“After this comes the fierce conflict of the Egyptians and the Hebrews.  All their joy is spoiled, their march stopped by the arrival of the Egyptians.  Pharaoh’s edict is proclaimed in a musical phrase, hollow and dread, which is the leading motif of the finale; we could fancy that we hear the tramp of the great Egyptian army, surrounding the sacred phalanx of the true God, curling round it, like a long African serpent enveloping its prey.  But how beautiful is the lament of the duped and disappointed Hebrews!  Though, in truth, it is more Italian than Hebrew.  What a superb passage introduces Pharaoh’s arrival, when his presence brings the two leaders face to face, and all the moving passions of the drama.  The conflict of sentiments in that sublime ottetto, where the wrath of Moses meets that of the two Pharaohs, is admirable.  What a medley of voices and of unchained furies!

“No grander subject was ever wrought out by a composer.  The famous finale of Don Giovanni, after all, only shows us a libertine at odds with his victims, who invoke the vengeance of Heaven; while here earth and its dominions try to defeat God.  Two nations are here face to face.  And Rossini, having every means at his command, has made wonderful use of them.  He has succeeded in expressing the turmoil of a tremendous storm as a background to the most terrible imprecations, without making it ridiculous.  He has achieved it by the use of chords repeated in triple time—­a monotonous rhythm of gloomy musical emphasis—­and so persistent as to be quite overpowering.  The horror of the Egyptians at the torrent of fire, the cries of vengeance from the Hebrews, needed a delicate balance of masses; so note how he has made the development of the orchestral parts follow that of the chorus.  The allegro assai in C minor is terrible in the midst of that deluge of fire.

“Confess now,” said Massimilla, at the moment when Moses, lifting his rod, brings down the rain of fire, and when the composer puts forth all his powers in the orchestra and on the stage, “that no music ever more perfectly expressed the idea of distress and confusion.”

“They have spread to the pit,” remarked the Frenchman.

“What is it now?  The pit is certainly in great excitement,” said the Duchess.

In the finale, Genovese, his eyes fixed on la Tinti, had launched into such preposterous flourishes, that the pit, indignant at this interference with their enjoyment, were at a height of uproar.  Nothing could be more exasperating to Italian ears than this contrast of good and bad singing.  The manager went so far as to appear on the stage, to say that in reply to his remarks to his leading singer, Signor Genovese had replied that he knew not how or by what offence he had lost the countenance of the public, at the very moment when he was endeavoring to achieve perfection in his art.

“Let him be as bad as he was yesterday—­that was good enough for us!” roared Capraja, in a rage.