"Mrs. Spoilsport": how Rossini's second wife saved his life

"We are unwell... it is from eating too much.... the Maestro and I live to eat ... and we acquit ourselves of this duty religiously." --

Olympe Pélissier (painting by Vernet, 1830)

The Maestro? That would be Gioachino Rossini.

The writer of the amazing description above? Meet Rossini's second wife, the woman he jokingly referred to as "Mrs. Spoilsport (Madame Rabatjoie) No. 2".

Here's another quote: "I am neither proud nor gracious. I am a fat woman who is occupied from morning to evening with digesting." Wow...

In a previous post I introduced you to the composer's first wife, the glamorous opera singer Isabella Colbran. Now I'll tell you a little about Olympe Pélissier: model for paintings by Horace Vernet, courtesan whose lovers included the writer Honoré de Balzac and, by turns, Rossini's nurse, cook, lover and, ultimately, wife. You don't really know Rossini until you know the women he lived with!

Rossini's first marriage ended in a way that does not reflect much credit on either party. After Colbran's voice gave out, forcing an end to her career as a prima donna, Rossini was still traveling constantly, overseeing productions and just generally living the life of a musical celebrity. Isabella chafed at her forced retirement. She was discouraged at being virtually abandoned to live with her husband's father, Giuseppe Rossini. She was bored out of her skull, a problem leading to the downward spiral of compulsive gambling and the loss of a personal fortune. She was driven to taking private voice students in an attempt to replenish her funds. For his part, Rossini left her behind when he departed for Paris in 1830; he would not see her again for four years. He was seven years younger than Colbran, her gambling disgusted him, and he had no trouble finding available women to satisfy his prodigious sexual appetite.

That appetite contributed to a sorry state of declining physical and emotional health. It seems apparent that Rossini suffered from what would be called bi-polar disorder today. The writer Antonio Zanolini described the composer's mood swings as fluctuating violently from upbeat and joking to bitterness and exhausted despair. In addition, he was beset with chronic ailments requiring the long-term use of a catheter, and the application of leeches to treat hemorrhoids.

(Yeah, that's pretty gross. That's a visual image we could all do without, and a bit of irony in light of Figaro's cheerful reference to leeches in his "Largo al factotum".)

Enter Olympe in the fall of 1832. An attractive woman in her 30's, she already had a colorful history in Parisian society behind her. She was born out of wedlock to an unmarried woman. Though her mother married a certain Monsieur Pélissier (who adopted Olympe), it was assumed from the girl's childhood that she would follow her mother's "career path" with a collection of wealthy "protectors". After gaining Rossini's attention and becoming part of his circle, Olympe found herself immersed in the world of music for the first time, quickly developing a taste for Bellini and Donizetti in addition, of course, to Rossini.

Rossini found that, given his new lover's less-than-respectable backstory, awkward situations arose when introducing Olympe in elite social circles. No less a ladies' man than the pianist and composer Franz Liszt said of Mlle. Pélissier, in a letter to his mistress the Countess d'Agoult, that 'she pleases me". The Countess, however, was not impressed. Rossini had Olympe act as hostess at the musical soirees he presented in Milan during the late 1830's, but d'Agoult said that women of standing in polite society stayed away from them.

Rossini and Pélissier lived together as man and wife without being married as long as Isabella lived on in retirement. When Rossini received news in 1845 that Colbran was on her death-bed, he and Olympe traveled to her villa at Castenaso to pay respects. Olympe waited in an ante-room while Rossini spent a few final minutes with his first wife, saying the things that needed to be said.

Ten months later, Olympe and Rossini entered into matrimony, a happy event to be followed by dark days of misery. Giaochino Rossini spent the next several years in near-fatal physical and mental health, often on the brink of collapse. During the late forties and early fifties, Herbert Weinstock (whose excellent biography Rossini is the source of the biographical details here) notes that the composer spent up to eight months of each year combating his weakened state with ineffective cures. There were prolonged periods in which he reported that, due to what he termed "hydrophobia", food had lost all flavor; at times, he sobbed uncontrollably; he told a friend of his "constantly increasing mental impotence"; he was often confined to bed.

Through it all, on good days when he felt up to socializing, and on bad days when he could barely hang on, Olympe Pélissier Rossini was as devoted and caring as a wife could be. He likely owed his life to her.

Rossini appears to have touched bottom in 1855. He reported to a Signor Mordani that he had been unable to sleep for more that five minutes at a time for over a year. "Death is better than living this way", he concluded.

