CHAPTER III.

ROSSINI VISITS ROME—TORVALDO E DORLISKA.

But though the singers were excellent, the orchestra was composed of very indifferent musicians, most of whom were workmen and petty shopkeepers engaged during the day in the pursuit of their trade. The first clarinet was a barber, who habitually shaved Rossini. In proof of the composer’s admirable presence of mind, it is narrated that, annoyed and irritated as he was at the rehearsals by the inability of the band to execute his music correctly, he never once said a severe thing to the first clarinet. He remonstrated with him very gently the next morning after the operation of shaving had been safely performed.

Altogether it is not astonishing that the opera was received rather coldly, or at least not with sufficient warmth to satisfy Rossini. On “Sigismondo” being hissed at Venice, Rossini had sent his mother a drawing of a fiasco; this time he forwarded her a sketch of a little bottle or fiaschetto.

“Torvaldo e Dorliska,” however, must have been an opera of some mark even among the operas of Rossini. It was received at Paris, in 1825, for the début of Mademoiselle Marietta Garcia, the future Malibran, and the composer borrowed from it the motive of the magnificent letter duet in “Otello.” The moderate success of the work is partly to be explained by the poorness of the libretto—the production, however, of a man who, immediately afterwards, furnished Rossini with one of the best opera books ever written.

“Torvaldo e Dorliska” and “Il Barbiere di Siviglia” were produced simultaneously; and the little attention paid to the former, may partly no doubt be explained by the immense, though not in the first instance uncontested, success of the latter.

CHAPTER IV.

BEAUMARCHAIS, PAISIELLO, AND ROSSINI.

If the natural instincts of despotic governments have always led them to favour operatic performances, they have done so on the very reasonable condition that nothing against themselves or their allies, the priesthood, should be introduced into the works represented. Thus “Le Prophète” becomes “L’Assedio di Gand” at St. Petersburgh, “Lucrezia Borgia” “La Rinegata” at Rome, where the Italians at the Court of Pope Alexander the Sixth are metamorphosed into Turks.

Auber’s “Muette de Portici” and Donizetti’s “Martiri” were both proscribed at Naples (the “Muette” above all!). Even at Paris the performances of “Gustave,” after the first production of the work, were suddenly stopped; and Verdi, treating the same subject for the San Carlo, was forced by the Neapolitan censorship to make the action of the piece take place at Boston in the United States.

Several dramas had been suggested to the Roman censorship, when at last the unpolitical plot of the “Barber of Seville” was proposed and accepted. The censor (who could have known little of Beaumarchais) thought it impossible such a subject could be made a vehicle for the introduction of political allusions.

All, however, that Rossini wanted was a well-planned “book” for musical purposes, and he found precisely what suited his genius in the “Barber of Seville.”

In a literary point of view, the “Marriage of Figaro” is no doubt superior to its predecessor the “Barber;” but notwithstanding the eminently lyrical character of the page in the former work, the “Barber of Seville” is the best adapted for musical setting. It was as a pamphlet, rather than as a comedy, that “Le Mariage de Figaro” obtained its immense success in Paris, and Figaro’s wit cannot be reproduced in music. Gaiety, however, is as much a musical as a literary quality, and the gaiety of Beaumarchais’ versatile irrepressible hero is admirably expressed, with even increased effect, in Rossini’s “Barbiere.”

It would be rendering no service to Rossini to compare him with Mozart, whom he himself regarded as the greatest of dramatic composers.[12] But Rossini’s genius is very much akin to that of Beaumarchais; whereas that of Mozart (to the disadvantage certainly of Beaumarchais) was not. Rossini is Beaumarchais in music; Beaumarchais is not Mozart in literature.

No wonder that “Le Barbier de Séville” has been found so eminently suitable for musical treatment. Beaumarchais, who had strong views on the subject of the musical drama, and who was himself a good musician,[13] had in the first instance designed it as a libretto.

The subject of “Le Barbier de Séville” is manifestly taken from Molière’s “Sicilien;” but the bare skeleton of the drama, as Beaumarchais himself points out, is common to innumerable works.

“An old man[14] is in love with his ward, and proposes to marry her; a young man succeeds in forestalling him, and the same day makes her his wife under the very nose and in the house of the guardian.” That is the subject of the “Barber of Seville,” capable of being made with equal success into a tragedy, a comedy, a drama, an opera, &c. What but that is Molière’s “Avare”?—what but that is “Mithridates”? The genus to which a piece belongs depends less upon the fundamental nature of the subject than upon the details and the manner in which it is presented.

Beaumarchais goes on to say what his original intention had been in regard to the simple subject of a ward carried away by her lover from beneath the nose of her guardian. “How polite of you,” a lady had said to him, “to take your piece to the Théâtre Français, when I have no box except at the Italian Theatre! Why did you not make an opera of it? They say it was your first idea. The piece is well suited to music.”

The author of “Le Barbier de Séville” explains why he abandoned his original intention. He had doubts on the subject of the form and general treatment of opera which, to the neglect of the melodic portion of the work, ought, he considered, to be assimilated to the spoken drama of real life; (the end of which theory, carried out to its extreme consequences, would be to substitute recitative for singing, speaking for recitative—annihilation of the musical drama, in short).

Five years afterwards, in the year 1780, Paisiello proved practically how well Beaumarchais’ “Barbier de Séville” was adapted to musical setting. Beaumarchais heard it, and was much pleased. What would his delight have been could he have listened to the “Barbiere” of Rossini—and with Adelina Patti in the part of Rosina!

