On another occasion he observed to a prima donna, whose singing was more remarkable for execution than expression, “Madame, you sing with wonderful agilité; you are rapid as a railway train, but you know I am afraid of railways.”
Here let me remark that Rossini’s cowardice is great as his genius. He fears everything—railways, the sea, illness; more than all, death. The idea of the latter appears to embitter all his life; it is the
“One shadow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o’er his joys and his woes.”
He has no religious belief—no hope which divests the grave of its terrors. Rossini confesses to being a coward, and often turns the laugh against himself. I remember with what humor he once recounted to us an incident of his early youth. He was at Naples during one of its many political convulsions, and was, much to his disgust, made a “garde Nationale,” and, of course, expected to take turns of duty with the others. The young musician excused himself on the plea of his well-known want of courage. His excuse, however, was not accepted. Poor Gioacchino was equipped en militaire, furnished with a musket, and ordered into the sentry-box to keep guard.
“I entered,” said Rossini, “and remained there about an hour, trembling in every limb. At last I heard, or thought I heard, footsteps. I laid down my musket gently, and slipped out of my guérite, and then I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, and never stopped till I reached home and was safe under the blankets in my bed. In the morning they put me under arrest, and would have shot me.—But,” added Rossini, with evident pride, “I escaped because I was the author of ‘Il Barbiere.’”
The father of the young genius was by no means remarkable for musical talent. He used to play the horn in the orchestra conducted by his son. One day Papa played too outrageously false to escape censure.
“Who is that bad horn?” said young Rossini, pretending ignorance.
“It is I, my son,” said Rossini père.
“Then, papa, I am sorry, but you must leave the orchestra.”