has the advantage of freedom from the moral grossness which pollutes its companion. For the unspoiled taste of the better class of opera patrons, there is a livelier as well as a lovelier charm in the story of Almaviva's adventures while outwitting Dr. Bartolo and carrying off the winsome Rosina to be his countess than in the depiction of his amatory intrigues after marriage. In fact, there is something especially repellent in the Count's lustful pursuit of the bride of the man to whose intellectual resourcefulness he owed the successful outcome of his own wooing.
It is, indeed, a fortunate thing for Mozart's music that so few opera-goers understand Italian nowadays. The play is a moral blister, and the less intelligible it is made by excisions in its dialogue, the better, in one respect, for the virtuous sensibilities of its auditors. One point which can be sacrificed without detriment to the music and at only a trifling cost to the comedy (even when it is looked upon from the viewpoint which prevailed in Europe at the period of its creation) is that which Beaumarchais relied on chiefly to add piquancy to the conduct of the Count. Almaviva, we are given to understand, on his marriage with Rosina had voluntarily abandoned an ancient seignorial right, described by Susanna as "certe mezz' ore che il diritto feudale," but is desirous of reviving the practice in the case of the Countess's bewitching maid on the eve of her marriage to his valet. It is this discovery which induces Figaro to invent his scheme for expediting the wedding, and lends a touch of humor to the scene in which Figaro asks that he and his bride enjoy the first-fruits of the reform while the villagers lustily hymn the merits of their "virtuous" lord; but the too frank discussion of the subject with which the dialogue teems might easily be avoided. The opera, like all the old works of the lyrical stage, is in sad need of intelligent revision and thorough study, so that its dramatic as well as its musical beauties may be preserved. There is no lovelier merit in Mozart's music than the depth and tenderness with which the honest love of Susanna for Figaro and the Countess for her lord are published; and it is no demerit that the volatile passion of the adolescent Cherubino and the frolicsome, scintillant, vivacious spirit of the plotters are also given voice. Mozart's music could not be all that it is if it did not enter fully and unreservedly into the spirit of the comedy; it is what it is because whenever the opportunity presented itself, he raised it into the realm of the ideal. Yet Mozart was no Puritan. He swam along gayly and contentedly on the careless current of life as it was lived in Vienna and elsewhere in the closing decades of the eighteenth century, and was not averse, merely for the fun of the thing, to go even a step beyond his librettist when the chance offered. Here is an instance in point: The plotters have been working a little at cross-purposes, each seeking his own advantages, and their plans are about to be put to the test when Figaro temporarily loses confidence in the honesty of Susanna. With his trust in her falls to the ground his faith in all woman-kind. He rails against the whole sex in the air, beginning: "Aprite un po' quegl' occhi?" in the last act. Enumerating the moral blemishes of women, he at length seems to be fairly choked by his own spleen, and bursts out at the end with "Il resto nol dico, gia ognuno lo sa" ("The rest I'll not tell you—everybody knows it"). The orchestra stops, all but the horns, which with the phrase
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aided by a traditional gesture (the singer's forefingers pointing upward from his forehead), complete his meaning. It is a pity that the air is often omitted, for it is eloquent in the exposition of the spirit of the comedy.
The merriest of opera overtures introduces "Le Nozze di Figaro," and puts the listener at once into a frolicsome mood. It seems to be the most careless of little pieces, drawing none of its material from the music of the play, making light of some of the formulas which demanded respect at the time (there is no free fantasia), laughing and singing its innocent life out in less than five minutes as if it were breathing an atmosphere of pure oxygen. It romps; it does not reflect or feel. Motion is its business, not emotion. It has no concern with the deep and gentle feelings of the play, but only with its frolic. The spirit of playful torment, the disposition of a pretty tease, speaks out of its second subject:—
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and one may, if one wishes, hear the voice of only half-serious admonition in the phrase of the basses, which the violins echo as if in mockery:—
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But, on the whole, the overture does not ask for analysis or interpretation; it is satisfied to express untrammelled joy in existence.
