ROSSINI did not bring out his Barber without addressing a few words of explanation, if not of apology, to the public; and by way of disclaiming all idea of entering into rivalry with Paisiello he announced his opera under a new title.

"Beaumarchais' comedy," he wrote, in an advertisement to the public, "entitled the Barber of Seville; or, The Useless Precaution,[5] is presented at Rome in the form of a comic drama, under the title of Almaviva; or, The Useless Precaution, in order that the public may be fully convinced of the sentiments of respect and veneration by which the author of the music of this drama is animated with regard to the celebrated Paisiello, who has already treated the subject under its primitive title.

"Himself invited to undertake this difficult task, the maestro, Gioachino Rossini, in order to avoid the reproach of entering into rivalry with the immortal author who preceded him, expressly required that the Barber of Seville should be entirely versified anew, and also that new situations should be added for the musical pieces, which, moreover, are required by the modern theatrical taste—entirely changed since the time when the renowned Paisiello wrote his work.

"Certain other differences between the arrangement of the present drama and that of the French comedy above-cited were produced by the necessity of introducing choruses, both for conformity with modern usage, and because they are indispensable for musical effect in so vast a theatre. The courteous public is informed of this beforehand, that it may also excuse the author of the new drama who, unless obliged by these imperious circumstances, would never have ventured to introduce the least change into the French work, already consecrated by the applause of all the theatres in Europe."

When, in the above announcement, Rossini speaks of "new situations for the musical pieces which are required by the modern theatrical taste, entirely changed since the time of Paisiello;" and again of the necessity of introducing choruses, "both for conformity with modern usage and because they are indispensable for musical effect in so vast a theatre," he describes changes which he himself introduced. The "modern theatrical taste" of Rossini's time was the taste he had himself created. That Paisiello's forms, and especially his formlessness (as in long scenes of recitative) were already considered old and were indeed obsolete, though his Barber had only been thirty-five years before the public, was implied rather pointedly in the sub-title of Sterbini's libretto, which was described as follows: "Comedy by Beaumarchais, newly versified throughout, and arranged for the use of the modern Italian Musical Theatre."

Paisiello's Barber had decidedly grown old. But as it was no longer played, people, by reason of its ancient reputation, continued to hold it in esteem; and the Roman public considered it very audacious for a young composer like Rossini to have ventured into competition with so illustrious a master. The young librettist Sterbini was considered quite as impertinent in his way as his musical associate. Among the Roman public a compact body of Paisiello's friends, with the spirit of Paisiello in the midst of them, formed a dangerous clique of enemies; and so determined was the opposition that Rossini had to meet on the occasion of his work being represented for the first time that the overture—an original work composed expressly for Il Barbiere, and not the overture to Aureliano and to Elisabetta 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."[6]

According to M. Azevedo the original overture was lost through the carelessness of a copyist; but the work could scarcely thus have disappeared unless not only the score, but also the band parts, had vanished. Stendhal says that the overture at the first representation was that of Aureliano in Palmira—the one performed even to the present day. He adds that the audience recognised, or fancied it recognised, in the overture the grumbling of the old guardian and the lively remonstrances of his interesting ward. However that may have been the overture was scarcely listened to; nor did the introduction meet with any better fate, nor, indeed, could even the appearance of Garcia on the stage dispose the public in favour of the new work.

Garcia, the most famous tenor of his time, was of course the Almaviva of the evening. It has already been seen that Luigi Zamboni, Rossini's fellow-lodger during the composition of the work, was the original Figaro. The Don Basilio was Vitarelli; Bartolo, Botticelli. The part of Rosina was assigned to Mme. Giorgi-Righetti, who has left a very interesting account of the first representation of the opera.[7]

The composer had been weak enough, says the prima donna of this historical evening, "to allow Garcia to sing beneath Rosina's balcony a Spanish melody of his own arrangement." Garcia held that as the scene was laid in Spain, and as Count Almaviva was a Spaniard nothing could be more appropriate than that this interesting personage should address the lady of his heart in Spanish song. Unfortunately he forgot to tune his guitar, and this indispensable preliminary operation had to be performed by Rosina's serenader on the stage. The public began to laugh; then a string broke, and the public began to hiss. When the broken string had been replaced, and the air so awkwardly prefaced was at length heard, the public did not like it and only listened to it enough to be able to reproduce certain passages of it in burlesque tones. The introduction to Figaro's air, which, as every opera-goer knows, is, before being sung by the vocalist, played by the orchestra, attracted, as well it might do, a certain amount of attention. When, however, Zamboni entered with another guitar, the anti-guitarists set up a loud laugh, and without waiting to see whether the baritone, unlike the tenor, had taken the trouble to tune his instrument beforehand, hissed and hooted so that not a note of "Largo al Fattotum" was heard. When Mme. Giorgi-Righetti made her appearance in the balcony, she was, in her character of favourite singer, applauded; but having no air assigned to her in this not very suitable situation, the audience thought they were being robbed of the expected cavatina, and uttered murmurs of disapprobation. The brilliant and melodious duet for Almaviva and Figaro was sung in the midst of hisses and derisive shouts. When, however, Rosina reappeared and sang the first notes of "Una voce" the audience became silent; a chance was given to the composer for the sake of the singer. Mme. Giorgi-Righetti was radiant with youth and beauty; the effect of her fresh, beautiful voice was too much for the opposition. The conclusion of her bright, sparkling air was followed by three long rounds of applause. Rossini bowed from his place, at the head of the orchestra, to the public, and then turning towards the singer, whispered, "Oh natura!"

