, showing a drawerful of splendid boxes, that the worst