THE Patriarch of Moscow, arrayed in all his splendour, was about to lay the foundation stone of a new church, when his consecrated trowel, formed of massive gold, could nowhere be found. Dreadful things happened. No one could say what had become of the precious instrument. The question was put to the nobles, the merchants were put to the question, the peasants were knouted and sent to Siberia; still the golden trowel was not forthcoming.
At last the Tsar died of grief; the great bell of Ivan Velikoi, the sound of which is never heard except on the most solemn occasions, was about to be tolled, when the aged bell-ringer, on ascending the tower, was much startled at startling a magpie which had turned the sacred belfry into a receptacle for stolen goods. In the midst of the hoard accumulated by the thievish bird, which included a fur cap, a wooden spoon, a pair of goloshes, a hymn-book, and a tenpenny nail, the long-lost golden trowel was discovered.
The Patriarch, now advanced in years, laid the foundation stone of the new church. He then pronounced a curse, the terms of which are unfit for publication, on the magpies of Moscow, and forbad them to approach the holy city within a distance of forty versts. Accordingly, no magpie is ever seen in Moscow—except, of course, on the stage, when “La Gazza Ladra” is performed.
Wherever the legend on which the story of the Maid and the Magpie may have come from—and its birthplace is doubtless much further east than Moscow—the drama or melodrama of domestic, military, and judicial interest on which Rossini’s “Gazza Ladra” is founded, belongs, like the dramatic originals of “Il Barbiere” and “La Cenerentola,” to the French. The French playwrights, if not good librettists themselves, are certainly cunning contrivers of plots on which good libretti may be founded. “Le Nozze di Figaro,” “Il Barbiere di Siviglia,” are both derived from Beaumarchais; “La Cenerentola” from Etienne; “La Sonnambula” from Scribe; “Lucrezia Borgia,” “Ernani,” and “Rigoletto,” from Victor Hugo. “Linda di Chamouni” is only “La Grace de Dieu;” “La Gazza Ladra,” “La Pie Voleuse” in another form. If there should ever be a recognised national division of literary labour in the world, England, considering how much the works of Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Bulwer, Dickens, Thackeray have been read on the continent, may perhaps supply the novels; but the French already write plays in every shape for the whole world.
Mademoiselle Jenny Vertpré was acting with great success in “La Pie Voleuse,” when Paer, happening to see the piece, was struck with its capabilities for musical setting, bought the book, made notes in the margin with a view to its conversion into an opera, and forwarded it to his librettist. The librettist thought, with Paer, that the subject was excellent for music; but he preferred to treat it for Rossini, who seems to have profited by the treachery of Paer’s poet in ordinary.
The story of the Maid and the Magpie does not in the present day seem to have been worth quarrelling about; nor, for that matter, did it lead to any positive dispute. Only Rossini constructed a fine musical work on a dramatic scaffolding furnished by Paer, who had no more wish to help him to a plot than one rival generally has to assist another, especially when the aid is to come from the less successful of the two.
The same Paer, composer of “Agnese” and several works which were very popular during his lifetime, was more unfortunate still with a libretto which he did make into an opera, and which Beethoven nevertheless adopted for his “Fidelio.”
“I have seen your piece,” said Beethoven to Paer, with cruel thoughtlessness, “and think of setting it to music!” Thus, Paer’s “Leonora, ossia l’amore conjugale” came to be overshadowed by the superior presence of Beethoven’s great work.
“La Gazza Ladra” belongs neither to opera seria nor to opera buffa; nor can it be classed with those operas of mezzo carattere, “Il Barbiere,” and “La Cenerentola.” It is a domestic drama set to music—very inferior, as to the subject, to its successors in the same style, “La Sonnambula,” and “Linda di Chamouni.”
The heroine of each of these dramas is the victim of a slight mistake. Whether ‘tis nobler to be suspected of carrying on an intrigue with a village count or of stealing a silver spoon, may be left to the decision of those prima donnas who have represented both Ninetta and Amina; but the story of “La Sonnambula” is certainly both more probable, and more pleasing, than that of “La Gazza Ladra,” which Rossini does not seem to have been able to treat seriously. The plot is so badly woven in “La Gazza Ladra” that it scarcely hangs together at all. We feel almost from the beginning that everything can be explained at any moment if Ninetta will only give herself the trouble to speak.
Fernando cannot say a word in defence of his daughter, though it is to save her that he has given himself up to the authorities. If Ninetta will make no statement, it is for fear of compromising her father—who, however, by his own act is already as much compromised as he well can be.
In “La Sonnambula,” on the other hand, appearances are entirely against the unfortunate Amina, who, to the last moment, is entirely unable to explain her conduct.
In “La Gazza Ladra” Rossini makes some amends to the contralto voice for dethroning it from the highest position, formerly assigned to it in serious opera. Before Rossini’s time, when a soprano and a contralto part were introduced together, the former was for the primo uomo (sopranist), the latter for the prima donna. We have seen that Rossini after writing one part for a sopranist (Velluti in “Aureliano”), never wrote a second. Taking his prima donnas as he found them, he continued to compose the principal female part for the contralto, and dispensed with the soprano, except where, as in “L’Italiana,” he found it convenient to introduce a soprano voice merely for the sake of the concerted pieces.
In writing “La Gazza Ladra” for the company of La Scala at Milan, he found two female vocalists to whom he could with advantage give leading parts: one a soprano, or mezzo-soprano, as she would now be called, Madame Theresa Belloc; and the other a contralto, Mademoiselle Galianis. The former was the prima donna; for the latter Rossini composed the charming part of Pippo—the first secondary auxiliary part for the contralto which occurs in opera.
Pippo, then, was the first of that interesting tribe of rich-voiced hermaphrodites for whom so many charming melodies were to be written. The humble Pippo was the precursor of the picturesque Malcolm Graeme, of the chivalrous Arsace, of the impulsive Maffeo Orsini, of the courteous Urbano; as Mademoiselle Galianis was the forerunner of Pisaroni, of Brambilla, and of Alboni. In the present day, for sound commercial reasons, no singer will remain a contralto who can possibly become a soprano; and, whether it be an effect or a cause, since “Linda di Chamouni” (1842), the class of parts represented by the above-named types has received no addition.
Contraltos for the representation of interesting adolescents were so rare when “La Gazza Ladra” was first produced, that in most companies the part of Pippo was assigned to a baritone or bass.