Rossini was not one of those unconscious men of genius who are unable to judge of the merit of their own works. He Certainly never expressed too high an opinion of them, and latterly used to say that his music had grown old—as if the “Barber of Seville” could grow old. But he knew the “Barber” to be one of his happiest, as it certainly was one of his most spontaneous, productions; and whichever of his works he may have considered the best, he thought the “Barber” the most likely to endure.

“The third act of ‘Otello,’” he once said, “the second act of ‘Guillaume Tell,’ and the whole of ‘Il Barbiere,’ will perhaps live;”[15] and there are reasons why, independently of its musical worth, the “Barber” will in all probability still be played when the few other operas of Rossini which still keep the stage are no longer represented. It is composed on a firm scaffolding, unlike that of “Guillaume Tell,” which very soon broke down, and has never been put together again in a durable dramatic form. The libretto has not to contend with the impression left by an unapproachable masterpiece on the same subject, as in the case of “Otello.” Finally, the comedy on which it is founded is not only a masterpiece in a purely dramatic sense, it is moreover essentially a drama for music, and for just such music as Rossini loved to write, and wrote to perfection. There is nothing more felicitous in all operatic setting than Basilio’s air, the crescendo of which exists as much in Beaumarchais’s prose as in Rossini’s music.

Indeed, Don Basile’s little essay on the efficacy of calumny, read for the first time by any one already acquainted with Rossini’s musical version, would seem to have been directly suggested by the music. The elegance and distinction of Almaviva are the same in the opera as in the comedy; and all the gaiety of Beaumarchais’s “Figaro” lives again in Rossini’s music, in a sublimated form.

Rossini was not so fond of writing prefaces as Beaumarchais; but he departed from his ordinary rule in the case of “The Barber,” and has told us the exact circumstances under which it occurred to him to take for his subject an admirable comedy which Paisiello had already made into an opera thirty-five years before.

Paisiello’s opera had been played all over Europe, and it has been mentioned that the curious in musical antiquities may from time to time hear it even now at the Fantaisies Parisiennes. It is not nearly so full of music as Rossini’s work, but it contains seven very interesting pieces,—Almaviva’s solo; Don Basile’s air—a setting of the passage on calumny, as in the modern “Barbiere;” an air for Bartholo; a comic trio, in which two fantastic and episodical characters (wisely omitted by Rossini), La Jeunesse and L’Eveillé, respectively sneeze and yawn in presence of Rosina’s guardian; a very ingenious trio, based on the incidents of the letter; a duet, in which the disguised Almaviva, on arriving to give his music lesson, is received by Don Bartholo; and a quintet, in which Don Basilio, accused of fever, is sent hastily to bed—the buona sera scene, which Rossini took good care to preserve.

Rossini is said to have felt rather embarrassed when the impresario of the Argentina opera told him that the governor of Rome saw no objection to his setting “The Barber of Seville” to music. Not that any rule of etiquette forbade him to take a subject already treated by another composer; Metastasio’s best libretti have been set over and over again by innumerable composers. From the very beginning of opera, the legend of Orpheus, the story of Dido’s abandonment, have been treated by almost all composers, including Rossini himself, who composed cantatas on both these subjects. Piccinni and Sacchini had both composed music twice to the “Olimpiade;” and Paisiello did not enjoy, probably did not claim, any special right of property in Beaumarchais’ “Barbier de Séville.”

Nevertheless, Paisiello had put his mark on the work. His “Barbiere” was celebrated throughout Italy, and Rossini thought it only polite on his part as a young beginner (he was then twenty-three years of age) to write to the venerable maestro (Paisiello was seventy-four years of age), to ask his permission to re-set “The Barber.”

The venerable maestro, who had not been over-pleased at the success of “Elisabetta,” thought it would be a good plan to let his youthful rival attack a subject which, according to Paisiello, had already received its definite musical form, and wrote to him from Naples, giving him full permission to turn Beaumarchais’ “Barbier de Seville” once more into an opera.

CHAPTER V.

“THE BARBER OF SEVILLE.”

ROSSINI had engaged to supply two operas for Rome, both to be produced during the carnival of 1816. The first, “Torvaldo e Dorliska,” was duly finished and brought out at the commencement of the carnival. The same day, December 26th, 1815, Rossini signed an agreement with the manager, Cesarini, by which he bound himself to furnish the second work on the 20th of January following. The brothers Escudier, in their valuable “Life of Rossini,”[16] have published this agreement, which is worth reproducing, if only to show under what pressure Rossini was sometimes obliged to write—under what pressure he was able to write.

Here, then, is the contract in compliance with which Rossini produced, almost improvised, his masterpiece, “The Barber of Seville.”

Rossini, then, for composing the “Barber of Seville,” received not quite eighty pounds, together with a lodging in the house occupied by Signor Luigi Zamboni—the future Figaro.

It may be thought that he at least got something for the copyright of the music? He got nothing for the copyright of the music. He did not even take the trouble to get it engraved; and two of the pieces, the overture (for which the overture to “Aureliano in Palmira” was afterwards substituted), and the scene of the music lesson (originally treated as a concerted piece), were lost.

Rossini wrote his operas for stage representation, and thought no more of their publication by means of the press than did Shakspeare and Molière of the publication of their plays. Indeed, the first appearance of a complete edition of Rossini’s operas was to Rossini himself a surprise, and by no means an agreeable one.

He had, in fact, enough to do in producing his works; and, practically, had obtained for them all he could get when he had once been paid by the theatre. What he sold to the manager was the right of representation for two years; after which he had no right of any kind in his works. Any one might play them, any one might engrave them.

One year after the production of a new opera, the composer had the right to take back the original score from the theatre; and this Rossini sometimes neglected to do, or, in the case of the “Barber,” the two missing pieces would not have been lost.

