Ah! and Figaro was also a postman; but, I grieve to say, he never delivered letters with double knocks; indeed, the only percussions at all in these matters arose between the hearts and the ribs of those to whom the billets d’amour were delicately addressed.
On the whole, however, I do NOT think Figaro was the pattern of a moral man. But, dear me, you must pick up your bread where you can find it in Seville, and Seville never was, and never will be, a highly moral centre.
Well, then, you will please to understand that Figaro was ubiquitous (so to speak,) clever, ready-witted, a good barber, a good bleeder, a good musician, and a not over scrupulous Spaniard.
But, in the affair of the Count Almaviva, everything was strictly moral and proper. The count was madly in love with Rosina, and desired her for his countess; but, alas! Rosina was an imprisoned flower, and she spelt her jailor’s name thus:—g-u-a-r-d-i-a-n.
Well, well; the count adored Rosina, though where he first made her acquaintance, tradition sayeth not.
But this is certain, he came one night, as usual, to serenade this dark beauty, who was close shut up in her guardian’s dark old house. Her darkness was delicious, but the darkness of that old house was abominable. There was, however, a balcony to it, and to that balcony the poor Rosina would fly whenever she could.
On this night, too, the count did not serenade alone; he had with him quite a crowd of serenaders, delighted to serve a man of his quality. And, truth to tell, he and his crowd played their best music, and not a sign was there from the house. But the day itself advancing, the crowd was dismissed, and the count stood alone, happily unhappy, near the door of the enchantress’s guardian’s horrid house.
He was still pensively watching, when by came Figaro. Never mind upon what errand he had been—’tis no business of ours; he had his guitar in his hand, and on his guitar he was playing; singing, too, rather egotistically, but never mind.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
There’s no time for the city’s factotum here,
He must off to his shop, for dawn is quite near.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
What merrier life, whose pleasures more gay,
Than those of this barber, good people say,
Ah! brave Figaro, bravo, bravissimo,
Is there a better one? oh dear, dear me, no!
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.