In bringing out “La Gazza Ladra” at Milan, Rossini was somewhat in the same position as when, four years previously, he had produced “Tancredi” at Venice. The Milanese had not considered “Il Turco in Italia,” which Rossini wrote for La Scala in 1814, quite good enough for them. This had not prevented Rossini (who must have been a better judge of his own music than the Milanese public) from prefixing the overture written for “Il Turco in Italia” to “Otello,” nor from transferring several pieces from the body of that work to “La Cenerentola.” Still the Milanese, jealous of the public of Rome, for whom “Il Barbiere” and “La Cenerentola” had been composed, and of that of Naples, where “Otello” had recently been produced, fancied themselves slighted, and seem to have gone to the first representation of “La Gazza Ladra” with the determination to stand no trifling from the composer.
Rossini attacked them at once at the very beginning of the overture with a roll of the drum—or rather of two drums, one at each end of the orchestra—which they could not say had been heard before either at Rome, at Venice, or at Naples. The audience could not but be attentive, and continuing to listen, could not but be delighted. The freshness and beauty of the melodies, the brilliancy and sonority of the instrumentation, the happy verve which animates the whole work, produced their natural effect.
It cannot be said, however, that Rossini’s overture was applauded without a single dissentient voice. One young man in the pit—a student of music, and a pupil of Rolla, the leader of the orchestra—went almost into convulsions on hearing the drums, and wished to take summary vengeance on the composer who had ventured to introduce such instruments into an operatic orchestra. The youthful conservative, with all the ardour of an Italian revolutionist, swore that he would have Rossini’s blood, and went about with a stiletto in the hope of meeting him.
The master of this vehement orchestral purist warned Rossini that he meant mischief; but Rossini was so much amused at the idea of any one wishing to assassinate him because in an overture of a military character he had introduced a couple of drums, that he got Rolla to bring him and the young man together. Then in a humble tone he set forth his reasons for introducing the instruments which had so irritated the student’s susceptible ears, and ended by promising never to offend in a similar manner again. For which, or better reasons, Rossini never afterwards began an overture with a duet for drums.
The overture of “La Gazza Ladra” is still the most popular in Italy of all Rossini’s overtures, and it formed an essential part of the programme at all the commemorative performances given throughout Italy after the composer’s death. When it was executed for the first time it caused raptures of enthusiasm. The audience rose, applauded, called out to the composer, after the queer Italian fashion, and continued to applaud for several minutes.
They had now quite forgotten their predetermination to be severe; they were only too grateful to Rossini for the pleasure he had afforded them. The reconciliation was perfect. The public was prepared to be enchanted with everything; the introduction was very much admired, and Ninetta’s cavatina, the celebrated
obtained as much applause as the overture itself.
Madame Belloc had sung her air a second time, and it was being called for again, when Rossini, from his place in the orchestra, appealed to the audience to allow the performance to proceed, saying that the part of Ninetta was very heavy, and that Madame Belloc, if called upon to repeat her solos, might be unable to get through it. This protest against the encore system found rational listeners, and the opera went on without further interruption.
Rossini had particularly counted on the success of the prayer for three voices—
and he was not deceived in his expectation. The success of a prayer for three voices in Winter’s recently produced opera of “Maometto” is said to have determined Rossini to introduce a concerted preghiera of his own in “La Gazza Ladra.” It was a novelty in those days to see operatic characters address a formal invocation to Heaven. Now it is the first thing that occurs to them when they are in trouble.
A dozen operas might be mentioned in which one or more of the personages, and generally a whole crowd, fall down on their knees before the audience and begin to pray. In “La Gazza Ladra” there are two prayers; the one just mentioned, in the terzetto, and Ninetta’s prayer in the scene of her condemnation. Rossini, when he did take an idea from another composer, appropriated it so thoroughly that it belonged to him for ever afterwards. He practised in music the precept enjoined by Voltaire in literature,—not to rob without killing. Mosca’s crescendo ceased to belong to Mosca when it had once been adopted by Rossini; and Winter, after the trio of “La Gazza Ladra,” and above all, the preghiera in “Mosè,” could no longer pass, even in Italy, as the inventor of stage praying.
But were it not that the prayer in Winter’s “Maometto,” produced at Milan just before “La Gazza Ladra,” is known to have made a distinct impression on Rossini, and to have induced him to order a prayer forthwith from his own librettist, there would be no reason at all why the prayer in “La Gazza Ladra” should be attributed to Winter, considering that a much better model of the same operatic form already existed in the “trio of masks” in “Don Giovanni.”
Once more let it be remarked that almost everything new in Rossini was already old in Mozart. But apart from his own endless verve, gaiety, and melodic inventiveness, what really does belong to Rossini in the matter of operatic forms is the preghiera for a whole body of voices, as first introduced in “Mosè.”
AFTER the immense success of “La Gazza Ladra,” Rossini returned to Naples. It will be remembered that while he was at Rome superintending the production of “Il Barbiere di Siviglia” the San Carlo had been burnt down. King Ferdinand was in despair at the loss of his magnificent theatre; but that enterprising manager, Barbaja, hearing of his monarch’s grief, went to him, and promised to rebuild the San Carlo, more magnificent than ever, in nine months. Barbaja fulfilled his promise, and in January, 1817, the new San Carlo was reopened.
The same year, a few months after the production of “La Gazza Ladra,” Rossini brought out at the San Carlo an opera called “Armida,” in which the principal characters were assigned to Mdlle. Colbran, Nozzari, and Benedetti. Although very successful at the time, this opera seems soon to have been forgotten—doubtless by reason of the subject not being sufficiently modern for our modern taste. “Armida” is noticeable as the only one of Rossini’s Italian operas containing ballet music, a style in which, as in every other, he was a consummate master. Of this he gave brilliant proof a dozen years afterwards in the unrivalled ballet music of “Guillaume Tell.”
The music written for the divertissement of “Armida” was transferred in 1827 to the French edition of “Mosè” as reconstructed for the stage of the Académie. “Armida” contains the celebrated duet “Amor possente nume” (which Davide thought fit to introduce into the last act of “Otello”; at a period, however, when the composer was no longer in Italy to control him), and a beautiful chorus for female voices, “Che tutto è calma.”
In regard to choruses, as to solo voices, Rossini had to suit his music to his company. At Naples he had a fine chorus of women as well as of men. At Rome only men sang in the chorus. Thus the choruses in “Il Barbiere” are written exclusively for male voices.
It is also worth observing that “Armida,” like “Otello” and “Mosè in Egitto,” is in three acts, a division which in a few years (witness the operas of Donizetti and Bellini) was quite to supersede the old division into two acts, with the interval between filled up by a ballet an hour long.
In the winter of the same year (1817) Rossini revisited Rome, where he was once more engaged to write an opera for the carnival. “Adelaida di Borgogna” was the title of the work, which is said to have been well received, but does not seem to have left many traces.
