There was at that time at the San Carlo theatre of Naples a man who had made himself famous throughout all Italy, a remarkable impresario, whose cleverness and fortune were matters of surprise even to those best acquainted with the mysteries of the green-room, and the difficulties attending all enterprises of this kind. A Milanese by birth, this man, whose name was Domenico Barbaja, was born of very poor parents, who had given him no education whatever. But he was naturally intelligent, astute, audacious, consumed with ambition, and to all this he joined a very sagacious mind and a remarkable artistic instinct, coupled with an indefatigable activity. Ascended from the lowest round in the social ladder, apt at everything he undertook, having been in turn commissioner, horse-jockey, waiter at the cafÉ, petty usurer and contractor for the public gaming tables, he had ended by becoming quite at home in public affairs, which he managed with a consummate cleverness. He had installed himself at Naples in 1808, and it was there that he had obtained the license for keeping a gambling house. The following year he took the direction of the two royal theatres, San Carlo and Fondo, to which he soon added the other two theatres, the Fiorentini and the Nuovo. Then, as if this did not suffice to satisfy his ardor, he undertook in a short time, without abandoning any of his other projects, the management of the two great stages of the Scala and the Canobbiana at Milan, and the Italian opera at Vienna. And under his inspired direction all these enterprises prospered so well that the Italians surnamed Barbaja il Napoleone degl' impresari. It is certain that for twenty years he succeeded in uniting at the theatres which he directed, all the most celebrated composers, poets, singers and dancers, and that his liberality, good taste and artistic sense contributed very considerably to the surprising development of dramatic art in Italy during this period.

Like the rest of the world Barbaja was acquainted with Rossini's precocious success, and with his remarkable perception he quickly understood that the composer might become an important source of his prosperity. He resolved to ally himself to him, and as he was at once equitable and generous, he desired to pay a fair compensation for the services which he expected. Rossini had just given in Venice his last opera, Sigismondo, and had returned to Bologna. It was there that Barbaja went to find him and to offer him an engagement. Hitherto Rossini's experience with impresari had been confined almost solely to the poor unfortunate specimens who were in a chronic state of collapse. Imagine then his surprise when Barbaja, whose reputation was well known to him, came to propose an engagement of several years, assuring him, besides a fixed sum of about 11,000 francs, an annual interest of about 4,000 francs in his gambling business. It is true that in return Rossini was to agree to write two new works each year, and to arrange and adapt all the ancient works which it might please Barbaja to mount at the San Carlo and Fondo theatres. It was, in fact, besides the composition of his operas the whole musical direction of these two theatres, which Rossini was thus assuming, a charge which was simply enormous and which had dismayed all others. But what was that for an artist such as he, in exchange for the fortune which Barbaja held before his eyes, and the influence upon his future of the brilliant situation offered him on one of the first lyric stages of Italy?

So the contract was quickly signed, and Rossini went immediately to Naples to assume his new functions. No sooner did he arrive at that city, in the beginning of the year 1815, than Barbaja gave him the libretto of Elisabetta, regina d'Inghilterra, to set to music. It was with this work that he was to make his debut at the San Carlo, having for principal interpreter an artist of Spanish origin, Isabella Colbran, then in the zenith of her talent and her beauty, and who was one of the most esteemed cantatrices of that period in all Italy. (Isabella Colbran, then the mistress of Barbaja, soon became that of Rossini, who afterwards married her, only to be separated at the end of a few years). The composer and the cantatrice obtained a wonderful success and the Elisabetta won a veritable triumph at Naples.

Rossini profited by this success to leave Naples for a time. His engagement with Barbaja was not exclusive, and a certain liberty of action was reserved to him. He took himself to Rome, whither he was called to write two operas for two different theatres; one, Torvaldo e Dorliska, for the Valle theatre, the others il Barbiere di Siviglia for the Argentina.

