The "Swan of Pesaro" is a name linked with some of the most charming
musical associations of this age. Though forty years silence made
fruitless what should have been the richest creative period of Rossini's
life, his great works, poured forth with such facility, and still
retaining their grasp in spite of all changes in public opinion, stamp
him as being the most gifted composer ever produced by a country so
fecund in musical geniuses. The old set forms of Italian opera had
already yielded in large degree to the energy and pomp of French
declamation, when Rossini poured into them afresh such exhilaration and
sparkle as again placed his country in the van of musical Europe.
With no pretension to the grand, majestic, and severe, his fresh and
delightful melodies, flowing without stint, excited alike the critical
and the unlearned into a species of artistic craze, a mania which has
not yet subsided. The stiff and stately Oublicheff confesses, with many
compunctions of conscience, that, when listening for the first time to
one of Rossini's operas, he forgot for the time being all that he had
ever known, admired, played, or sung, for he was musically drunk, as if
with champagne. Learned Germans might shake their heads and talk about
shallowness and contrapuntal rubbish, his _crescendo_ and _stretto_
passages, his tameness and uniformity even in melody, his want of
artistic finish; but, as Richard Wagner, his direct antipodes, frankly
confesses in his "Oper und Drama," such objections were dispelled
by Rossini's opera-airs as if they were mere delusions of the fancy.
Essentially different from Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Haydn, or even
Weber, with whom he has some affinities, he stands a unique figure in
the history of art, an original both as man and musician.
Gioacchino Rossini was the son of a town-trumpeter and an operatic
singer of inferior rank, born in Pesaro, Romagna, February 29, 1792. The
child attended the itinerant couple in their visits to fairs and musical
gatherings, and was in danger, at the age of seven, of becoming
a thorough-paced little vagabond, when maternal alarm trusted his
education to the friendly hands of the music-master Prinetti. At this
tender age even he had been introduced to the world of art, for he sang
the part of a child at the Bologna opera.
"Nothing," said Mme. Georgi-Righetti, "could be imagined more tender,
more touching, than the voice and action of this remarkable child."
The young Rossini, after a year or two, came under the notice of the
celebrated teacher Tesei, of Bologna, who gave him lessons in pianoforte
playing and the voice, and obtained him a good place as boy-soprano
at one of the churches. He now attracted the attention of the Countess
Perticari, who admired his voice, and she sent him to the Lyceum to
learn fugue and counterpoint at the feet of a very strict Gamaliel,
Padre Mallei. The youth was no dull student, and, in spite of his
capricious indolence, which vexed the soul of his tutor, he made such
rapid progress that at the age of sixteen he was chosen to write the
cantata, annually awarded to the most promising student. Success greeted
the juvenile effort, and thus we see Rossini fairly launched as a
composer. Of the early operas which he poured out for five years it is
not needful to speak, except that one of them so pleased the austere
Marshal Massena that he exempted the composer from conscription.
The first opera which made Rossini's name famous through Europe was
"Tancredi," written for the Venetian public. To this opera belongs the
charming "Di tanti palpiti," written under the following circumstances:
Mme. Melanotte, the _prima donna_, took the whim during the final
rehearsal that she would not sing the opening air, but must have
another. Rossini went home in sore disgust, for the whole opera was
likely to be put off by this caprice. There were but two hours before
the performance, he sat waiting for his macaroni, when an exquisite air
came into his head, and it was written in five minutes.
After his great success he received offers from almost every town in
Italy, each clamoring to be served first. Every manager was required
to furnish his theatre with an opera from the pen of the new idol. For
these earlier essays he received a thousand francs each, and he wrote
five or six a year. Stendhall, Rossini's spirited biographer, gives
a picturesque account of life in the Italian theatres at this time, a
status which remains in some of its features to-day:
"The mechanism is as follows: The manager is frequently one of the most
wealthy and considerable persons of the little town he inhabits. He
forms a company consisting of _prima donna, tenoro, basso cantante,
basso buffo_, a second female singer, and a third _basso_. The
_libretto_, or poem, purchased for sixty or eighty francs from some
lucky son of the muses, who is generally a half-starved abbé, the
hanger-on of some rich family in the neighborhood. The character of the
parasite, so admirably painted by Terence, is still to be found in all
its glory in Lombardy, where the smallest town can boast of some five or
six families of some wealth.