Some time in 1818 a Portuguese nobleman requested Rossini to write an opera for the San Carlo theatre of Lisbon, which was delivered and produced the same year under the title of “Adina Ossia il Califfo di Bagdad.” “Adina” was a little work in one act, the music of which does not seem to have become known out of Portugal.
“Mosè in Egitto” marks Rossini’s third onward step and third great success in opera seria: “Tancredi,” “Otello,” “Mosè.”
We meet again with Benedetti, Nozzari, and Mdlle. Colbran in the cast of this work, which was produced at the San Carlo Theatre in the Lent of 1818.
Barbaja had further engaged the celebrated Porto, to whom, to Benedetti, and to basses and baritones in general, Rossini rendered an important service by composing the parts of Faraone and Mosè for the bass voice. Porto’s magnificent tones were so effective that he rendered Faraone as prominent a personage as Mosè himself. But Benedetti, who had “made up” after Michael Angelo’s celebrated statue, shared Porto’s success.
Nozzari, as tenor, represented a lover; Mdlle. Colbran, as prima donna, his beloved, who, according to the excellent dramatic custom, when nations or parties are in conflict, belonged to opposite sides.
The final emancipation of the serious basso (the comic basso was already eligible for leading parts) dates from the production of “Mosè,” in 1818. The liberation was gradual; for, both in “Tancredi” and in “Otello,” exceptional prominence had been given to what was formerly called and considered the ultima parte. In “La Gazza Ladra,” too, which, however, was not an opera seria, but an opera of mezzo carattere, Galli, who was afterwards to appear as Maometto and Assur, had played the bass or baritone part of Fernando.
It may be said that Rossini, having two basses at hand, composed the parts of Mosè and Faraone for them; as, in 1816, having two first tenors to write for, he assigned to them the characters of Otello and Iago. But it is more reasonable to infer that he had now determined to grant the bass his natural dramatic rights, as the representative of imposing and gloomy, as well as of jovial parts.
By this innovation, moreover, Rossini gave variety to his casts, and increased his resources for concerted music. Probably he would have introduced it before could he have found the singers he wanted among the companies he had engaged to write for. But it was not the custom at the time of Rossini’s youth for composers to give important parts to bass singers; and it was only the demand for leading basses created by Rossini which afterwards caused the supply. Moving constantly about from one theatre, one city, to another, and producing three operas a year, he was obliged to write his music according to his singers’ voices.
Meyerbeer, when he had begun to compose for the French opera, would wait patiently, month after month, and year after year, until he could find just the voice he wanted; but he did not, like Rossini, compose thirty-four operas before he was thirty-two years of age.
The choral portion of “Mosè” is all important. The chorus of the plague of darkness, in the first act, was found one of the most impressive pieces when the work was first produced; and this was quite surpassed at subsequent representations by the admirable preghiera of the passage of the Red Sea, where the same melody, with just one significant shade of difference, is heard, first in the minor, as a plaintive supplication, afterwards in the major, as a joyous thanksgiving. Nothing is more simple, nothing can be more perfect. The music thoroughly beautiful, the effect thoroughly dramatic.
“Among other things that can be said in praise of your hero, do not forget that he is an assassin,” remarked Dr. Cottougna of Naples to the Abbé Carpani, at the time of the general enthusiasm caused by “Mosè.” “I can cite to you,” he continued, “more than forty attacks of nervous fever, or violent convulsions on the part of young women fond to excess of music, which have no other origin than the prayer of the Hebrews in the third act, with its superb change of key.”
In England “Mosè” is scarcely known. The work being unpresentable on our stage in its original form, was brought out, a few years after its production as an oratorio, and afterwards, with a complete transformation in the libretto, as an opera under the title of “Pietra Eremita.” The operatic version was given at the King’s Theatre with so much success that it attracted large audiences during an entire season. No nervous fevers, no convulsions, were placed to its account; but the subscribers were in ecstacies, and one of the most distinguished supporters of the theatre assured Mr. Ebers, the manager, that he deserved well of his country, and offered as a proof of gratitude to propose him at White’s.
It has been recorded that when “Moïse,” the French version of “Mosè in Egitto,” as remodelled by Rossini, was brought out at the French Opera, forty-five thousand francs were sunk in the Red Sea, and to no effect. In London the Red Sea became merely a river, which, however, failed quite as signally as the larger body of water, and had to be drained off before the second performance took place.
An Italian version of the French version of the original Italian version of “Mosè” was produced at the Royal Italian Opera some twenty years ago under the title of “Zora.” It had no permanent success, and was not even played a second season. The piece was found too long, too heavy—it was living music united to a dramatic corpse.
The beautiful prayer, however, survives, and will doubtless long continue to survive the rest of the work. Played on a single instrument, as by Sivori on the violin, at the service performed in memory of Rossini at Florence, or sung by thousands of vocalists to the accompaniment of some hundreds of musicians, as at various musical gatherings in London and Paris, the melody is always touching, the mass of harmony always impressive.
It is remarkable that this hymn with two aspects, first mournful, then jubilant, was an after thought, and was, moreover, improvised like more than one of Rossini’s finest pieces. Indeed, what melody, unless it be a reminiscence, is not an improvisation? The idea comes or it does not come.
The story of the theatrical Red Sea and the comic effect produced by its waves, and of the sublime effect produced by the chorus sung on its banks, has often been told, but in a “Life of Rossini” it must of necessity be repeated.
The production of the drama presented many scenic difficulties, from the plague of darkness with which the piece commences, to the passage of the Red Sea, which concludes it.
The representation of darkness was easily managed by lowering the stage lights, but the passage of the Red Sea was a far more formidable affair; and instead of producing the effect anticipated it was received every night with laughter. The two first acts were always applauded, but the Red Sea, instead of aiding, completely marred the dénouement of the third.
The work, in spite of the Red Sea, lived through one season. When it was about to be revived, the season, or two seasons afterwards, the librettist, Tottola, rushed into Rossini’s room, found him holding his usual levee in bed surrounded by friends, and rushing towards him with a sheet of manuscript in his hand, he exclaimed that he had saved the third act.
Rossini thought the third act, or rather its dénouement, past redemption. Tottola suggested that a prayer for the Israelites before and after the miraculous passage might prove very effective, and Rossini saw at once what could be made of the notion.
“There are the verses,” exclaimed the librettist; “I wrote them in an hour.”
“I will get up and write the music,” replied Rossini. “You shall have it in a quarter of an hour.”