From the publishers who engraved his works, and made large sums of money by selling them, he never, as long as he remained in Italy, received a farthing.

When Rossini signed his agreement with Cesarini he had not the least idea what the libretto furnished to him would be. The manager had to arrange that matter with the censor before consulting the composer at all. Rossini had bound himself to set whatever was given to him, “new or old;” and it was, perhaps, fortunate that he had not left himself the right of refusing the admirable subject which Cesarini proposed to him a few days afterwards.

The statement that Rossini wrote the whole of the “Barber of Seville” in thirteen days belongs originally to Stendhal. Castil-Blaze[18] says one month. It is certain the work did not occupy the composer near a month, and he really seems to have completed it in about a fortnight.

On the 26th December, when the agreement was signed, there was no libretto, and Rossini had not yet finished with “Torvaldo e Dorliska,” which was produced on the evening of the 26th. On that evening, and the two following ones, Rossini had to direct the execution of his new work. He was not free then until the 29th; but he was not bound to supply the first act—more than half the opera, allowing for the length and musical importance of the finale—before Jan. 20th. The second act was to be furnished to the manager “at the time wished,” and he certainly would not have desired to have it many days later than Jan. 20th, inasmuch as the opera had to be presented to the public on Feb. 5th.

Rossini, then, may have worked at the “Barber of Seville” from December 29th to January 24th, which would allow for the rehearsals just the time ordinarily required at the Italian theatres—twelve days. He must have composed the opera in less than a month, and he may, as Stendhal says, and as M. Azevedo repeats, apparently on Stendhal’s authority, have finished it in thirteen days’ time, for it is certain that some days were lost in choosing a subject, or rather in getting the choice approved by the Roman authorities.

At last, when the “Barber of Seville” had been decided upon by the manager and the censor, Rossini would only consent on condition that an entirely new libretto should be prepared for him. The construction of the new libretto was entrusted to Sterbini, the poet of “Torvaldo e Dorliska,” and as no time was to be lost, the composer suggested that he should take up his quarters in “the house assigned to Luigi Zamboni.”

In this remarkable establishment, the composer, the librettist, and the original Figaro lived together for, say a fortnight, while the masterpiece was being manufactured.

For materials Rossini and his poet had Beaumarchais’ comedy and the libretto of Paisiello’s opera; and this time, by way of exception, instead of composing the music piece by piece as the words were furnished to him, Rossini commenced by asking Sterbini to read to him Beaumarchais’ comedy from beginning to end.

“Il Barbiere” has quite the effect of an improvisation corrected and made perfect; and it was, indeed, produced under the most favourable circumstances for unity and completeness. Rossini had made Sterbini promise to remain with him until the opera was finished, and as rapidly as the latter wrote the verses the former set them to music.

Paisiello’s distribution of scenes was not adopted—was purposely avoided; though the great situations in the comedy are of course reproduced in both the operas. In the new version of the “Barber” the grotesque episodical figures of “la Jeunesse” and “l’Eveillé” which Paisiello had retained, are very properly omitted. Where recitative would have been employed by the old master, Rossini has substituted dialogue sustained by the orchestra, the current of melody which flows throughout the work being here transferred from the voices to the instruments. There are more musical pieces, and there is twice or three times as much music in the new “Barber” as in the old.

Fortunately Sterbini was an amateur poet unburdened with literary pride, and prepared to carry out the composer’s ideas. Rossini not only kept up with the librettist, but sometimes found himself getting in advance. He then suggested words for the music which he had already in his head. Some of the best pieces in “Il Barbiere,” notably that of “La Calunnia,” seem to have been directly inspired by Beaumarchais’ eloquent, impetuous prose.

On the other hand, the famous “Largo al Fattotum,” though equally replete with the spirit of Beaumarchais, may be said to owe something of its rhythm, and therefore something of its gaiety, to Sterbini’s rattling verses. The librettist was in a happy vein that morning, and thought he had over-written himself. He told Rossini to take what verses suited him and throw the rest aside. Rossini took them all and set them to the rapid, elastic light-hearted melody, which at once stamps the character of Figaro.

In the room where the two inventors were at work a number of copyists were employed, to whom the sheets of music were thrown one by one as they were finished. Doubtless the chief lodger, Luigi Zamboni, looked in from time to time to see how the part of Figaro was getting on. Probably too the spirited impresario called occasionally to inquire how the work generally was progressing.

But whether or not Rossini received visits he certainly did not return them. Without taking it for granted, as M. Azevedo does, that the joint authors for thirteen days and nights had scarcely time to eat: and slept, when they could no longer keep their eyes open, on a sofa (they would have saved time in the end by taking their clothes off and going to bed), we may be quite sure that “Il Barbiere” is the result of one continuous effort—if to an act of such rapid spontaneous production the word effort can be applied.

Rossini is said to have told some one, that during the thirteen days which he devoted to the composition of the “Barber” (if Rossini really said “thirteen days” there is of course an end to the question of time), he did not get shaved.

“It seems strange,” was the rather obvious reply, “that through the ‘Barber,’ you should have gone without shaving.”

“If I had got shaved,” explained Rossini, very characteristically, “I should have gone out, and if I had gone out I should not have come back in time.”

While Rossini was working and letting his beard grow, Paisiello was quietly taking measures to insure a warm reception for the new opera.

According to Stendhal, Rossini had received a distinct permission from Paisiello to reset “Il Barbiere,” though, as a mere matter of etiquette, no such permission was necessary. M. Azevedo denies that Rossini wrote to Paisiello at all, though he also represents the old maestro as perfectly well informed on the subject of Rossini’s labours, and very anxious to frustrate them.