The curtain is withdrawn, and we discover the lovers preparing for their wedding. Figaro is taking the dimensions of a room, and the first motive of a duet illustrates his measured paces; Susanna is trimming a hat, and her happiness and her complacent satisfaction with her handiwork are published in the second motive, whose innocent joy explodes in scintillant semi-quavers in the fiddles at the third measure. His labors ended, Figaro joins Susanna in her utterances of joy. But there is a fly in the ointment, Why has Figaro been so busily measuring the room? To test its fitness as their chamber, for the Count has assigned it to them, though it is one of the best rooms in the palace. He points out its convenient location (duet: "Se a caso madama"); so near the room of the Countess that her maid can easily answer the "din din" of her bell, and near enough to the room of the Count that his "don don" would never sound in vain should he wish to send his valet on an errand. Altogether too convenient, explains Susanna; some fine day the Count's "don don" might mean a three-mile journey for the valet, and then the devil would fetch the dear Count to her side in three paces. Has he not been making love violently to her for a space, sending Don Basilio to give her singing lessons and to urge her to accept his suit? Did Figaro imagine it was because of his own pretty face that the Count had promised her so handsome a dowry? Figaro had pressed such a flattering unction to his soul, but now recalls, with not a little jealous perturbation, that the Count had planned to take him with him to London, where he was to go on a mission of state: "He as ambassador, Figaro as a courier, and Susanna as ambassadress in secret. Is that your game, my lord? Then I'll set the pace for your dancing with my guitar" (Cavatina: "Se vuol ballare").
Almaviva's obedient valet disappears, and presto! in his place we see our old friend, the cunning, resourceful barber and town factotum of the earlier days, who shall hatch out a plot to confound his master and shield his love from persecution. First of all he must hasten the wedding. He sets about this at once, but all unconscious of the fact that Dr. Bartolo has never forgiven nor forgotten the part he played in robbing him of his ward Rosina. He comes now to let us know that he is seeking revenge against Figaro and at the same time, as he hopes, rid himself of his old housekeeper, Marcellina, to whom he is bound by an obligation that is becoming irksome. The old duenna has been casting amatory glances in Figaro's direction, and has a hold on him in the shape of a written obligation to marry her in default of repayment of a sum of money borrowed in a time of need. She enlists Bartolo as adviser, and he agrees to lay the matter before the Count. Somewhat early, but naturally enough in the case of the conceited dotard, he gloats over his vengeance, which seems as good as accomplished, and celebrates his triumph in an air ("La vendetta!"). As she is about to leave the room, Marcellina meets Susanna, and the two make a forced effort to conceal their mutual hatred and jealousy in an amusing duettino ("Via resti servita, madama brillante!"), full of satirical compliments and curtsies. Marcellina is bowed out of the room with extravagant politeness, and Susanna turns her attention to her mistress's wardrobe, only to be interrupted by the entrance of Cherubino, the Count's page. Though a mere stripling, Cherubino is already a budding voluptuary, animated with a wish, something like that of Byron's hero, that all woman-kind had but a single mouth and he the privilege of kissing it. He adores the Countess; but not her alone. Susanna has a ribbon in her hand with which, she tells him, she binds up her mistress's tresses at night. Happy Susanna! Happy ribbon! Cherubino seizes it, refuses to give it up, and offers in exchange his latest ballad. "What shall I do with the song?" asks Susanna. "Sing it to the Countess! Sing it yourself! Sing it to Barbarina, to Marcellina, to all the ladies in the palace!" He tells Susanna (Air: "Non so più cosa son") of the torments which he endures. The lad's mind is, indeed, in a parlous state; he feels his body alternately burning and freezing; the mere sight of a maiden sends the blood to his cheeks, and he needs must sigh whenever he hears her voice; sleeping and waking,