We know that Paisiello had already treated the subject of the Barber of Seville, and that the opera conceived by him on Beaumarchais's comedy had been performed in 1789 at St. Petersburg, where he was imperial capellmeister; from there the work of the Neapolitan master had spread over all Europe, and had met, particularly in Italy, with a very flattering reception. Therefore it happened that Rossini was charged with presumption for daring to put il Barbiere to music, and that he was accused of trying to eclipse the glory of Paisiello, who was the first to use this idea. The reproach was all the more singular since such things were of very frequent occurrence in Italy, where, for nearly a century, composers had been setting to music, one after another, all the lyric poems of Apostolo, Zeno and Metastasio, such as Nerone, Alessandro nell'Indie, Artaserse, l'Olimpiade, etc., etc. Why then should Rossini, who in this case had only done what so many others had done before him, become thus an object of criticism and anger? It is difficult to say. Possibly it was Paisiello himself, whose jealousy and faults of character are sufficiently well known, who from Naples, where he had retired, started the hostile sentiments against his rival, and secretly planned the fall of the new work. At least, so it has been said, and the idea does not seem wholly unlikely.

Rossini, however, out of respect for the old master, had courteously written to him on the subject, declaring that it was not his intention to enter into competition with him, but simply to treat a subject which pleased him. Furthermore, and in order to avoid even the appearance of a desire for competition on his part, he had taken the precaution to have a new libretto made on the subject, and even to change the title of the work to Almaviva, ossia l'inutile precauzione (it was not until later that the title of il Barbiere di Siviglia was definitely adopted). Finally, in order that the wishes and intentions of the poet and composer might not be misunderstood, and that the public might not be mistaken in the matter, the following preface was placed at the head of the libretto.

"Notice to the public. The comedy by Beaumarchais entitled le Barbier de SÉville or la PrÈcaution inutile, is presented to Rome under the form of a comic drama, with the title of Almaviva, ossia l'inutile precauzione, with the object of fully convincing the public of the sentiments of respect and veneration which the author of the music of the present drama entertains toward the celebrated Paisiello, who has already treated this subject under its original title.

"Impelled to undertake this same difficult task the master, Gioacchino Rossini, that he might not incur the reproach of a daring vanity with the immortal author who has preceded him, has expressly required that the Barber of Seville be entirely versified anew, and that there shall be added several new situations, demanded, moreover, by the modern theatrical taste which has changed so much since the renowned Paisiello wrote his music.

"Some other differences between the contexture of the present drama and that of the French comedy above mentioned, have been required by the necessity of introducing choruses, partly to conform to modern customs, partly because they are indispensable in a theatre of such vast proportions. The courteous public is informed of this fact in order that it may excuse the author of the present drama, who, except for the concurrence of circumstances so imperative, would not have dared to introduce the slightest change in the French work consecrated by the applause of all Europe."

All these precautions and the artistic uprightness which Rossini exhibited in this delicate matter, could not avail to still the storm which hurled itself about him. No matter what he might have done to appease them, the Romans were exasperated in advance against his work and against himself, and the first performance of il Barbiere, outrageously hissed, was the most complete scandal of which the annals of the theatre can offer example. An account of it has been given by one of the Italian biographers of the master, Zanolini, from whom I borrow the following details: "The Romans went to the theatre, persuaded that they were going to hear detestable music, and disposed to punish an ignorant upstart. The overture was executed in the midst of a confused hub-bub, the precursor of the tempest. Garcia attempted to accompany with his guitar the first air of the count Almaviva; all the strings broke at once, and then commenced the laughs, jeers and hisses. A little while after, Don Basilio, an old singer of the Sistine chapel, stumbled, on entering the stage, and fell and bumped his nose. This was enough; laughs and hisses burst from all sides, and people would not and could not listen any longer. One person applauded, one only, and that was the composer; and the more he clapped, the louder grew the hisses, until, when the fury of the crowd had reached its climax, he mounted upon his chair, so that he might be seen by all, and with head, hands and voice testified to the actors his approbation. He remained intrepid until the orchestra had all left, waiting to receive the very last insult. He was to be present at the second performance, but he found some pretext for being excused, and the directors were delighted, because they feared him at the same time that they had confidence in his music. During the second evening, Rossini was conversing at his home with some friends, when cries were heard in the street in front of the house and the lights of many torches were seen through the window. When they distinguished among the cries the name of Rossini, his guests were alarmed but afterwards, the voices of friends having been recognized, the doors were all opened wide to the messengers sent by the spectators assembled at the Argentina, and who, carried away by their enthusiasm were clamoring for the maestro to show himself. Rossini was carried thither in triumph, and was covered with applause." So we see that this happy Barbiere which for eighty years has been the delight of the whole world, was badly enough received on its entrance into that world.