He in fact jumped out of bed, began to write in his shirt, and had finished the piece in eight or ten minutes.
A story like this is worth verifying, or at least tracing to its source. Stendhal first told it in France; Stendhal translated it from the Abbé Carpani; and Carpani attributes it to a friend who was present in Rossini’s room when the incident took place.
“The day afterwards,” says Stendhal, “the audience were delighted as usual with the first act, and all went well until the third, when the passage of the Red Sea being at hand the audience as usual prepared to be amused. The laughter was just beginning in the pit, when it was observed that Moses was about to sing. He commenced his solo.
“Dal tuo stellato.”
“It was the first verse of a prayer which all the people repeat in chorus after Moses. Surprised at this novelty, the pit listened, and the laughter entirely ceased. The chorus, exceedingly fine, was in the minor. Aaron continues, followed by the people. Finally Elcia addresses to Heaven the same supplication, and the people respond. Then all fall on their knees and repeat the prayer with enthusiasm: the miracle is performed, the sea has opened to leave a path to the people protected by the Lord. This last part is in the major. It is impossible to imagine the thunders of applause that resounded throughout the house; one would have thought it was coming down. The spectators in the boxes standing up and leaning over to applaud, called out at the top of their voice “Bello, bello! O che bello!” I never saw so much enthusiasm, nor such a complete success, which was so much the greater inasmuch as people were quite prepared to laugh.... After that deny that music has a direct physical effect upon the nerves! I am almost in tears when I think of this prayer.”
After the miracle in “Mosè,” it is not astonishing that Rossini should have become a firm believer in the efficacy of operatic prayer. He now introduced it at every opportunity; and it is noticeable that in each of the four operas which Rossini produced at the Academy a choral preghiera occurs. Auber turned this new dramatic means to admirable account in “La Muette de Portici,” and Meyerbeer, after making liberal use of it in other works, seems to have employed it in “L’Africaine” almost to excess. Here we find prayers all through the opera; from the members of the Inquisition in one act; from the sailors on board the celebrated ship in another; from the priests of Madagascar in a third.
WHEN Rossini was thirty-seven years of age he had written thirty-seven operas, without counting those enlarged editions of former works, “Moïse” and “Le Siège de Corinthe.” Of this number a good many are forgotten, many too were never known out of Italy at all. The best, and not merely the best, but the most typical, have remained. Admirable works, which might have made the reputation of another composer, have been overshadowed by masterpieces from the same hand. Repetitions too have perished by the side of originals, and the time will no doubt come when people will judge of Rossini almost entirely by the “Barber of Seville”—the best proportioned, the most characteristic, and certainly the most fortunate in regard to a libretto, of all his works.
Everything that relates to Rossini’s earliest works is interesting; indeed at one time “L’Inganno Felice” was his very best opera—which it is evident that “Ricciardo e Zoraide,” the thirtieth on the list, never could have been. This last production, written in the year 1818 for the San Carlo, must have been admirably executed, the chief parts being entrusted to Mademoiselle Colbran, Benedetti the basso, and the two tenors, Nozzare and Davide; but it had the misfortune to be produced immediately after “Mosè,” and was crushed by the greater work.
Of “Ermione” little seems now to be known, except that the libretto was based on Racine’s “Andromaque,” that in addition to Mademoiselle Colbran and the two tenors, Davide and Nozzare, the celebrated contralto Pisarone (for whom Rossini, a few months afterwards, wrote the part of Malcolm Graeme) was included in the cast, and that the work, though presented on the stage with all possible advantages, made no lasting impression. It is not even certain that it made a very favourable impression in the first instance; and if “Ricciardo e Zoraide” lost by coming just after “Mosè,” “Ermione” can scarcely have gained by coming just before “La Donna del Lago.”
Stendhal—an untrustworthy guide, the more so as he makes no distinction between his own personal opinions and those of Carpani, from whom he so constantly borrows—informs us that the music of “Ermione” is composed in the declamatory style of Gluck. M. Azevedo says that it is written in the simple, vigorous style adopted by Rossini for treating the subject of “Guillaume Tell.” The two statements may be reconciled, if indeed (which is quite probable) one has not been suggested by the other. It may be said generally, that in “Ermione” the composer studied the dramatic requirements of his subject more than the vocal capabilities of his singers. The experiment does not seem to have been successful as far as the public taste was concerned.
But between “Ermione” and “La Donna del Lago,” both produced at the San Carlo at Naples, Rossini brought out “Eduardo e Cristina” at Venice.
According to the author of Le Rossiniane, “Eduardo e Cristina” was little more than Rossini’s two previous operas, “Ricciardo e Zoraide” and “Ermione,” in another shape. The manager of the San Benedetto Theatre at Venice had engaged Rossini to furnish him with a work for the Spring season. But urgent private affairs detained the composer at Naples, which he could not prevail upon himself to quit until about ten days before the day fixed for the production of his new and original work.
It is true that Rossini had in the meanwhile forwarded a good many pieces of music to the expectant manager. The words were not always the same as those which the manager had forwarded to him, but no one, not even the manager, pays much attention to the words of an opera, and the Venetian impresario was only too glad to get the music.
Nine days before the day of performance Rossini arrived in Venice to give the finishing touches to his work, see it through the rehearsals, and direct the first representation.
The opera was immensely applauded; but after the first two or three pieces the audience all remarked a Neapolitan merchant in the pit who seemed to know the work by heart, and anticipated the vocalists in singing the principal melodies.
His neighbours asked him how he came to have heard the new music.
“New music?” replied the merchant; “it is a mixture of ‘Ricciardo e Zoraide’ and ‘Ermione,’ produced at Naples six months ago. The only thing new is the title. Rossini has taken the most beautiful phrase from the duet in ‘Ricciardo,’ and turned it into a cavatina for your new opera. Even the words are the same. ‘Ah nati in ver noi siamo.’”
During the entre-acte, and while the ballet was going on, the story of the Neapolitan merchant, after being told in the theatrical café, soon spread in the theatre itself. The local dilettanti, who had been vying with one another in sounding the praises of the work, were disgusted to find that it had not been written for them at all, but had been composed for Naples.
However, the public liked the music, and yielding only to their own impressions, applauded it. The impresario on the other hand was bound to be seriously annoyed, and said that Rossini had shamefully deceived him, had ruined him, and so on. Rossini answered that he had promised the manager music which would be applauded; that his music had been and would continue to be applauded, and that applause, above all from the managerial point of view, was the one thing to be considered.
The manager’s reply to this sophism has not been preserved.
IT was the fate of Rossini to have to write a certain number of complimentary cantatas, two of which were composed and executed in the year 1819; one in honour of the King of Naples, the other to congratulate his visitor the Emperor of Austria.