Vitarelli, the representative of Don Basilio, had "made up" admirably for the part; and his entry would possibly have been effective but that a trap having been left open on the stage he stumbled over it, fell, damaged his face, and on rising had to begin his admirable dramatic air on the efficacy of calumny with his handkerchief to his nose. A portion of the public is said to have imagined that the fall, the injuries to the face, the handkerchief to the nose, were all in the business of the part, and thinking it savoured of buffoonery, expressed their disapproval accordingly. The duet of the letter was objected to by reason of certain incidents afterwards left out; but the music must have been liked for its own sake had it only been heard. As if the untuned guitar, the broken string, the newly-placed cavatina, the open trap, the fall of Don Basilio, and the necessity under which Rosina's music-master found himself of singing "La Calunnia" with a handkerchief in front of his mouth had not been enough, the opening of the finest concerted finale which had yet been given to the Italian stage was the signal for the appearance of a cat, which was chased in one direction by Figaro, in another by Bartholo, and which, in a wild endeavour to escape from an attack made upon it by Basilio, ran into the skirt of Rosina's dress. The self-introduction of the cat among the principal characters, grouped together for the finely built concerted piece which brings the first act to an end, disarranged as a matter of course all the master's combinations. During the performance of the opening movement the attention of the public was concentrated entirely on the cat, and general laughter went on increasing until the long, elaborate, constantly varied, and, on all other occasions, highly interesting finale was brought to an end.

With something like a just appreciation of his own merit and with profound contempt for the injustice and insolence of the public, Rossini, on the fall of the curtain, turned round and applauded. He was the only person in the theatre who did so; and the audience indignant at the presumption of this interested minority of one, was at the same time so astonished that it forgot at the time to manifest its resentment.

The moment of vengeance arrived when the curtain rose for the second act. The public showed what it thought of Rossini's having ventured to show what he thought of his own music, by hissing and hooting in such a manner that not a note of the second act was heard. The composer, while this organised noise was being kept up, remained perfectly calm at the orchestral piano. At the end of the performance he went home to bed; and when the principal singers called upon him soon afterwards to condole with him he was fast asleep.

The only change that Rossini next day found it necessary to make in his work was to substitute a new air for the unfortunate Spanish song which Garcia had been allowed to introduce. This gave him no trouble. He simply transcribed for the solo voice the melody of the celebrated chorus which had already figured first in Ciro in Babilonia, and afterwards in Aureliano in Palmira. Such was the origin of the beautiful "Ecco ridente il cielo" which he handed to Garcia as he wrote it, and which was sung the same evening. Those who believe in the absolute significance of music apart from words, may be interested to hear that Almaviva's charming love song was, as first composed, a prayer—as a love song after all may well be.

At the second representation the Barber was comparatively well received. Being heard, it was naturally admired. Indeed, a certain number of connoisseurs are said to have appreciated it from the very first, though on the opening night the difficulty must have been not to understand the work—which appeals alike to the simplest, and to the most cultivated, musical intelligence—but merely to hear it. After a few performances Rossini's new work began to excite enthusiasm; and it had not been before the public for more than a week when it was received nightly with frantic applause.

Garcia's Spanish melody was, after some years, reintroduced into the Barber by Rubini; the trio which, in the music lesson scene, occupied the place now filled by no matter what fancy air that the Rosina of the evening thinks fit to introduce, is known to have been lost: and it has been seen that, according to some authorities, a like fate attended the overture written specially for the work. Stendhal, on the unacknowledged authority of Carpani, states that at the first representation the opera was preceded by the overture to Aureliano in Palmira and to Elisabetta, which, though heard in connection with the former work at Milan and in connection with the latter at Naples, had never been heard at Rome. Besides borrowing from himself, Rossini, in more than one "number" of the Barber of Seville, was indebted to the invention of others. The melody of the trio "Zitti zitti" is taken, note for note, from Simon's air in Haydn's Seasons—a work, it will be remembered, of which Rossini in his early youth had directed the performance at the Lyceum of Bologna. The very lively tune sung by the Duenna Berta is adapted without much alteration from a Russian dance, which Rossini had heard played by a Russian lady of his acquaintance. It soon became the custom not to listen to Berta's air, which is always assigned to an inferior singer; and it acquired the name of the "Ice tune;" not in allusion to its place of origin, but because, during its performance, the people in the boxes called for ices. The part of Rosina, which in the present day is usually given to the soprano, was composed for the mezzo-soprano voice. Mme. Giorgi-Righetti sang it, of course, in its original key; that of F. Many a soprano has sung it in G. According to an account given by M. Castil-Blaze in his Histoire du ThÉÂtre Italien of the different keys in which the principal airs of Il Barbiere have been sung, Figaro's "Largo al fattotum," written for Zamboni in the key of C, is generally sung in B flat; Tamburini, however, sang it in B natural. Basilio's "La calunnia," written in D, is for the most part sung in C. Lablache used to sing in D flat the air for Bartholo, written in E flat.

Whatever may be said as to the character belonging absolutely to this or that key, it would be difficult to allow that the music of Rosina, of Figaro, of Basilio, or of Bartolo has either lost or gained by these frequent transpositions.