One thing is certain, that Rossini, in sending his libretto to press, prefixed to it the following—

Beneath the title of the libretto was the following sub-title: “Comedy by Beaumarchais, newly versified throughout, and arranged for the use of the modern Italian musical theatre, by Cesare Sterbini, of Rome;” and the publication was sanctioned by the indispensable imprimatur of J. Della Porta, Patriarch of Constantinople. This patriarch in partibus was invested with the actual functions of theatrical censor.

CHAPTER VI.

“THE BARBER OF SEVILLE.”—FIRST REPRESENTATION.

Paisiello’s work had grown old (as the preface to Rossini’s libretto, with all its compliments, ingeniously points out), and it had ceased to be played. Perhaps for that very reason the Roman public continued to hold it in esteem. Rossini, all the same, was to be punished for his rashness, and he seems to have been hissed, not only without his work being heard, but before one note of it had been played, and, according to M. Azevedo, before the doors were opened.

At least two original accounts have been published of the “Barber’s” first presentation to the Roman public—one, the most copious, by Zanolini;[20] the other, the most trustworthy, by Madame Giorgi Righetti, who took a leading part in the performance on the stage. Madame Giorgi Righetti was the Rosina of the evening.

Garcia, the celebrated tenor, was the Almaviva.

The Figaro was our friend the chief lodger, Luigi Zamboni, who, after distinguishing himself on all the operatic stages in Europe, became, like Garcia, a singing master, and taught other Figaros, besides Almavivas and Rosinas, how to sing Rossini’s music.

The original Don Basilio was Vitarelli; Bartholo, Botticelli.

The overture, an original work, written expressly for “Il Barbiere,” and not the overture to “Aureliano in Palmira” afterwards substituted for it, was executed in the midst of a general murmuring, “such,” remarks Zanolini, “as is heard on the approach of a procession.” Stendhal says that the Roman public recognised, or thought they recognised, in the overture the grumbling of the old guardian, and the lively remonstrances of his interesting ward. But he also says that the overture performed was that of “Aureliano;” probably he confounds two different representations. M. Azevedo thinks the original overture was lost through the carelessness of a copyist, but it is difficult to understand how, not only the composer’s score, but also the orchestral parts, could have been lost in this manner. One thing is certain that on the opening night the overture met with but little attention.

The introduction, according to Stendhal, was not liked, but this can only mean that it was not heard.

The appearance of Garcia did not change the disposition of the public.

“The composer,” says Madame Giorgi Righetti, “was weak enough to allow Garcia to sing beneath Rosina’s balcony a Spanish melody of his own arrangement.” Garcia maintained, that as the scene was in Spain, the Spanish melody would give the drama an appropriate local colour; but, unfortunately, the artist who reasoned so well, and who was such an excellent singer, forgot to tune his guitar before appearing on the stage as Almaviva. He began the operation in the presence of the public; a string broke; the vocalist proceeded to replace it, but before he could do so laughter and hisses were heard from all parts of the house. The Spanish air, when Garcia was at last ready to sing it, did not please the Italian audience, and the pit listened to it just enough to be able to give an ironical imitation of it afterwards.

The audience could not hiss the introduction to Figaro’s air; but when Zamboni entered, with another guitar in his hand, a loud laugh was set up, and not a phrase of “Largo al fattotum” was heard. When Rosina made her appearance in the balcony the public were quite prepared to applaud Madame Giorgi Righetti in an air which they thought they had a right to expect from her; but only hearing her utter a phrase which led to nothing, the expressions of disapprobation recommenced. The duet between Almaviva and Figaro was accompanied throughout with hissing and shouting. The fate of the work seemed now decided.

At length Rosina reappeared, and sang the cavatina which had so long been desired; for Madame Giorgi Righetti was young, had a fresh, beautiful voice, and was a great favourite with the Roman public. Three long rounds of applause followed the conclusion of her air, and gave some hope that the opera might yet be saved. Rossini, who was at the orchestral piano, bowed to the public, then turned towards the singer, and whispered, “Oh, natura!”

The entry of Don Basilio, now so effective, was worse than a failure the first night. Vitarelli’s make up was admirable; but a small trap had been left open on the stage, at which he stumbled and fell. The singer had bruised his face terribly, and began his admirably dramatic air with his handkerchief to his nose. This in itself must have sufficed to spoil the effect of the music. Some of the audience, with preternatural stupidity, thought the fall and the subsequent, consequent application of the handkerchief to the face, was in the regular “business” of the part, and, not liking it, hissed.

The letter-duet miscarried partly, it appears, through the introduction of some unnecessary incidents, afterwards omitted; but the audience were resolved to ridicule the work, and, as often happens in such cases, various things occurred to favour their pre-determination.

At the beginning of the magnificent finale a cat appeared on the stage, and with the usual effect. Figaro drove it one way, Bartholo another, and in avoiding Basilio it encountered the skirt of Rosina—behaved, in short, as a cat will be sure to behave mixed up in the action of a grand operatic finale. The public were only too glad to have an opportunity of amusing themselves apart from the comedy; and the opening of the finale was not listened to at all.

The noise went on increasing until the curtain fell. Then Rossini turned towards the public, shrugged his shoulders, and began to applaud. The audience were deeply offended by this openly-expressed contempt for their opinion, but they made no reply at the time.

The vengeance was reserved for the second act, of which not a note passed the orchestra. The hubbub was so great, that nothing like it was ever heard at any theatre. Rossini in the meanwhile remained perfectly calm, and afterwards went home as composed as if the work, received in so insulting a manner, had been the production of some other musician. After changing their clothes, Madame Giorgi Righetti, Garcia, Zamboni, and Botticelli went to his house to console him in his misfortune. They found him fast asleep.