Rossini did not admit the principle of nationality in music, which he divided generally into good music and bad. He also seems to have held that music had no politics, and he composed with the greatest impartiality works for the liberal, and for the monarchical and conservative side. He is known to have written a patriotic hymn at Bologna in 1815. Cimarosa had been thrown into prison (where, according to some writers, he was poisoned) for a similar performance; but Cimarosa doubtless went to work with greater earnestness than Rossini, and doubtless did not limit the expression of his political opinions to music alone.
In 1820 Rossini produced a patriotic cantata at Naples during the temporary success of the Liberals; and in 1823 composed “Il Vero Omaggio,” a cantata performed at Verona during the Congress at which liberal ideas played no great part.
In 1847 he addressed his “Stanzas” to Pius IX., and he had previously made his peace with the Church by composing a mass, which was performed at Naples in 1819—the year of the two cantatas. It is noticeable that the various pieces contained in this religious work (apparently the one which figures in several catalogues with the date of 1832 erroneously attached to it) were all founded on motives from Rossini’s operas.
This was the mass which, according to some enthusiastic Neapolitan priest, could not fail, in spite of all his sins, to open to Rossini the gates of Paradise. “Knock with that,” he said, “and St. Peter cannot refuse you.”
Handel, in a similar manner, transferred several of his operatic airs to oratorios. Music serves admirably to heighten the effect of a dramatic situation, or to give force and intensity to the expression of words; but the same music may often be allied with equal advantage to words of very different shades of meaning. Thus the same music may be made to depict sentiments, feelings, even passions (grief, remorse, ardent longing), which belong equally to a religious and to a secular order of ideas. Gluck knew as well as Piccini and all the Italian composers, that an overture written specially for one opera might, without disadvantage, be prefixed to another. Gluck’s overture to “Armide” was originally the overture to “Telemacco,” and he borrowed both from the said “Telemacco” and from his “Clemenza di Tito,” to enrich the score of “Iphigénie en Aulide.”
Paisiello, when he was Napoleon’s chapel master, used to compose a mass every two months or oftener—he produced fourteen in two years. He received a thousand francs apiece for them, and it is said that after making use of numerous pieces of church music which he had written for Italy, he went for his motives to his serious and even his comic operas. One can recall many love songs of an elevated character, those of Mozart and of Schubert for instance, songs of a mournful and regretful character, songs of a sentimental and slightly passionate cast, which only require to be united to religious words to acquire religious character.
It is of course essential for the success of music thus transferred from secular to religious compositions, that it shall be heard for the first time as part of the latter.
IN proportion as Rossini elevated and enlarged his style, in proportion as he aimed at rendering his works truly dramatic, so did his success diminish. The grand combinations in “La Donna del Lago” were not appreciated at Naples; “Semiramide” was coldly received at Venice; “Guillaume Tell” did not please the public when it was first produced at Paris.
If Rossini could have produced anything finer than “Guillaume Tell,” who knows but that it would have been hissed?
“La Donna del Lago” and “Guillaume Tell” possess many points in common, the Italian work being in some sort the forerunner of the greater work composed for the French stage. Both dramas are conceived on a large scale, and deal with large masses; both are full of new picturesque effects, and one may almost say “local colour,” though Rossini did not commit the puerility of introducing national tunes to remind his audiences that the scene of “La Donna del Lago” was in Scotland, that of “Guillaume Tell” in Switzerland.
Among the very numerous reforms introduced by Rossini into opera seria—reforms which now pass without notice because no works by Italian composers anterior to Rossini are ever played[25]—the choice of subject has not yet been mentioned.
As French dramatists and painters, until the beginning of what is called the romantic movement, dealt only with classical subjects, so Italian composers were confined, either by general prejudice or by a mere habit of routine, to the legendary and mythological subjects of antiquity. Rossini had, it is true, come down to the Crusades in “Tancredi,” but the libretto of that work all the same was based on one of the most conventional specimens of the French classical drama. Without being a professed theorist, Rossini studied the resources of his art much more profoundly than is supposed by those who judge him by the habitual tone of his conversation, and by the haste and apparent carelessness which he often exhibited in composing even his best works; and Rossini, consciously or unconsciously, but as it seems to me deliberately, and not merely from instinct, broke through the rigid old rule which limited the composer to one range of subjects, and those of the most familiar and interesting kind.
For they were very familiar, though entirely removed from the possible sympathies of a modern audience. What, indeed, were Artemisia and Artaxerxes to them, or they to Artemisia and Artaxerxes? Verdi, going perhaps to the other extreme, sets the latest French novel to music. The composers of the eighteenth century went to work over and over again on the same well-worn libretti by Apostolo Zeno, Calsabigi and Metastasio.
Hasse composed two operas on the libretto of “Artemisia,” two on “Artaserse,” and three on “Arminio.” Jomelli set “Didone” twice, and “Demofonte” twice; Piccini and Sacchini each composed music twice to the “Olimpiade.” Mozart, after “Don Giovanni,” had gone back to Metastasio, in “La Clemenza di Tito;” and Rossini began by writing in the true old style “A Lament on the Death of Orpheus”—an event which must have deeply affected him.
There was a time when Metastasio was himself an innovator. Before being classical, opera was altogether mythological. “At the birth of the opera,” says Rousseau, in the “Musical Dictionary,” “its inventors, to elude that which seemed unnatural as an imitation of humour in the union of music with speech, transferred their scenes from earth into heaven and hell. Not knowing how to make men speak, they made gods and devils, instead of heroes and shepherds, sing. Thus magic and marvels became speedily the stock-in-trade of the lyrical theatre; yet, in spite of every effort to fascinate the eyes whilst multitudes of instruments and voices bewildered the air, the action of every piece remained cold, and all its scenes were totally devoid of interest. As there was no plot which, however intricate, could not easily be unravelled by the intervention of some god, the spectator quietly abandoned to the poet the task of delivering his hero from his greatest dangers.”
