An important step in Rossini's early career was his connection with
the widely known impresario of the San Carlo, Naples, Barbaja. He was
under contract to produce two new operas annually, to rearrange all
old scores, and to conduct at all of the theatres ruled by this
manager. He was to receive two hundred ducats a month, and a share in
the profits of the bank of the San Carlo gambling-saloon. His first
opera composed here was "Elisabetta, Regina d'Inghilterra," which was
received with a genuine Neapolitan _furore_. Rossini was fêted and
caressed by the ardent _dilettanti_ of this city to his heart's
content, and was such an idol of the "fickle fair" that his career on
more than one occasion narrowly escaped an untimely close, from the
prejudices of jealous spouses. The composer was very vain of his
handsome person, and boasted of his _escapades d'amour_. Many, too,
will recall his _mot_, spoken to a beauty standing between himself and
the Duke of Wellington--"Madame, how happy should you be to find
yourself placed between the two greatest men in Europe!"
One of Rossini's adventures at Naples has in it something of romance.
He was sitting in his chamber, humming one of his own operatic airs,
when the ugliest Mercury he had ever seen entered and gave him a note,
then instantly withdrew. This, of course, was a tender invitation, and
an assignation at a romantic spot in the suburb. On arriving Rossini
sang his _aria_ for a signal, and from the gate of a charming park
surrounding a small villa appeared his beautiful and unknown
inamorata. On parting it was agreed that the same messenger should
bring notice of the second appointment. Rossini suspected that the
lady, in disguise, was her own envoy, and verified the guess by
following the light-footed page. He then discovered that she was the
wife of a wealthy Sicilian, widely noted for her beauty, and one of
the reigning toasts. On renewing his visit, he barely arrived at the
gate of the park, when a carbine-bullet grazed his head, and two
masked assailants sprang toward him with drawn rapiers, a proceeding
which left Rossini no option but to take to his heels, as he was
unarmed.
During the composer's residence at Naples he was made acquainted with
many of the most powerful princes and nobles of Europe, and his name
became a recognised factor in European music, though his works were
not widely known outside of his native land. His reputation for genius
spread by report, for all who came in contact with the brilliant,
handsome Rossini were charmed. That which placed his European fame on
a solid basis was the production of "Il Barbiere di Seviglia" at Rome
during the carnival season of 1816.
Years before Rossini had thought of setting the sparkling comedy of
Beaumarchais to music, and Sterbini, the author of the _libretto_ used
by Paisiello, had proposed to rearrange the story. Rossini, indeed,
had been so complaisant as to write to the older composer for
permission to set fresh music to the comedy; a concession not needed,
for the plays of Metastasio had been used by different musicians
without scruple. Paisiello intrigued against the new opera, and
organised a conspiracy to kill it on the first night. Sterbini made
the libretto totally different from the other, and Rossini finished
the music in thirteen days, during which he never left the house. "Not
even did I get shaved," he said to a friend. "It seems strange that
through the 'Barber' you should have gone without shaving." "If I had
shaved," Rossini exclaimed, "I should have gone out; and, if I had
gone out, I should not have come back in time."
The first performance was a curious scene. The Argentina Theatre was
packed with friends and foes. One of the greatest of tenors, Garcia,
the father of Malibran and Pauline Viardot, sang Almaviva. Rossini had
been weak enough to allow Garcia to sing a Spanish melody for a
serenade, for the latter urged the necessity of vivid national and
local colour. The tenor had forgotten to tune his guitar, and in the
operation on the stage a string broke. This gave the signal for a
tumult of ironical laughter and hisses. The same hostile atmosphere
continued during the evening. Even Madame Georgi-Righetti, a great
favourite of the Romans, was coldly received by the audience. In
short, the opera seemed likely to be damned.
When the singers went to condole with Rossini, they found him enjoying
a luxurious supper with the gusto of the _gourmet_ that he was.
Settled in his knowledge that he had written a masterpiece, he could
not be disturbed by unjust clamour. The next night the fickle Romans
made ample amends, for the opera was concluded amid the warmest
applause, even from the friends of Paisiello.
Rossini's "Il Barbiere," within six months, was performed on nearly
every stage in Europe, and received universally with great admiration.
It was only in Paris, two years afterwards, that there was some
coldness in its reception. Every one said that after Paisiello's music
on the same subject it was nothing, when it was suggested that
Paisiello's should be revived. So the St. Petersburg "Barbiere" of
1788 was produced, and beside Rossini's it proved so dull, stupid, and
antiquated that the public instantly recognised the beauties of the
work which they had persuaded themselves to ignore. Yet for this work,
which placed the reputation of the young composer on a lofty pedestal,
he received only two thousand francs.
Our composer took his failures with great phlegm and good-nature,
based, perhaps, on an invincible self-confidence. When his
"Sigismonde" had been hissed at Venice, he sent his mother a _fiasco_
(bottle). In the last instance he sent her, on the morning succeeding
the first performance, a letter with a picture of a _fiaschetto_
(little bottle).