Given all this, opera-lovers shouldn't wonder at Rossini's having retired from composition so early in life. The reality of his frailty belies the common perception that his retirement was an uninterrupted period marked by witty banter, rich food and the Good Life. Rossini also intimated to a few people in his circle that the changing nature of musical style left him feeling alienated and disenfranchised, as though he had outlived his time artistically. He complained to colleagues of the increasingly "learned" quality in Italian music. He was repelled by the mid-century trend toward violent and bloody subjects such as Verdi's Il Trovatore. It's also true that he had no need to make a living at composition; his fortune was large and secure, managed by trusted financiers.

But in time, Olympe's care proved effective. In 1856 the clouds of illness and depression began to lift. By the following year, Rossini returned to writing music, though certainly with no intention of another opera. He wrote a piano prelude and six songs for voice and piano, the collection called Musique Anodine. The dedication is especially touching:

I offer these modest songs to my dear wife Olympe as a simple testimonial of gratitude for the affectionate, intelligent care of which she was prodigal during my overlong and terrible illness. (April 15, 1857)

As life with Olympe settled into something more stable in Paris, more music came, including the famous Petit Messe Solennelle in 1864. Following Rossini's death in 1868, Olympe remained in their Paris residence for another decade until her death at age 81.

Isabella Colbran may have been his Muse for a short while, but Olympe Pélissier was his protector and companion; her devotion saw him through years of crisis. She deserves the thanks of those of us who love her husband's music.

Diagetic music in Barber of Seville and other operas

I just learned a new music term, and I have The Godfather to thank for it. And it's a term that is very useful in opera as well as film!

Opera Appreciation via The Godfather

I was watching Francis Ford Coppola's Mafia epic this afternoon. As always, I marveled at the soundtrack heard in the climactic scene of the baptism; the scene in which Michael Corleone stands as godfather to his sister Connie's baby while, simultaneously, hit men carry out executions of rival crime-family heads in a bloody montage.

Music plays a key role in this masterfully conceived and (no pun intended) executed section. We are in the sanctuary of an immense cathedral somewhere in the outskirts of New York. As a priest intones the baptism ritual in Latin, organ music sets the scene. (It happens to be, for the most part, Bach's Passacaglia & Fugue in C Minor.) The music continues without interruption even when the church scene is intercut with shots of mayhem and murder. That's helpful to the audience, as it clarifies that the executions are happening at the same moment as the church service. It provides a bit of order to the chaos. The music also darkens and becomes more chromatic as the scope of Michael's revenge is revealed. This is GREAT filmmaking.

The important thing to observe here is that the underscoring is (here's the fancy new term) diegetic. That is to say, the music is meant to be understood as occurring naturally in the fictional world of the drama, rather than traditional composed underscoring. We're in a church, a service is in progress, so naturally, an organist is providing music. No fancy leit-motifs; just the actual sounds the characters themselves would be hearing.  (Note: I encountered the term on a website called The Cine' Files.)

Another typical example of diagetic music from the world of cinema would be the the piano music played in saloons in countless Westerns.

Bottom line: diagetic music means that the characters themselves hear the music. Got the concept? I knew you would - you're quick like that! So now that we're all glorying in the acquisition of a cool vocabulary word, let's see how it works in opera.

It gets tricky in this context since, obviously, operas contain music throughout; the scoring is continuous other than in exceptions such as operetta and opera comique. Nevertheless, diagetic music is more common than you might realize unless you stop and think about it.

I've stopped and thought about it. Rossini's Barber of Seville (Virginia Opera's current production) employs it no less than three times. Let's examine those, and then (just for fun) compile a list of other great diagetic moments in opera history. From the Barber:

• "Ecco ridente" This is Almaviva's first serenade to Rosina at the top of Act 1. Expanding on Beaumarchais, the Count has sprung for a small orchestra to accompany him. As he warbles his coloratura, the onstage banda mimes the bowing and tooting of strings and winds actually being produced in the orchestra pit below. But the point is: this is an opera character, and while we expect that everyone in an opera will sing, the Count knows he is singing, as opposed to, say, carrying on a conversation with someone in which only the audience perceives that he's singing.
• "Se il mio nome" A second song; a second serenade. Extra points to the artist playing the Count if he can manage to play the guitar will enough to provide his own accompaniment.
• Rosina's lesson scene. In Act 2, the Count arrives at Bartolo's home in disguise as Alonso, Rosina's "substitute voice tutor". So when she sings a solo, it's another moment of diagetic music. The Count sits at a spinet, making a show of playing along with her. Odd, since we in the audience hear an orchestra, not a piano, but let it pass... let it pass...In contrast, when Rosina sang "Una voce poco fa" in Act 1, she was not performing music, she was simply delivering a soliloquy about her interest in "Lindoro".

Here are some other moments we can all now take pride in (yes, ostentatiously) classifying as diagetic:

TOSCA. In Act 2, Baron Scarpia is interrogating Tosca's lover Cavaradossi when suddenly he is distracted by vocal music coming through the open window of his quarters at the Palazzo Farnese. It's Tosca herself, making a living as a celebrated soprano. The music consists of a cantata with chorus she's performing that evening. Scarpia closes the window and resumes his cross-examination.