Gradually gods were driven from the stage on which men were represented. “Gods and devils,” says Arteaga (“Revoluzioni del Teatro Italiano”), “were banished from the stage as soon as poets discovered the art of making men speak with dignity. This reform was followed by another which Rousseau describes as the work of Apostolo Zeno and Metastasio, his pupil. I will quote one more passage from the “Musical Dictionary” to show what the operatic ideal was in 1730, and how much it differed from that of 1830, as entertained by Rossini, Auber, and Meyerbeer:—
“The opera, it was felt, should represent nothing cold or intellectual,” says Rousseau—“nothing that the spectator could witness with sufficient tranquillity to reflect on what he saw. And it is in this especially that the essential difference between the lyric drama and pure tragedy consists. All political deliberations, all plots, conspiracies, explanations, recitals, sententious maxims—in a word, all which speaks to the reason, was banished from the theatre of the heart, together with all jeux d’esprit, madrigals, and other pleasant conceits which suppose some activity of thought. On the contrary, to depict all the energies of sentiment, all the violence of the passions, was made the principal object of this drama; for the illusion which makes its charm is destroyed as soon as the author and actor leave the spectator a moment to himself. It is on this principle that the modern[26] opera is established. Apostolo Zeno, the Corneille of Italy, and his tender pupil, who is its Racine [Metastasio], have opened and carried to its perfection this new career of the dramatic art. They have brought the heroes of history on a theatre which seemed only adapted to exhibit the phantoms of fable.”
Rossini did for the heroes of history what his predecessors had done for the phantoms of fable; he substituted for them the personages of modern romance. The composer had already placed himself above the librettist, whose by no means unimportant duty it is to prepare (in the admirable words of Victor Hugo,[27] “un canevas d’opéra plus ou moins bien disposé pour que l’œuvre musicale s’y superpose heureusement;” and again, “une trame qui ne demande pas mieux que de se dérober sous cette riche et éblouissante broderie qui s’appelle la musique.”)
“La Donna del Lago,” the fourth of those “serious” operas by Rossini, each of which made a distinct impression, marks another step forward in the composer’s progress from “Tancredi” to “Guillaume Tell.” The varied cast includes parts for a soprano (Mdlle. Colbran), a contralto (Mdlle. Pisaroni), two tenors (Davide and Nozzare), and a bass (Benedetti). Great prominence is given to the chorus; and for the first time Rossini introduces a military band on the stage, which is heard first by itself, afterwards in conjunction with the chorus.
This innovation, of which, however (once more!), an example was already to be found in “Don Giovanni,” does not seem to have been admired when “La Donna del Lago” was first performed; and hence it may be inferred that if Rossini had brought out, say half a dozen years before, an opera, presenting at once all the reforms which, as it was, he introduced gradually, then such an opera would have been too much in advance of the public taste to have had any chance of success.
A bass singer in the foreground, a chorus taking an active part in the drama, recitatives accompanied by the orchestra, the orchestra itself strengthened by additional brass instruments, a military band on the stage—this certainly would have been too much for the Italian audiences of 1813. As it was, when the military band on the stage, a chorus of Highland bards, with harp accompaniments, and the instruments of the ordinary theatrical orchestra, were all heard together, the audience of the San Carlo Theatre in the year 1819 were not at all agreeably impressed by the novel combination. It is always somewhat dangerous to try new effects on the stage, and the magnificent finale of “La Donna del Lago,” the finest musical scene the composer had produced, imperilled the success of the whole work.
Rossini was much distressed by the reception his opera encountered, and instead of going quietly to bed, as after the first tempestuous representation of “Il Barbiere di Siviglia,” started the same night for Milan. He does not seem, however, to have lost his spirits. At least, he regained them, and by way of a jocular revenge on the Neapolitan public spread the report, wherever he stopped, that they were delighted with his new opera, and that its success had been unbounded.
Rossini persisted in this humorous misrepresentation, but he had scarcely arrived at Milan when what he fancied was still false had become the simple truth. On “La Donna del Lago” being performed a second time, it struck the Neapolitans that they had behaved unfairly in not listening to the work the night before—when, startled by the trumpets of the military band, they seemed to have lost the faculty of reasonable attention. After applauding Mdlle. Colbran and Davide’s duet, the chorus of women, Mdlle. Pisaroni’s air, and even the finale to the first act, in which a concession had been made to popular prejudice by a reduction in the number of trumpets, they had virtually reversed their verdict on the opera. In the second act, the trio, and Mdlle. Pisaroni’s second air, called forth fresh expressions of approbation. Mdlle. Pisaroni, in particular, was honoured with what in the present day would be called an “ovation.” Her success, however, amounted to more than an “ovation;” it was a genuine triumph.
“La Donna del Lago” is one of Rossini’s most notable works; but operas, more even than books, have “their fates;” and the fate of an opera depends not only on the music, but also on the “book” to which that music is attached.
If an opera could live by the music alone, “La Donna del Lago” would not have fallen so entirely out of the recollection of managers, as it seems to have done. But it must be remembered that there is one particular point which tells both for and against this work. It contains one of the finest parts ever written for the contralto voice. An Alboni in the character of Malcolm Graeme insures in a great degree its success. In the absence of a contralto of the highest merit, it is scarcely worth while to produce it at all.
In the year 1846 a French edition of “La Donna del Lago,” enlarged, but not improved, called, “Robert Bruce,” was produced at the Académie of Paris. The new libretto was by Messrs. Waez and Royer, the librettists of “La Favorita,” to which M. Niedermeyer, the composer of “Marie Stuart,” adapted pieces by Rossini, taken not only from “La Donna del Lago,” but also from “Armida” and “Zelmira,” an opera of the year 1822. M. Niedermeyer went to Bologna to consult Rossini on the subject of this pasticcio, but does not seem to have received from him any important advice.
Rossini probably entertained the same views in regard to “Robert Bruce,” which he expressed in writing with reference to “Un Curioso Accidente.”[28] He would not acknowledge the work as belonging to him, but did not object to its being presented to the public, provided the arrangement were attributed to the proper person. Rossini’s credit was saved by M. Niedermeyer’s name appearing in the bill. Nevertheless, most of Rossini’s friends thought it a pity he should have given any sort of countenance to the production of this very unsatisfactory adaptation. As it was, Rossini contented himself with ridiculing it in a letter which was circulated at the time.
The evening on which “Robert Bruce” was to be performed for the first time, Rossini at Bologna went out with Lablache for a drive.
“What a breeze there is to-night,” Lablache said, as he closed the window of the carriage.
“The hissing at the first representation of ‘Robert Bruce,’” replied Rossini; “it will not do us any harm.”
“La Donna del Lago” was Rossini’s Italian “Tell” in more than one respect. As the composer was only twenty-seven years of age, and had not even begun to make his fortune when it was produced, he could not very well abandon musical composition merely on finding that his greatest work was not appreciated.
But he certainly felt hurt at the reception given to “La Donna del Lago” on its first production at Naples; and although he kept his secret (if there really was a secret) both in regard to this work and to “Guillaume Tell,” the fact is patent that of his next five operas, the last he wrote for Italy, one (“Bianca il Faliero”) was composed for Milan, one (“Matilda di Sabran”) for Rome, one (“Zelmira”) for Vienna, and one (“Semiramide”) for Venice.