Meanwhile, when the bad humor of the Romans was fairly over, and the Barber established in public favor, Rossini prepared to go to Naples in response to a call from Barbaja. Immediately on his return he set to work, giving first to the Fiorentini theatre a little work entitled la Gazzetta, then writing for the San Carlo his Otello, which achieved a considerable success and was played by the great artists Nozzari, David, Garcia, Benedetti and Colbran. He afterwards returned to Rome where he gave that gem of comic verve, la Cenerentola, then went to Milan where he wrote for the Scala, la Gazza ladra, a work little remembered to-day. He then went back to Naples to give Armida, and again returned to Rome where he brought out Adelaide di Borgogna, which met with very meagre success. But he soon made up for this failure by giving at Naples Moses in Egypt, one of his best works, which was followed by Ricciardo e Zoraide and Hermione, the libretto of which was taken from Racine's Andromaque. At the same time he sent to Lisbon the score of a little comic work which was requested of him by the royal theatre of that city; Adina, o il Califfo di Bagdad, on the subject of a French comic opera by Boieldieu, bearing the same title. After having given at Venice Edoardo e Cristina he again won great success at Naples with la Donna del Lago, a work full of poetry and originality.

It was at this point that Rossini had reached the fulness of his glory. Scarcely twenty-seven years of age, he had already written twenty-nine operas, several of which had achieved a brilliant success, and his name, popular throughout Italy, was famous in all Europe, which applauded his works with frenzy. And yet, the success of la Donna del Lago could not sustain a mediocre work like Bianca e Falerio, which was coldly received at the Scala, Milan. But the master regained public favor with his Maometto II. which was received with enthusiasm at Naples. He went to Rome shortly after to give Matilde di Shabran, one of the feeblest of his works, and then rose to the top again with Zelmira, which was very successful, not only at Naples, but at Vienna where Rossini was invited to direct the performance of the opera, accompanied by Colbran, then his wife, who sung the leading part. Finally, he wrote and brought out at Venice, Semiramide, one of the most remarkable of his works, in spite of its faults. Rossini counted much, and with reason, on this score which the Venetians received with a cold reserve. Neither the richness of the inspiration, nor the variety of the forms, nor the grandeur of the style which distinguished this noble and superb work, could overcome the indifference of the public. After a reception so unjust, a result so contrary to his legitimate hopes, Rossini, who at that moment was solicited on all sides, did not hesitate to leave Italy. An engagement was offered him in England; he accepted it immediately and went to London, passing through Paris where he formed relations which were soon to bring him back to that city.

Rossini was to write for the Italian theatre at London an opera entitled la Figlia dell'aria; he had composed the first act, when the direction of the theatre failed, and the project was abandoned. However, his trip to England was far from being unfruitful of results. Sought after by the highest society, encouraged in every way, received at court, Rossini, during his five months stay at London where he excited the liveliest enthusiasm, was able to realize from the concerts and lessons which he gave with his wife, about 200,000 francs, which was the basis of his future fortune. At the same time, through the intervention of the French ambassador in England, he signed an engagement with the minister of the royal house, by which he accepted the direction of the ThÉÂtre-Italien of Paris at a salary of 20,000 francs per year, without prejudice to the author's rights in the works which he might wish to write for that theatre or for the OpÉra.

Rossini found in France the same enthusiastic welcome which had been given him in England. He composed first a little Italian opera called il Viaggio a Reims, which was performed on the occasion of the fÊtes given in that city for the coronation of King Charles X. He next occupied himself with transforming for the French stage two of his best Italian works, Maometto II. which became at the OpÉra le SiÈge de Corinthe, and MosÉ in Egitto, which was performed at that theatre under the title of MoÏse. In passing from one tongue to the other, these two works were subject to much remodelling from the hand of the composer. He changed parts of them, added to them, strove to render the declamation more clear and precise, finally forced himself to adapt his inspiration to the necessities of the French stage and of the musical genius of that country. Success crowned his efforts, and in the face of that success, Rossini dreamed of writing a great new work expressly for the OpÉra. But first he brought out at that theatre a pretty little opera in two acts, le Comte Ory, which was received with great applause, and in which he had embodied some fragments of the Viaggio a Reims.