DIE FLEDERMAUS 1 No surprise that diagetic music would occur throughout Act 2 - after all, it's a party. But the outstanding example is Rosalinde's Czardas, the vocal equivalent of a Hungarian Rhapsody complete with slow lassan and lively friska. The supposed "Hungarian Countess" is graciously performing for Orlovsky's guests.

DIE FLEDERMAUS 2 In the final act, Adele, under the impression that the jailer Frank the "Chevalier Chagrin", a French theatrical impressario, auditions for him with the hope that he will advance her ambitions in the theater. 

DON GIOVANNI 1 Serenades are the most obvious scenario in which to insert diagetic music into an opera, though not the only way. In Act 2, Giovanni sings "Deh vieni alla finestra" to Donna Elvira's chambermaid.

DON GIOVANNI 2 A particularly brilliant example of diagetic music that is purely instrumental occurs in the ballroom scene concluding Act 1. With astonishing contrapuntal dexterity, Mozart employs no fewer than three onstage bands, each representing the different social classes present at the Don's palace. Characters sing while the dance music is being played, but their singing is not diagetic; they are simply interacting in the normal manner of opera music. In this case, it's the closest example to the Godfather baptism scene; a diagetic passage of instrumental music underscoring dialogue.

DON GIOVANNI 3 I'm pretty sure Mozart really enjoyed putting together the dinner music heard in the opera's final scene as Giovanni dines alone, moments before being interrupted by Elvira and then a certain ghostly statue. There are plenty of in-jokes here, ending with the band playing a tune from The Marriage of Figaro, prompting Leporello to make a snide remark.

Dinner music in an opera - I guess, technically, that would be "digestively diagetic"?

Yeah, that was pretty lame...

The woman who deprived the world of more Barber of Sevilles.

...or would that more correctly be "Barbers of Seville"? I'm not sure. This isn't a grammar blog, okay?

Isabella Rossini nee Colbran (1785-1865)

In my last post, I briefly mentioned Beethoven's admiration for The Barber of Seville. The young Rossini went to visit the famous German composer in 1822 (a year, as we shall see, that was important to Rossini in other ways). In 1860, he described the meeting to Richard Wagner, who also held Rossini in high esteem, as incongrous as that may strike us now. Assuming that Rossini's account of his conversation with Beethoven was accurate all those decades later, this was what the master had to say (my source for this translation is Herbert Weinstock's excellent biography of Rossini):

"Ah, Rossini, you are the composer of Il Barbiere di Siviglia? I congratulate you; it is an excellent opera buffa. I read it with pleasure (Beethoven was stone deaf by this time), and it delights me. It will be played as long as Italian opera exists. Never try to do anything but opera buffa; wanting to succeed in another genre would be trying to force your destiny."

The composer of Fidelio went on to throw shade on Rossini's dramatic works, including Otello and Tancredi. The conversation ended shortly after; owing to the cumbersome problem of Rossini's writing everything he wanted to say in Beethoven's conversation books. As the Italian made his way to the door of Beethoven's apartment, there was one final admonition:

"Above all, make a lot of Barbers."

And yet, in 1822 Rossini was in the middle of a twelve-year stretch during which he ignored comedies and wrote only dramas. This period began immediately after Barber of Seville in 1816 and lasted until the composition of Le Comte Ory in 1828. The closest he came to a comedy was Il Viaggio a Reims, called a "dramma giocoso"; it was a monumental flop.

What happened? A woman happened. And what a woman she was!

Before there was "Bennifer" (Affleck + Lopez) or "Brangelina" (Pitt + Jolie), there was "Gioachabella". Now, I wouldn't say that Gioachino Rossini and Isabella Colbran were history's first celebrity couple - "Marcopatra" down in Egypt pre-dated them by several centuries - but the story of their affair and short-lived marriage did provide a template of sorts for modern tabloid lovers: an affair, a wedding, and a separation.

And it's Colbran who directly altered the course, albeit temporarily, of Rossini's career. It's Colbran who caused her lover-turned-husband to turn away from sparkling comedies. Two centuries later, their story still smolders with the faint smoky residue of notoriety, super-stardom, a gambling addiction and ultimate dysfunction.

Isabella Colbran was a native of Madrid. By age 20 she was not only rocketing to international stardom as a soprano sfogata (an archaic term for a mezzo-soprano capable of singing the E or even F above high C), she was a figure of glamour as well; a 19th-century "it girl". The writer Stendhal described her with frank admiration:

"She was a beauty of the most imposing sort: with large features that are superb on the stage, magnificent stature, blazing eyes..., a forest of the most beautiful jet-black hair and ... an instinct for tragedy. 