"A _maestro_, or composer, is then engaged to write a new opera, and
he is obliged to adapt his own airs to the voices and capacity of the
company. The manager intrusts the care of the financial department to
a _registrario_, who is generally some pettifogging attorney, who holds
the position of his steward. The next thing that generally happens is
that the manager falls in love with the _prima donna_; and the progress
of this important amour gives ample employment to the curiosity of the
gossips.
"The company thus organized at length gives its first representation,
after a month of cabals and intrigues, which furnish conversation for
the town. This is an event in the simple annals of the town, of the
importance of which the residents of large places can form no idea.
During months together a population of eight or ten thousand people do
nothing but discuss the merit of the forthcoming music and singers
with the eager impetuosity which belongs to the Italian character and
climate. The first representation, if successful, is generally followed
by twenty or thirty more of the same piece, after which the company
breaks up.... From this little sketch of theatrical arrangements in
Italy some idea may be formed of the life which Rossini led from 1810 to
1816." Between these years he visited all the principal towns, remaining
three or four months at each, the idolized guest of the _dilettanti_
of the place. Rossini's idleness and love of good cheer always made
him procrastinate his labors till the last moment, and placed him in
dilemmas from which only his fluency of composition extricated him. His
biographer says:
"The day of performance is fast approaching, and yet he cannot resist
the pressing invitations of these friends to dine with them at the
tavern. This, of course, leads to a supper, the champagne circulates
freely, and the hour of morning steals on apace. At length a
compunctious visiting shoots across the mind of the truant composer. He
rises abruptly; his friends insist on seeing him home; and they parade
the silent streets bareheaded, shouting in chorus whatever comes
uppermost, perhaps a portion of a _miserere_, to the great scandal of
pious Catholics tucked snugly in their beds. At length he reaches
his lodging, and shutting himself up in his chamber is, at this, to
every-day mortals, most ungenial hour, visited by some of his most
brilliant inspirations. These he hastily scratches down on scraps
of paper, and next morning arranges them, or, in his own phrase,
instruments them, amid the renewed interruptions of his visitors. At
length the important night arrives. The _maestro_ takes his place at
the pianoforte. The theatre is overflowing, people having flocked to the
town from ten leagues distance. Every inn is crowded, and those unable
to get other accommodations encamp around the theatre in their various
vehicles. All business is suspended, and, during the performances, the
town has the appearance of a desert. The passions, the anxieties, the
very life of a whole population are centered in the theatre."
Rossini would preside at the first three representations, and, after
receiving a grand civic banquet, set out for the next place, his
portmanteau fuller of music-paper than of other effects, and perhaps
a dozen sequins in his pocket. His love of jesting during these gay
Bohemian wanderings made him perpetrate innumerable practical jokes,
not sparing himself when he had no more available food for mirth. On one
occasion, in traveling from Ancona to Reggio, he passed himself off for
a musical professor, a mortal enemy of Rossini, and sang the words of
his own operas to the most execrable music, in a cracked voice, to show
his superiority to that donkey, Rossini. An unknown admirer of his was
in such a rage that he was on the point of chastising him for slandering
the great musician, about whom Italy raved.
Our composer's earlier style was quite simple and unadorned, a fact
difficult for the present generation, only acquainted with the florid
beauties of his later works, to appreciate. Rossini only followed
the traditions of Italian music in giving singers full opportunity to
embroider the naked score at their own pleasure. He was led to change
this practice by the following incident. The tenor-singer Velluti was
then the favorite of the Italian theatres, and indulged in the most
unwarrantable tricks with his composers. During the first performance
of "L'Aureliano," at Naples, the singer loaded the music with such
ornaments that Rossini could not recognize the offspring of his own
brains. A fierce quarrel ensued between the two, and the composer
determined thereafter to write music of such a character that the most
stupid singer could not suppose any adornment needed. From that time the
Rossini music was marked by its florid and brilliant embroidery. Of the
same Velluti, spoken of above, an incident is told, illustrating the
musical craze of the country and the period. A Milanese gentleman,
whose father was very ill, met his friend in the street--"Where are you
going?" "To the Scala to be sure." "How! your father lies at the point
of death." "Yes! yes! I know, but Velluti sings to-night."