At last came the great work which the public were awaiting with impatience, William Tell, which was performed Aug. 3, 1829, with Nourrit, Dabadie, Levasseur, PrÉvost, Mmes. Cinti-Damoreau, Mori and Dabadie for the principal interpreters. In writing the score of William Tell, Rossini had applied his genius to the exigencies of the French stage, as Gluck had done fifty years before. He had given to his declamation a breadth hitherto unknown, to his instrumentation a superb color and Éclat, while the dramatic action had acquired with him a marvellous power, and the wealth and freshness of his inspiration surpassed all that could be desired. It cannot be denied that the appearance of William Tell is a luminous date in the history of music in France, that the success of this masterpiece has never diminished, and that after more than sixty years it is still as touching, as pathetic, as grand, as much respected as in the first days of its existence.

How comes it then that after so complete, so brilliant, so incontestable a triumph, Rossini should have renounced the theatre forever, that he should never have wished to repeat so happy an attempt? That is a mystery which as yet it has been impossible to solve, and it is certainly a great misfortune for the art, which has thereby been deprived of untold masterpieces. But the fact remains that from the 3rd of August, 1829, date of the first performance of William Tell until the 13th of November, 1868, date of the master's death, Rossini wrote nothing more for the stage. This does not mean that he stopped composing; far from it. His compositions on the contrary are numerous, and some of them very important, but none are for the theatre. First should be mentioned his religious music: a Stabat Mater, a Petite Messe solennelle, and a Tantum ergo; then three choruses for female voices, la Foi, l'EspÈrance, la CharitÈ; le Chant des Titans for four bass voices; SoirÉes musicales, comprising eight ariettes and four duets; and finally a great number of songs and piano pieces. Earlier, and in the course of his Italian career, Rossini had written, for different occasions, a number of cantatas and lyric scenes, the titles of which are: il Pianto d'Armonia per la morte d'Orfeo; Didone abbandonata; Egle ed Irene; Teti e Peleo; Igea; Ad onore di S. M. il re de Napoli; Ad onore di S. M. l'emperatore d'Austria; la Riconoscenza; il Vero Omaggio; i Pastori; etc.

---

Rossini, whom Weber did not understand, and whom Beethoven did not wish to know, belongs nevertheless to the race of those grand creators, and in his veins coursed the blood of a man of genius. At the period of his birth three great musicians represented principally that beautiful Italian school so justly celebrated in the last century in spite of its characteristic defects. These three great musicians were Guglielmi, Cimarosa and Paisiello; Guglielmi, forgotten to-day even in his own country, and whom artists themselves no longer know; Cimarosa, the verve and gaiety of whose genius seemed to reserve him to a less tragic end; finally Paisiello, whom Rossini was called to down with his own weapons, in successfully making after him another il Barbiere di Siviglia, and whose glory was to be somewhat obscured by the glory of his brilliant rival. As for the others, Niccolini, Sarti, Portogallo, Gazzaniga, Nasolini, etc., they were undoubtedly artists of real talent, but devoid of originality and who confined themselves to following in the path which these great leaders traced out for them.

Some years later, and after a sort of interregnum, three more great artists were coming to fill the vacant place, and to govern in their turn the Italian musical world. Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti—three geniuses quite distinct from each other, not only from the standpoint of the nature of their personal inspiration, but also as regards the form with which they clothe their ideas, were coming to throw a new lustre, unhappily the last, over that Italian school so glorious for two centuries, and of which the author of Rigoletto and AÏda remains to-day the venerable and last representative. Rossini, a brilliant and luminous genius, Bellini, of a pensive, poetic and tender nature, Donizetti, nervous and expansive in temperament, all were called to take place in the first rank, with this distinction, that the first always preserved an evident advantage, and that he alone brought into the art a new and characteristic note.