The next day he wrote the delightful cavatina, “Ecco ridente il cielo,” to replace Garcia’s unfortunate Spanish air. The melody of the new solo was borrowed from the opening chorus of “Aureliano in Palmira,” written by Rossini, in 1814, for Milan, and produced without success; the said chorus having itself figured before in the same composer’s, “Ciro in Babilonia,” also unfavourably received. Garcia read his cavatina as it was written, and sang it the same evening. Rossini, having now made the only alteration he thought necessary, went back to bed, and pretended to be ill, that he might not have to take his place in the evening at the piano. The charming melody which, in “Il Barbiere,” is sung by Count Almaviva in honour of Rosina, is addressed by the chorus in “Aureliano” to the spouse of the grand Osiris, “Sposa del Grande Osiride,” &c.

At the second performance the Romans seemed disposed to listen to the work of which they had really heard nothing the night before. This was all that was needed to insure the opera’s triumphant success. Many of the pieces were applauded; but still no enthusiasm was exhibited. The music, however, pleased more and more with each succeeding representation, until at last the climax was reached, and “Il Barbiere” produced those transports of admiration among the Romans with which it was afterwards received in every town in Italy, and in due time throughout Europe. It must be added, that a great many connoisseurs at Rome were struck from the first moment with the innumerable beauties of Rossini’s score, and went to his house to congratulate him on its excellence. As for Rossini, he was not at all surprised at the change which took place in public opinion. He was as certain of the success of his work the first night, when it was being hooted, as he was a week afterwards, when every one applauded it to the skies.

The tirana composed by Garcia, “Se il mio nome saper voi bramate,” which he appears to have abandoned after the unfavourable manner in which it was received at Rome, was afterwards reintroduced into the “Barber” by Rubini. It is known that the subject of the charming trio “Zitti, Zitti” does not belong to Rossini—or, at least, did not till he took it. It may be called a reminiscence of Rossini’s youth, being note for note the air sung by Simon in Haydn’s “Seasons,” one of the works directed by Rossini at Bologna when he was still a student at the Lyceum.

Finally, the original idea of the air sung by the duenna Berta is taken from a Russian melody which Rossini had heard from the lips of a Russian lady at Rome, and had introduced into his opera for her sake. It is melodious, and above all, lively—yet occurring at a point in the drama where, for a time, all action ceases, it came to be looked upon as a signal for ordering ices.

Rossini wrote a trio for the scene of the music lesson, which has been either lost or (more probably) set aside by successive Rosinas who have preferred to substitute a violin concerto, or a waltz, or a national ballad, or anything else that the daughter of Bartholo would have been very likely to sing to her music-master. It is a pity that the trio cannot be recovered. Rosina might still sing a favourite air between the acts.

The original Rosina, by the way, Madame Giorgi Righetti, had a mezzo soprano voice; indeed, Rossini in Italy wrote none of his great parts for the soprano. When he first began to compose, the highest parts were taken by the sopranist, while the prima donna was generally a contralto—an arrangement somewhat suggestive of our burlesques, in which male parts are taken by women, female parts by men.

Rossini rose from the contralto (Madame Malanotte in “Tancredi,” Madame Marcolini in “L’Italiana in Algeri”) to the mezzo soprano (Madame Giorgi Righetti and Mademoiselle Colbran); but in his Italian operas, the part of Matilda in “Matilda di Sabran” is the only first part written for the soprano voice. Amenaide, the soprano of “Tancredi,” is a lady of secondary importance, the chief female part being of course that of Tancredi.

M. Castil-Blaze has given an interesting account of the various keys in which the chief solo pieces in “Il Barbiere” have been presented to the public. Of course Madame Giorgi Righetti sang Rosina’s air in its original key, F. Madame Persiani and other sopranos sang it in G.

Figaro’s air, written in C for Zamboni, is generally sung in B flat; Tamburini sang it in B natural. Basilio’s air, “La Calunnia,” generally sung in C, is written in D. Bartholo’s air, written in E flat, used to be sung by Lablache in D flat.

These particulars may be interesting to those who believe in the abstract value of a normal diapason, and in the absolute character of keys. We have all heard the principal airs in “Il Barbiere” sung in the keys in which they were not written. We have seldom heard any of them sung in the keys in which Rossini wrote them; yet who can say that by these frequent, constant transpositions they lose anything of their original character—that Figaro’s air, for instance, sounds mournful when sung in B flat?

CHAPTER VII.

OTELLO: FURTHER REFORMS IN OPERA SERIA.

Rossini now commenced an important work, which he had promised to Barbaja for the winter season of the Teatro del Fondo. The company included all the best of the burnt-out singers from the San Carlo Theatre, Mademoiselle Colbran, Davide and Nozzare, the two tenors, and Benedetti, a newly-engaged bass.

Here the bass again moves a little step forward, but Benedetti was nothing by the side of the two brilliant tenors. Iago, in the operatic version of “Othello,” is only a secondary character. Otello and Roderigo are two leading parts, and we may be sure that Barbaja, as an enterprising manager, having two popular tenors like Davide and Nozzare at his theatre, willing to appear together in the same opera, would have been very much shocked if his composer had objected to turn such a combination of talent to the best possible account.

