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 had 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 recognized 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 organized 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 explained, “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 color.  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 favorite of the Romans, was coldly received by the audience.  In short, the opera seemed likely to be damned.