And yet for years past Rossini has been spoken of slightingly, his genius has not been understood, his worth has been denied and these wrongs are carried on at the present hour. Certain adepts of a new school, who affect to disparage all that was done before them, are ready to drag him to the gibbet without even giving him credit for what they owe him,—directly or indirectly. They do not seem to have the least idea that it is Rossini who has emancipated musical art as applied to the theatre; that it is Rossini who has given freedom to melodic form; that it is Rossini who has substituted for the majestic and uniform solemnity of the ancient lyric declamation, a rational diction, with an expression more vivacious, more intense and more vigorous; that it is Rossini who, by the movement and variety communicated to the rhythm, has given to the musical phrase the natural sentiment and warmth of action which it too often lacked; that it is Rossini to whom we owe the richness and the splendors of the modern dramatic orchestra. Who knows if that admirable orchestra of Wagner, to which unhappily everything is sacrificed, would exist to-day had it not been for Rossini? Whatever may be his faults—and assuredly he has them—we can afford to pardon them all in consideration of the incomparable qualities of this great man.

During nearly half a century Rossini has reigned supreme on all the stages of the world. Wherever there existed an Italian theatre, there were played and sung the works of Rossini: Otello, Semiramide, MosÉ, il Barbiere, la Gazza ladra, Cenerentola, l'Italiana in Algeri, la Donna del Lago, Maometto. If all his serious works are not complete and perfect, at least all of them contain superb parts. Witness MosÉ, what grandeur, what power and what majesty! Witness Otello, what spirit, what vigor and what boldness! Witness Semiramide, what color, what brilliancy and what splendor! However, there are grave faults to be found with Rossini's serious operas; in the first place a lack of unity, and also certain weaknesses which by their proximity, militate against some really admirable pages; then the abuse of vocalization and of the ornate style, absolutely incompatible with the purely dramatic element; finally, the occasional lack of real emotion and the frequent absence of pathos, an absence so complete that it may justly be said of Rossini that he never knew how to sing of love. And yet, by the side of these grave faults are qualities so grand, an inspiration so rich, a style so noble, a phrase so elegant, an orchestra so vigorous and always so full of interest, that the works though imperfect in their ensemble, have been able through certain sublime portions to win very great success.

But the place where Rossini is complete and inimitable is in opera bouffe. Il Barbiere is certainly a masterpiece, and Cenerentola comes very near being one. A wonderful imagination, gaiety carried sometimes to the point of folly, an ardor and quickness of inspiration that was simply prodigious, together with an instrumentation always new, always piquant, always of an extreme elegance; such are the qualities which characterized Rossini's light music, and which make it still as young and fresh as when it first appeared, eighty years ago.

In regard to his dramatic music, I must not forget, after having pointed out its shortcomings, to make an important statement, giving him credit for the progress which is unquestionably due him. I refer to the transformation which he has brought about in the recitative, beginning with his Elisabetta. Until then he had not risen above Tancredi, a charming score, but one in which his methods scarcely differed from those employed by the musicians of his time, Mayr, Generali, PaËr and others. Undoubtedly his harmony was fuller, his instrumentation richer, more varied and more brilliant than that of these artists, but the progress stopped there. With Elisabetta, his first work given at Naples, Rossini started an important reform. Up to that time the Italian composers had employed almost exclusively the recitativo secco, that is to say, a recitative accompanied solely by the clavichord, with a continuous bass by the violoncello in the orchestra. Now these thin and meagre recitatives, often much developed, weakened the scenic effect, killed all musical interest, and formed too violent a contrast with the general style of the work. It was only in exceptional cases that the composers allowed themselves some measures of recitativo strumentato, to serve as an introduction to an important piece.

Rossini, in his Elisabetta, was the first to treat all the recitative part as a grand lyric declamation, and to sustain that precise, vigorous, very rhythmic declamation with a melodic accompaniment, arranged for the full orchestra. Thanks to this means, the scenic action was considerably developed, the musical interest was sustained from beginning to end, without break or sign of weakness, the work gained a homogeneity and a general color hitherto unknown; finally, the composer experienced the advantage of being able to bind together, as strongly as need be, incidents, situations, episodes which otherwise would have been chilled by the untimely presence of those recitativi secchi, the crying evil of the serious operas. Certainly this is a trait of genius, which classes Rossini in the rank of the happiest of innovators.

