The Life of Rossini

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

“Di piacer mi balza il cor”

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 —

“Oh, nume benefico!”

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.”

CHAPTER X

ARMIDA, ADELAIDA, AND ADINA

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.

CHAPTER XI

“MOSÈ IN EGITTO:” REFORMS IN OPERA SERIA

“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.

CHAPTER XII

THREE UNFAMILIAR WORKS

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.