As to the fifth (“Maometto Secondo”), Rossini was already under an engagement to furnish it to Barbaja for the Carnival of 1830, when “La Donna del Lago” was brought out in October, 1819. But after the production of “Maometto Secondo” (which we shall meet with again under another title at Paris) he wrote nothing specially for Naples, except a farewell cantata called “La Riconoscenza,” which was produced at his benefit, on the 27th of December, 1821.
The next day he quitted the city for which he had written eight operas, with “Otello,” “Mosè,” and “La Donna del Lago” among the number, went to Bologna, and there married Mademoiselle Isabella Colbran, who, in all Rossini’s operas written for Naples, played the first part, and who was yet to appear as Zelmira and as Semiramide.
“But we are anticipating,” as the novelists say. Before getting married, Rossini had other engagements to fulfil. “Bianca e Faliero” was produced at La Scala for the Carnival of 1820, without entire success. Nevertheless, thanks to a duet for female voices, and a quartet, which was so much liked that it was sung twice every evening (once in its proper place in the opera, once in the ballet), the opera attained a highly satisfactory number of representations.
“Maometto Secondo” was also written for the Carnival of 1820, and, as before mentioned, was the last work that Rossini wrote specially for the San Carlo. Galli made a great impression in the part of Maometto, and his air, “Sogete,” was particularly applauded. The other singers were Mademoiselle Colbran, Mademoiselle Chaumel (the future wife of Rubini), Nozzare, Cicimarra, and Benedetti.
M. Azevedo tells us that the Duke Ventignano, who wrote the libretto of “Maometto Secondo,” passed for a jettatore, and that, to avert the influence of the poet’s “evil eye,” Rossini took care to make the indispensable signs with his thumbs from time to time as he composed his music.
But Rossini’s fate seems to have depended more upon political events than on the “evil eye” of individuals. The Revolution of 1830 affected his French career, and the Neapolitan Revolution of 1820 had doubtless quite as much to do with Rossini’s departure from Naples as the cold reception of “La Donna del Lago.” The republicans actually wished him to enter the national guard, and it is said that General Pepe did prevail upon him two or three times to wear a uniform.
The change in the political situation had a disastrous effect on the fortunes of Barbaja, who, to begin with, found himself deprived of his customary profits from the operatic gambling tables, which were suppressed.
“Matilda di Sabran” was produced at Rome for the Carnival of 1821, not at the scene of Rossini’s former triumph in the same capital, but at the “Apollo,” a theatre directed by the banker Torlonia. This opera, revived in Paris some years ago with Madame Bosio, Madame Borghi-Mamo, and Signor Gassier in the principal characters, is scarcely known in England. It is remarkable among Rossini’s works as the only one in which the chief female part is written for a high soprano. On the occasion of its first performance the admirers of Rossini and the partisans of the old school disputed, quarrelled, and ultimately fought outside the theatre with sticks, when it is satisfactory to know that the admirers of Rossini gained the day.
Paganini, happening to be in Rome when “Matilda di Sabran” was produced, offered to direct the orchestra at the three first performances, and did so with great success. Never, it is said, did the band of the “Apollo” play with so much spirit before.
“Zelmira,” composed for Vienna, was first produced at Naples. It will be remembered that the Italian theatre at Vienna, the San Carlo and Del Fondo theatre of Naples were all in the hands of the same manager. Mademoiselle Colbran, Mademoiselle Cecconi, Davide, Nozzare, and Benedetti were the singers, and the work was brought out in the middle of December, 1821.
Rossini was now on the point of leaving Naples altogether. A few days after the first representation of “Zelmira” he took a benefit, when a cantata, which he had written for the occasion, “La Riconoscenza,” was executed, Rubini and the former Mademoiselle Chaumel, now Madame Rubini, being among the vocalists.
Mademoiselle Colbran did not sing at this interesting ceremony; she had to start early the next morning for Bologna, where a ceremony still more interesting required her presence. Rossini accompanied her, and the marriage took place in the palace of Cardinal Opizzoni, Archbishop of Bologna, who performed the service. Rossini’s parents were present, together with Nozzare and Davide, the two inseparable tenors. Mademoiselle Colbran had saved a considerable sum of money, considering the difference between the earnings of an Italian prima donna fifty years ago and those of a European prima donna of the present day.
M. Azevedo assigns to Mademoiselle Colbran an income from property of four hundred a year; Stendhal, more generous, had given her eight hundred. She had at least, in the words of Zanolini, “a delicious villa and revenues in Sicily.”
From Bologna, Rossini, his wife, and the two tenors went to Vienna, where the composer was received with enthusiasm, and what was more, no doubt, to his taste, with distinguished attention from the most illustrious persons in the capital. It is said that Rossini was handled roughly in the musical press, and that the names of Haydn and Mozart were invoked to his disadvantage. This, however, did not diminish his success with the public, who, going to the theatre to be pleased, came away delighted whenever one of Rossini’s works had been performed.
Various accounts of Rossini’s interview with Beethoven have been published. Beethoven had heard the “Barber of Seville,” had been much pleased with it, and had thought still better of it on examining the score. However this may have been, Rossini knew and greatly admired Beethoven’s work,[29] and he made a point of calling upon the great composer soon after his arrival in Vienna. The interview does not seem to have been a long one, nor, considering that Beethoven was in broken health and tormented by his malady of deafness, could it have been interesting on either side. It left a sad impression on Rossini, who appreciated Beethoven’s genius.
The attacks with which Rossini was saluted on his first appearance at Vienna, as afterwards at Paris, did him more good than harm. They irritated his admirers, and called forth their enthusiasm. They also drew out some able replies. Carpani, the author of “Le Rossiniane,” was at Vienna when Rossini arrived there to produce “Zelmira,” and took up the pen valiantly on behalf of his idol.
Carpani was a good musician, and should not be held answerable for all Stendhal’s remarks on music in the “Vie de Rossini,” any more than he must be credited with the acute, delicate observations on literature, society, national peculiarities, &c., in which the book abounds. Carpani had the happiness to furnish Rossini with the words of an air which he added to “Zelmira” for Mademoiselle Eckerlin, who undertook the contralto part when the opera was brought out at Vienna. He was present at a great number of representations, and ended by writing an elaborate notice of the work.