Davide, as Otello, displayed much power; and his acting, equally with his singing, was praised by all who saw him. A French critic, M. Edouard Bertin, gives the following account of his performance in a letter dated 1823; the celebrated tenor had then been playing the part seven years:—

“Davide excites among the dilettanti of this town an enthusiasm and delight which could scarcely be conceived without having been witnessed. He is a singer of the new school, full of mannerism, affectation, and display, abusing, like Martin, his magnificent voice, with its prodigious compass (three octaves comprised between four B flats). He crushes the principal motive of an air beneath the luxuriance of his ornamentation, and which has no other merit than that of difficulty conquered. But he is also a singer full of warmth, verve, expression, energy, and musical sentiment; alone he can fill up and give life to a scene; it is impossible for another singer to carry away an audience as he does, and when he will only be simple he is admirable; he is the Rossini of song. He is a great singer; the greatest I have ever heard. Doubtless the manner in which Garcia sings and plays the part of Otello is preferable, taking it altogether, to that of Davide. It is purer, more severe, more constantly dramatic; but, with all his faults, Davide produces more effect, a great deal more effect. There is something in him, I cannot say what, which, even when he is ridiculous, commands, entrances attention. He never leaves you cold, and when he does not move you he astonishes you; in a word, before hearing him, I did not know what the power of singing really was. The enthusiasm he excites is without limits. In fact, his faults are not faults for Italians, who, in their opera seria, do not employ what the French call the tragic style, and who scarcely understand us when we tell them that a waltz or quadrille movement is out of place in the mouth of a Cæsar, an Assur, or an Otello. With them the essential thing is to please; they are only difficult on this point, and their indifference as to all the rest is really inconceivable; here is an example of it. Davide, considering apparently that the final duet of “Otello” did not sufficiently show off his voice, determined to substitute for it a duet from “Armida” (“Amor possente nome”), which is very pretty, but anything rather than severe. As it was impossible to kill Desdemona to such a tune, the Moor, after giving way to the most violent jealousy, sheathes his dagger, and begins in the most tender and graceful manner his duet with Desdemona, at the conclusion of which he takes her politely by the hand and retires, amidst the applause and bravos of the public, who seem to think it quite natural that the piece should finish in this manner, or, rather that it should not finish at all; for after this beautiful dénouement the action is about as far advanced as it was in the first scene. We do not in France carry our love of music so far as to tolerate such absurdities as these, and perhaps we are right.”

Lord Byron saw “Otello” at Venice soon after its first production. He speaks of it in one of his letters dated 1818, condemning and ridiculing the libretto, but praising the music and singing.

The chorus gains increased importance in “Otello.” The successive entry of two choruses, each with a fine crescendo effect, in the finale to the first act, is one of the striking features in this magnificent musical scene. But, full of beautiful and very dramatic music as Rossini’s opera decidedly is, it has the great disadvantage of reminding us constantly of what it does not resemble,—the “Othello” of Shakspeare. Roderigo is too much brought forward, Iago too much kept in the background; it is only when the part of Iago is given to such an actor as Ronconi that it regains its true dramatic importance.

However, “Otello” is one of Rossini’s finest works in the serious style. Each dramatic scene is one continuous piece of music, and the recitative, as in “Elisabetta,” is accompanied by the orchestra. “Otello” marks the end of the interminable recitatives with an accompaniment of piano or piano and double bass by which the rare musical pieces were separated in the serious works of Rossini’s predecessors. The Germans had abolished the pianoforte as an orchestral instrument long before, and Gluck had expelled it from the orchestra of the French Opera in the year 1774.

Instrumentation has of late years kept pace closely enough with the invention of new instruments, and orchestras are now similarly composed in Italy, France, Germany, and England—in short, throughout Europe. This was by no means the case when Rossini began to write for the stage, Italian orchestras by their constitution, if not by the skill of the executants, being at that time inferior to those of Germany, and even (in regard to the variety of instruments) to those of France.

The modern orchestra, if we reckon the military band which is often introduced on the stage, and the organ which is sometimes heard at the back of the stage, includes every available instrument that is known except the piano; which is an orchestra on a reduced scale, but ineffective and useless as an orchestral unit in the midst of so many instruments of superior sonority. The piano, employed in France until the time of Gluck, in Italy until that of Rossini, for accompanying recitative, is now banished generally from the orchestra, though it occasionally figures as a sort of non-combatant at the conductor’s desk, where it may serve at need to bring back an erring vocalist to the sense of musical propriety. Even in the “Barber of Seville” the piano to which Rosina sings her music lesson is dumb. Almaviva goes through the pantomime of a pianist, but the sound is the sound of the orchestra.

The history of some individual instruments has been written, notably that of the violin. But I know of no history of the orchestra,—say from the day of Nebuchadnezzar to that of Nabuchodonosore,[21]—from sackbuts and psalteries to trombones and opheicleides, cornets, saxhorns, saxotubas, and all kinds of saxophonous instruments.

However, up to about the middle of the eighteenth century the Italian orchestra, to judge by Pergolese’s “Serva Padrona,” as executed in 1862 in Paris, consisted entirely of stringed instruments. Few of the wind instruments now used in orchestras were known, and of those that were known fewer still had been sufficiently perfected for artistic purposes. Hautboys and bassoons were the first wind instruments admitted into Italian orchestras to vary the monotony inseparable from the use of stringed instruments alone.

The clarinet was not invented until the end of the seventeenth century, and was not recognised until long afterwards, even in Germany, as an orchestral instrument. It was introduced into French orchestras towards the end of the eighteenth century. In Italy it was sparingly used, and never as a solo instrument until Rossini’s time.

With the exception of hautboys and bassoons, no wind instrument seems to have come from the Italians. The so-called “German flute,” as distinguished from the old flute with a mouth-piece, a sort of large flageolet, was perfected by the celebrated Quantz, the friend and music-master of Frederick the Great; and, like all wind instruments, it has been much improved during the present century.

The horn, known in England as the “French horn,” in France, as the cor de chasse, was at first looked upon as an instrument to be sounded only in the woods and plains among dogs and horses. The Germans, not the French, made it available for orchestral purposes; but in Italy brass instruments of every description were long regarded as fit only for the use of sportsmen and soldiers. Wind instruments in wood were thought more tolerable, and after hautboys and bassoons, flutes and clarinets crept in,—the flute to be in time followed by its direct descendant, the piccolo.

