Gioachino Rossini
Composer

Born on a Day That Barely Exists

I was born on 29 February 1792 in Pesaro, so I had a birthday only once every four years. My father, Giuseppe, played trumpet and horn, and my mother, Anna, was a seamstress, so the house was far from rich but never far from music. Later I went to the Liceo Musicale in Bologna to study composition. I learned the rules there properly, which is the best preparation for bending them with a straight face.

The Young Man Who Made Audiences Hum

My first opera was staged in Venice in 1810, and from then on theatres kept asking me for more. In 1813 I had two big successes, Tancredi and L'italiana in Algeri, one serious and one full of fun. People left the theatre humming the tunes, and as a composer I can't imagine a better review. Almost overnight I went from promising newcomer to the man every Italian theatre wanted.

Naples and Its Royal Theatres

From 1815 to 1822 I was music director of the royal theatres in Naples, which meant I had an orchestra, singers and a deadline, all at once. There I wrote many serious operas, among them Otello in 1816 and Mosè in Egitto in 1818. In 1822 I married the soprano Isabella Colbran, and in the same year I travelled to Vienna. I heard Beethoven's Eroica there and even met Beethoven himself, an afternoon I never forgot.

The Overture Everybody Knows

The piece you will find on this site is the William Tell Overture, from my last opera, Guillaume Tell, which I wrote in Paris in 1829. It starts quietly and gets stormier, and then a galloping tune arrives that you have almost certainly heard somewhere, even if you never knew who wrote it. Elsewhere I am remembered for Il barbiere di Siviglia, which first went by the longer title Almaviva, o sia L'inutile precauzione. I also wrote La Cenerentola in just over three weeks, and I'll admit I was rather pleased with myself about that.

A Very Bad First Night

Il barbiere di Siviglia premiered on 20 February 1816 at the Teatro Argentina in Rome, and the first night went terribly, with jeering and accidents on stage. It only found its success from the second performance onwards. I liked to boast that I had composed it in 13 days, though the musicologists say it took just under three weeks, and the 13 days work only if you believe my boasting. My overture for it wasn't new either, because I had borrowed it from two of my earlier operas, which I consider efficient rather than lazy.

The Long Quiet Part

From 1824 to 1829 I worked in Paris under a French government contract, and after Guillaume Tell I wrote very little opera for roughly forty years. People have argued about the reason ever since, and illness and changing tastes are the explanations you hear most often. I lived in Bologna and Florence, went back to Paris in 1855, and kept composing, including the Stabat Mater, which I began in 1831 and finished in 1841. In Paris I filled my salons with more than 150 small pieces that I called Péchés de vieillesse, or sins of old age, and my last major work was the Petite messe solennelle of 1863.

Where I Finally Rest

I died on 13 November 1868 in Passy, Paris, after my second marriage, to Olympe Pélissier, in 1846. I was first buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery, but in 1887 my remains were moved to the Basilica of Santa Croce in Florence. So if you want to visit me, go to Florence and not to Paris. I left behind operas that are still played, and a reputation for making serious people laugh and funny people think.

What I Hope You Take Away

I would like you to listen to my music without any homework or special knowledge. If the William Tell Overture makes you sit up a little straighter, then I have done my job. Let the quiet beginning pull you in, and let the final gallop carry you off. That is all I ever wanted from an audience: a bit of delight, and the feeling that life moves quickly and cheerfully.