When, fifteen years after having given his Elisabetta at Naples, he wrote William Tell for the Paris OpÉra, people were able to judge of the incomparable grandeur of his dramatic genius. Here were no concessions to a perverted taste, no ill-timed vocal effects, no weakness of style, no negligence in the form; but a grand inspiration, a bold and noble accent, heroic outbursts, a color marvellously appropriate to the subject, and above all the sincerity of an artist of genius desiring to create a masterpiece.

A study of Rossini would be incomplete, which did not consider the influence which that great man exercised over the artists of his time. It is with some reflections on this subject that I am going to close the present work.

An abundance of melody, precision of rhythm, richness of instrumentation, untiring verve, movement, color and life, such are the distinctive signs of Rossini's musical personality. Moreover, this personality was so powerful, so exuberant, so magnetic, that it not only effaced that of his contemporaries, who were unable to struggle against this colossus, but it soon absorbed that of all the young composers who were coming after him, and who, gifted by nature with less generosity, were appropriating his methods, as far as possible, and making themselves his servile imitators. With the exception of Bellini and Donizetti, whose natural temperament and personal gifts were safeguards against this rage of imitation, one may say that for half a century all the Italian composers applied themselves to writing music a la Rossini, and seemed preoccupied solely with reproducing effects and combinations originated by the young master. Pacini, for example, wrote eighty operas in the Rossinian style, not one of which was worthy to pass down to posterity; and the Ricci brothers, though more gifted than Pacini as regards a freshness of inspiration, also imitated Rossini too closely, and allowed some little of their own personality to appear only in the pleasant, merry score of Crispino e la Comare, their one work which has gained recognition outside of Italy. Furthermore, these Italian imitators of Rossini, not knowing how to separate the tares from the wheat, followed exactly in his footsteps, and reproduced his faults as conscientiously as his virtues, mistaking noise for sonority, sadly abusing the flowery style, even in the most pathetic moments, to the great detriment of dramatic truth (Mercadante himself has not escaped this fault), and unhappily not having, like their model, that wonderful gift of melody for which certain of his faults could be pardoned, and which constituted a good part of his power.

The flagrant imitation of Rossinian forms by the fellow-artists of the master clearly indicated their inferiority, at the same time that it demonstrated his absorbing influence. In France also where the ThÉÂtre-Italien, brilliant with its splendid array of illustrious singers, had early made known the most important of Rossini's works, this influence made itself felt to a considerable extent, but less completely, and with more discernment, our musicians merely drawing profit from the progress made by the author of il Barbiere and Semiramide, without permitting themselves to abandon in his favor their own personality. It was easy to recognize the trace of this influence in certain of Boieldieu's scores, in Auber's manner, nay, even in that of Herold, an artist of strong and eclectic temperament, whose own originality never failed him for an instant, while accepting up to a certain point a reflection from Weber on the one hand, on the other Rossini, whom he had been able to study for a long time in his own country. But the French musicians had as a safeguard against servility to the latter artist, that innate sentiment of dramatic truth which formed part of the genius of their country and which did not permit them to sacrifice anything to the exact expression of that truth. Besides, the great artists of whom I speak here had a personal worth which put them quite beyond the thought of slavery or of too great submission to any artist whatever. Nevertheless, I repeat that Rossini's influence over the French artists was very considerable, and I add that it was happy and beneficial because it was limited to making them profit by methods and discoveries, the use of which, joined to their natural gifts and qualifications, could only enrich the latter and increase the domain of art.

In closing I would say briefly that for half a century Rossini's genius has shed its radiance over entire Europe, and that that radiance seemed to eclipse everything around him. After having reigned master of the art in his own country for fifteen years, he increased his influence still more by his contact with France, and it was in France, whose temperament, full of taste, eclecticism and reason, he knew so marvellously, that he wrote his most magnificent masterpiece, William Tell, before which all his former works pale, with the exception of The Barber of Seville. If The Barber is the imperishable and prodigious model of opera bouffe, William Tell is the most touching, the most striking dramatic poem which ever flowed from his pen. Either would suffice for his glory, and both assign to him a unique and quite exceptional place in the history of musical art in the nineteenth century.

---

---