Gluck invaded the orchestra of the French Opera with trombones, cymbals, and the big drum in the year 1774, when he at the same time ejected the harpsichord, the piano of the period. Thirteen years later Mozart’s trombones in “Don Giovanni” were considered a novelty at the Italian Opera of Vienna.

With the exception of opheicleides, cornets-à-piston, and the large and constantly increasing family of saxhorns, Rossini, in his latest Italian Operas, used all the instruments that are known in the present day, and used them freely with all sorts of new combinations. It was not for nothing that he and his father had played the horn together when the young Rossini was gaining his earliest experience of orchestral effects. He was always faithful to his first instrument. “The art,” says M. Fétis, “of writing parts for the horn, with the development of all its resources, is quite a new art, which Rossini, in some sort, created.”

In looking over the score of “Otello,” with Donizetti, ‘Sigismondi,’ the librarian of the Conservatory at Naples, is said to have complained of the prominence given to the clarinets, and to have exclaimed with horror at the employment of horns and trombones without number. “Third and fourth horns!” he cried; “what does the man want? The greatest of our composers have always been content with two. Shades of Pergolese, of Leo, of Jomelli! How they must shudder at the bare mention of such a thing! Four horns! Are we at a hunting party? Four horns! Enough to blow us to perdition!” The old professor was still more shocked by “1º, 2º, 3º tromboni,” which, according to an anecdote, the authenticity of which can scarcely be guaranteed, he mistook for “123” trombones.

The instrumentation of “Otello” is far more sonorous than that of “Tancredi;” but Rossini made a still more liberal use of the brass instruments in the “Gazza Ladra” overture, which again is surpassed by the march and chorus (with the military band on the stage) in the first act of “Semiramide.”

Rossini must have been on the watch for new instruments, whereas, if his predecessors in Italy looked out for them, it was only with the view of keeping them out of the orchestra.

In “Semiramide,” under the auspices of the composer, the key-bugle made its début at the Fenice of Venice in 1823. In 1829, in “Guillaume Tell,” the same composer brought out the cornet-à-piston at the French Opera.

Since “Guillaume Tell,” there has been no progress in dramatic music, but there has been further progress in instrumentation. At one moment the continued invasion of “the brass” seems to have startled Rossini himself. In 1834, when his young friend Bellini had just produced “I Puritani,” Rossini, writing an account of the first performance to a friend at Milan, said of the celebrated duet for Tamburini and Lablache, with its highly military accompaniments, “I need not describe the duet for the two basses. You must have heard it at Milan.” But neither Bellini nor Donizetti brought forward any new instruments.

In “Robert le Diable,” Meyerbeer introduced a melody for four kettledrums. Kettledrums were never so treated before! In “Le Juif Errant,” Halévy employed saxhorns to announce the Day of Judgment.

Nevertheless, the saxhorn turned out not to be the last trump. The ingenious inventor had saxophones, saxotubes, and other instruments of sounding brass, with names beginning in Sax, to offer to Meyerbeer, the Belgian Guides, and the musical and military world in general. Perhaps there is no more splendid example of modern instrumentation than the march in the “Prophète,” wherein every possible brass instrument is employed. If the benign Pergolese could hear it as executed by Mr. Costa’s band or bands (for one is not enough), he would fancy himself in Jericho, with the walls coming down.

CHAPTER VIII.

ROSSINI’S REPRODUCTIONS FROM HIMSELF.

Of course Rossini had a system, and of course music does possess dramatic expression, up to a certain point. Figaro’s air could not have been introduced into the trio of “Guillaume Tell;” the “Non piu mesta” of “Cenerentola” would not have seemed appropriate as the theme of the prayer in “Mosè.”

And it is to be noticed, moreover, that when Rossini made his own adaptations from himself, he was always successful, whereas other composers, who have manufactured pasticcios with motives borrowed from Rossini, have always failed. “Robert Bruce,” arranged by M. Carafa, with Rossini’s sanction, but not under Rossini’s superintendence, made no impression, and we have seen that Rossini quite mistrusted a M. Berettoni, who had constructed an opera called “Un Curioso Accidente,” from pieces contained in the composer’s early works.[22] This is not the place in which to speak of the shameful adaptations of Rossini’s works produced in England, into which airs by nameless composers were introduced, and which were prefaced by absurd pots pourris called overtures, the work of the “conductor and composer” of the music attached to the theatre where Rossini was thus presented. The rule in regard to pasticcio-making is clear. It may be undertaken by the composer of the airs employed, but by no one else.

Rossini is by no means the only composer who has transferred themes (seldom pieces in their complete form) from one to another of his works. According to M. Blaze de Bury,[23] Meyerbeer laid some of his early operas under contribution for “Dinorah,” which, perhaps for that reason, is so remarkably full of fresh spontaneous melody.

Auber enriched his “Fra Diavolo” in a similar manner, when he prepared it for the Italian stage. In the “Muette de Portici,” again, the prayer is borrowed from a mass, the barcarolle from “Emma,” the overture from “Le Maçon.”

Even Gluck, the favourite composer of those who maintain not only that music should render the character of a dramatic situation, but that it can and ought to reflect the meaning of particular phrases,—even Gluck, in arranging his works for the French stage, turned constantly for musical material to the works of his early days.

Persons who are of opinion that Rossini’s “Stabat Mater” is written in the operatic style, and that the airs of Handel’s oratorios are not in the operatic style, may be interested to hear that “Lord, remember David,” was originally composed for the opera of “Sosarme,” where it is set to the words “Rendi l’Sereno al Ciglio,” and that “Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty,” first appears in the opera of “Rodelinda,” as “Dove sei amato bene.”