If this description reminds opera buffs of Maria Callas at the height of her career, I get that. She must have been something.

She could sing, too! In 1807, when Colbran was just 22 years old, a critic wrote this of her abilities:

"The organ of her voice is truly an enchantment for smoothness, for strength, and for prodigious extension of tones: from the bass G to the high E - that is, for almost three octaves - it makes itself heard in a progression always even in mellowness and energy." 

She was also known for an astounding command of coloratura: rapid runs, trills and leaps were tossed off with spectacular effect.This Spanish bundle of talent also composed a bit, writing four collections of songs for voice and piano.
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At the start of her career she came under the wing of Domenico Barbaja, an influential opera impresario. It's widely assumed that she was his mistress as well. So Rossini's first relationship with her was professional: the San Carlo opera commissioned him to write a historical drama as a showcase vehicle for Colbran. This was Elisabeth, Queen of England, which debuted in October, 1815 - just four months before Barber.

Rossini put a lot of care into Elisabeth, a shamelessly fictional account of Queen Elizabetrh's love life. He dispensed with the custom of secco recitativo, the type of sung dialogue accompanied by keyboard, although the device was to remain in Barber. Even more notably, the composer attempted to put the kaibosh on the kind of distortions resulting from singers and their out-of-control "improvised" ornamentations. Rossini carefully notated every roulade, leap and trill, expecting vocalists to adhere to his intentions.

The result was a spectacular, giddy, enthusiastic success. Colbran's celebrity reached new heights and southern Italy warmed to Rossini as never before. (NOTE: interestingly, one of Elizabeth's arias in the first act was "recycled" by the composer as the second theme in Rosina's "Barber" aria "Una voce poco fa". Rossini was an inveterate "recycler" of his own material.)

Is it any wonder that the 24-year old Rossini fell hard for the beautiful diva, who was seven years older? She clearly became his lover, a reality that appears not to have caused hard feelings with Signor Barbaja, who arranged for several new works by Rossini.

A series of Colbran vehicles ensued in quick succession, and NONE of them were comedies; Colbran was less Carol Burnett and more Cate Blanchett on stage. Armida (1817) was followed by Moses in Egypt (1818), Ricciardo and Zoraide (1818), Hermione (1818), The Lady of the Lake (1819) Mehmed II (1820), Zelmira (1822), and Semiramide (1823).

Interspersed among these Colbran-centric operas were a few works not involving her but, oddly, all of these were dramas. Rossini was to give the world only one more comedy before his abrupt and mysterious retirement at age 37: Count Ory (1828). If Beethoven was disappointed, he never expressed it for posterity.

Composer and diva were a serious couple by 1820, their committment out in the open. When Colbran's father passed away in the spring of 1820, Rossini secretly arranged for an elaborate sculpture to be created as a monument in his memory. He requested that it depict Isabella weeping at the graveside and a musician "chanting his glories". This artwork was a surprise for his lover.

It was inevitable that a marriage would take place. Gioachino and Isabella were wed shortly after the last performance of Zelmira on March 16, 1822. The opera world being then what it always has been and remains today, the ink was hardly dry on the marriage contract before gossips began dishing dirt on the famous couple. People said that this was no marriage, it was a business deal. It's true that the union increased Rossini's wealth considerably, with a dowry worth six figures in today's economy
 as well as real estate, villas and other assets. Cruel jokes were made about Colbran, including lengthy lists of former lovers, and her "advanced age"; though she was just 37, estimates went as high as 50; obviously, she was a viewed as a 19th-century "cougar", as we would put it these days.

The marriage lasted about eight years before a permanent separation. What went wrong? The same stresses that always afflict professional couples working in the arts: too much time away from each other. With Rossini constantly on the road supervising operas, they grew apart. As for Colbran, her career ground to a halt as her once-splendid voice gave way to the wear and tear of too much virtuosic singing in too short a time. Her vocal estate severly degraded, she could no longer appear in public. She distracted herself by a serioius gambling problem; a prior pastime was now a compulsion.

Soon, Rossini was to forego public life as well, retreating to a lavish apartment in Paris to live out his days as a divorce survivor, gourmand and lively commentator on the arts scene.

Here's the thing: of the operas that followed The Barber of Seville, none have approached Figaro's story in popularity or status in the standard international repertoire. True, Armida, The Lady of the Lake and especially Semiramide have had their champions in revivals, and Rossini's final work, the gargantual epic William Tell is currently being done at the Metropolitan Opera.

But on balance, the "Colbran factor" steered Gioachino Rossini from the area in which his genius (most would agree) shone most brightly: the farce and hilarity of comic opera.

The lesson here? Perhaps it's that when Beethoven tells you what kind of talent you have in music...

...you should listen.