“‘Zelmira,’” he says, “is an opera in only two acts, which lasts nearly four hours, and does not appear long to any one, not even to the musicians of the orchestra, which is to say everything. In this extraordinary opera there are not two bars which can be said to be taken from any other work of Rossini. Far from working his habitual mine, the author exhibits a vein hitherto unattacked. It contains enough to furnish not one, but four operas. In this work Rossini, by the new riches which he draws from his prodigious imagination, is no longer the author of ‘Otello,’ ‘Tancredi,’ ‘Zoraide,’ and all his preceding works; he is another composer—new, agreeable, and fertile, as much as the first, but with more command of himself, more pure, more masterly, and, above all, more faithful to the interpretation of the words. The forms of style employed in this opera, according to circumstances, are so varied, that now we seem to hear Gluck, now Traetta, now Sacchini, now Mozart, now Handel; for the gravity, the learning, the naturalness, the suavity of their conceptions live and blossom again in ‘Zelmira.’ The transitions are learned, and inspired more by considerations of poetry and sense than by caprice and a mania for innovation. The vocal parts, always natural, never trivial, give expression to the words, without ceasing to be melodious. The great point is to preserve both. The instrumentation of Rossini is really incomparable by the vivacity and freedom of the manner, by the variety and justness of the colouring.”
On the subject of Madame Rossini-Colbran’s voice Carpani writes like a Neapolitan royalist. “She has,” he says, “a very sweet, full, sonorous quality of voice, particularly in the middle and lower notes; a finished, pure, insinuating style. She has no outbursts, but a fine portamento, perfect intonation, and an accomplished method. The Graces seem to have watered with nectar each of her syllables, her fioriture, her volate, her shakes. She sings with one breath a series of semitones, extending to nearly two octaves, in a clear, pearly manner, and excels in all the other arts of singing. Her acting is noble and dignified, as becomes her imposing and majestic beauty.”
As to the two tenors, Nozzare was “more a baritone than a tenor;” endowed with extraordinary power, and a great extent of voice.
Of Davide’s singing, Carpani has a much better opinion than was formed by M. Bertin, the French critic, who, however, regarded Davide more from a dramatic than from a musical point of view. “He is,” says the Italian writer, “the Moscheles, the Paganini of singing. Like these two despots of their instrument, he manages as he wishes a voice which is not perfect, but of great extent, and what he obtains from it is astonishing.”
At the conclusion of the Vienna season, Rossini returned to Bologna, where, soon after his arrival, he received a letter from Prince Metternich, inviting him to come to Verona during the Congress. The minister pointed out that the object of the gathering being the re-establishment of general harmony, the presence of Rossini was indispensable. The composer accepted the argument, went to Verona, and wrote for the benefit of the Congress—into whose programme festivities entered largely—three cantatas, the most important of which was called “Il Vero Omaggio.”
At Verona, Rossini was introduced to Chateaubriand, with whom he had a long and interesting conversation. Prince Metternich surrounded him with attentions, and the composer left Verona highly gratified with his visit. But for a colossal statue placed just above the orchestra, which shook with each musical vibration, and threatened to fall and crush the conductor, Rossini’s happiness at Verona would have been without alloy.
Before going to Vienna, Rossini had engaged to compose an opera for Venice. He seems to have been determined to write no more for Italy, and being much pressed by the director of the Fenice, thought to settle the matter by asking an exorbitant price; but the enterprising manager was not to be checked. The demand of a sum equivalent to about two hundred pounds did not alarm him, and Rossini consented to furnish the opera.
In composing “Semiramide,” the work destined for Venice, Rossini took his time.
“It is the only one of my Italian operas,” he afterwards said, “that I was able to do a little at my ease; my contract gave me forty days, but,” he added, “I was not forty days writing it.”
The Austrian and Russian emperors after leaving Verona went to Venice, where they arrived just when Rossini was working at “Semiramide.” Two concerts were given in honour of the illustrious visitors at the Imperial palace, under Rossini’s direction. While the second concert was going on, the two emperors, accompanied by Prince Metternich, asked the maestro to sing, when he executed with Galli the duet from “Cenerentola,” to which he added Figaro’s air from the “Barber.”
The first representation of “Semiramide” took place at the Fenice Theatre on the 3rd of February, 1823, just ten years after the production of his first great opera seria, “Tancredi,” which was played for the first time about the middle of the Carnival of 1813.
Madame Rossini-Colbran sustained the part of Semiramide, Madame Mariani that of Arsace, Galli was Assur, Mariani, Oroe, and the English tenor, Sinclair, Idreno. Of the two airs written for the tenor, one only has been preserved. The other, like the trio of the music lesson in the “Barber of Seville,” is said to have been lost through the fault of the copyist.
If “Semiramide” does not, like “Otello,” “Mosè,” and “La Donna del Lago,” present any novelty of treatment, it reproduces all the features which were new in those three works. There is a leading part for the bass voice; a secondary part, but one of great importance, for the contralto (Arsace is a lineal descendant of Pippo, the first of the family); the chorus takes an active part in the drama; the recitative is accompanied by the orchestra; there is a military band on the stage; and there is a scene in which the chorus, the military band, and the theatrical orchestra are heard in combination. These innovations are once more specified to remind the reader of the progress Rossini had made as a dramatic composer since his first Venetian opera of “Tancredi.”
“Semiramide,” too, is as superior to “Tancredi” in vigour of style, in richness of colouring, as in definable operatic forms.
This, the last of Rossini’s Italian operas, cannot have been imperfectly executed; Rossini had plenty of time for superintending the rehearsals, and his singers were all admirable. Nevertheless the opera was not much liked. It was conceived on too grand a scale, and Stendhal, apparently by reason of the importance assigned to the orchestra, came to the conclusion that it was written in the German style.
M. Castil-Blaze fancies Rossini knew beforehand that “Semiramide” would not be appreciated, and that the piccolo in the accompaniment of Assur’s air meant hisses for the Venetian public.
M. Azevedo points out that to please the Venetians, Rossini had introduced the melody of the Carnival of Venice in the duet “Ebben ferisce;” but neither instrumental hisses nor vocal compliments were of any avail. The public did not by any means condemn “Semiramide,” but they found it rather heavy, and allowed it to fall. These instances of bad taste are constantly occurring in the history of music.
Indeed, as to pure melody, who is to be the judge? Stendhal, the man of taste, considers Almaviva’s cavatina in the “Barber of Seville” rather common; and M. Fétis, who is a learned musician, does not think much of Matilde’s air in “Guillaume Tell.”
In any case, the Venetians found “Semiramide” uninteresting—“Semiramide,” which is full of beauty from beginning to end; and Rossini had now one more motive for deciding to leave Italy and try his fortune—that is to say, make his fortune—in France and England.