That these changes have been made with success proves that there is no such thing as definite expression in music. The music of an impassioned love song may be adapted to the words of a prayer, and will only seem inappropriate to those who may chance to remember the words to which it was originally composed. A positive feeling of joy or of grief, of exultation or of depression, of liveliness or of solemnity, can be expressed by musical means, without the assistance of words, but not mixed feelings, into which several shades of sentiment enter. At least not with definiteness; though, once indicated by the words, they will obtain from music the most admirable colours, which will even appear to have been invented expressly and solely for them.

Rossini did not go back to the operas of his youth for motives, pieces and overtures merely, as is sometimes supposed, to save himself trouble, though in one or two exceptional cases, when much pressed for time, he may have done something of the kind; but his principle was, when he had once produced a really good piece, not to let it be lost—not to let it perish through the fault of an intolerable libretto.

A libretto is sometimes so bad that the best music in the world will not carry it off: in vain the composer gives it wings, it will not fly. In such a case as that, it was Rossini’s practice to disunite his living music from the dead body of the drama to which it had been attached, and to present it again to the public in what he thought would prove a happier alliance. If, again, the union was a failure, he had no hesitation in marrying his music to more or less immortal verse for the third time. The third time the result was invariably happy; witness the air, “Miei Rampolli,” which was tried first in “La Pietra del Paragone,” and secondly in “La Gazzetta,” before it at last found its proper place in “La Cenerentola;” and two of the finest pieces in the “Barber of Seville,” the overture which had previously belonged in succession to “Aureliano in Palmira” and “Elisabetta;” and Almaviva’s air, “Ecco ridente il Cielo,” a treasure saved from the wreck of “Aureliano in Palmira,” and which had before been picked out of the ruins of “Ciro in Babilonia.”

If Rossini had only pursued his laudable system half way, neither the overture to the “Barber” nor the Count’s cavatina would now have been heard; and his happiest, if not his greatest, work would have lost two of its most brilliant ornaments.

It must be observed that Rossini had never the slightest idea of allowing the same piece to belong to two different operas. “I get enraged,” he once said, speaking of the publication of his complete works, “when I think of that edition which contains every opera I have composed. The public will often find the same piece in different works, for I thought I had a right to take those which seemed to me the best from the operas which had failed, and place them in the new ones that I was composing. When an opera was hissed, I looked upon it as utterly dead, and now I find everything brought to life again.”[24]

The libretto of “Cenerentola” is an adaptation from Etienne’s “Cendrillon.” Rossini composed the opera for the Teatro Valle, at Rome, where it was produced on the 26th December, 1817, nearly one year after the “Barber,” a few months after “Otello” (winter season of 1816), and a few months before “La Gazza Ladra” (spring season of 1817). From the winter of 1815 to the spring of 1816, Rossini produced six operas, including the four masterpieces just named. The two minor works were “Torvaldo e Dorliska,” and “La Gazzetta.” “La Cenerentola” was not quite so successful as “Il Barbiere,” and no wonder, for though crammed full of beautiful music, it is not all of one piece like its predecessor at Rome, to which, moreover, “Cinderella” is very inferior in dramatic movement, and as a play generally.

The “Barber,” too, lends itself more readily to that perfect execution which it has so often attained.

It contains five excellent parts, each essentially necessary to the intrigue, and only one inferior character, who only appears for a few minutes during a necessary pause in the action, to sing a very pretty air. In regard to the two heroines, Rosina is certainly the most attractive, though Cinderella ought to be (but somehow is not) more sympathetic.

Indeed, as a purely theatrical part, a part for stage display, that of Rosina is quite unrivalled, and none is better adapted for the re-appearance of a favourite singer coming back to the scene of previous triumphs. Rosina makes her first entry on the balcony, as if only to receive the applause and congratulations of the public on her return. She has then to make a second entry, to sing a beautiful and very effective cavatina, and finally she has an admirable opportunity for gratifying the audience in the scene of the music lesson, by introducing some air which she knows, for national or sentimental reasons, or both, to be particularly agreeable to them.

Cenerentola, however, is far from being an insignificant heroine, and Madame Giorgi-Righetti sang the music admirably, as a year before she had sung that of Rosina. She was especially applauded for her brilliant delivery of the final rondo, “Non piu mesta.” This was the fourth and last time that Rossini concluded an opera with an air of display for the prima donna. It seemed to him, no doubt, that the device had now been sufficiently employed—which, however, did not force his successors to be of the same opinion.

As to the borrowed pieces in “Cenerentola,” the history of the air “Miei Rampolli” has been already traced through two operas. It belonged originally to “La Pietra del Paragone,” together with the duet “Un Soave non so che,” the drinking chorus, and the burlesque proclamation of the Baron. The sestet, the stretta of the finale, the duet “Zitto, Zitto,” were taken from “Il Turco in Italia.”

“Cenerentola” was the last of the great prima donna parts which Rossini composed for the contralto voice. He wrote nothing more, then, either for Madame Giorgi-Righetti, or for Madame Marcolini, the original Tancredi.

“La Cenerentola” seems to have been intended as a pendent to “Il Barbiere,” and at one time almost rivalled that work in popularity. Sontag, Malibran, Alboni, have appeared with brilliant success in the part of the heroine, which, like those of Rosina and Isabella, has often been sung by sopranos since the general dethronement of the contralto by the soprano voice in principal characters. But of late years this opera has seldom been played, and in England not since Madame Alboni’s last series of performances at Her Majesty’s Theatre.