Paisiello gave his consent to the use of the subject, believing that the opera of his young rival would assuredly fail.  At the same time he wrote to a friend in Rome, asking him to do all in his power to compass a fiasco for the opera.  The young composer’s enemies were not sluggish.  All the whistlers of Italy, says Castil-Blaze, seemed to have made a rendezvous at the Teatro Argentina on the night set down for the first production.  Their malicious intentions were helped along by accidents at the outset of the performance.  Details of the story have been preserved for us in an account written by Signora Giorgi-Righetti, who sang the part of Rosina on the memorable occasion.  Garcia had persuaded Rossini to permit him to sing a Spanish song to his own accompaniment on a guitar under Rosina’s balcony in the first act.  It would provide the needed local color, he urged.  When about to start his song, Garcia found that he had forgotten to tune his guitar.  He began to set the pegs in the face of the waiting public.  A string broke, and a new one was drawn up amid the titters of the spectators.  The song did not please the auditors, who mocked at the singer by humming Spanish fiorituri after him.  Boisterous laughter broke out when Figaro came on the stage also with a guitar, and “Largo al factotum” was lost in the din.  Another howl of delighted derision went up when Rosina’s voice was heard singing within:  “Segui o caro, deh segui cosi” ("Continue, my dear, continue thus").  The audience continued “thus.”  The representative of Rosina was popular, but the fact that she was first heard in a trifling phrase instead of an aria caused disappointment.  The duet, between Almaviva and Figaro, was sung amid hisses, shrieks, and shouts.  The cavatina “Una voce poco fa” got a triple round of applause, however, and Rossini, interpreting the fact as a compliment to the personality of the singer rather than to the music, after bowing to the public, exclaimed:  “Oh natura!” “Thank her,” retorted Giorgi-Righetti; “but for her you would not have had occasion to rise from your choir.”  The turmoil began again with the next duet, and the finale was mere dumb show.  When the curtain fell, Rossini faced the mob, shrugged his shoulders, and clapped his hands to show his contempt.  Only the musicians and singers heard the second act, the din being incessant from beginning to end.  Rossini remained imperturbable, and when Giorgi-Rhigetti, Garcia, and Zamboni hastened to his lodgings to offer their condolences as soon as they could don street attire, they found him asleep.  The next day he wrote the cavatina “Ecco ridente in cielo” to take the place of Garcia’s unlucky Spanish song, borrowing the air from his own “Aureliano,” composed two years before, into which it had been incorporated from “Ciro,” a still earlier work.  When night came, he feigned illness so as to escape the task of conducting.  By that time his enemies had worn themselves out.  The music was heard amid loud plaudits, and in a week the opera had scored a tremendous success.