CHAPTER I.

The barber, Figaro, was, in his way, a blessing.

I don’t mean to say for one moment that he was at all equal to any one benison uttered by any one ecclesiastic in the quaint old city of Seville; yet I do assert, and plainly, he was a blessing--Figaro, barber and bleeder of Seville.

For, besides being a barber, a Spanish barber, Figaro _was_ a bleeder; and in Figaro’s days, barbers were of infinitely more importance than they are now.

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.

Ready at call, both by day and by night, No one more active, and no one more light. What better cheer, or happier lot, Have any men, pray, than barbers have got? La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.

Lancet, and scizzors, and razor, and comb, Your Figaro sells when he’s at home. But when he’s _from_ home, his trade’s billets-doux, Which he’ll carry for that man, or this man, or you. La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.

How I am looked for--wherever I go, On this side a belle--on that side a beau. Where is my wig, you stupid pig, Just take this packet, under your jacket Figaro--Figaro--here, sir, here, Figaro up--Figaro down, Figaro, presto, all over town. Oh yes; I’m as quick as lightning’s bright flash, And what’s best of all, I earn plenty of cash. Oh brave Figaro--bravo bravissimo, Is there no better one--oh dear, dear me no. La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.

This contented personage was rushing off to his shop when he went crash up against the count himself. “Good master!”

“What--Figaro! Hush, be silent! I’m not known here.”

“Surely--surely--surely--Senor.”

It would be hardly within the bounds of possibility to believe that the grand count actually set to work, then and there, in the dark, to tell Figaro of his loves; but then it was Figaro--and the barber was a father confessor in all affairs of the heart. The count stated that he had fallen in love with a lady whom he took to be the daughter of an old physician--and he, count as he was, called himself Lindoro, and was, night and day, watching _that_ balcony.

“_That_ window! Senor--you are lucky.” Then the barber set him right. Her name was Rosina--she was not the doctor’s daughter, but his ward--and she hated him; and he was jealous of her--and she was wretched, and he was wretched, and a very pretty house it was. As for him, Figaro, in that said house he was everything--barber, hairdresser, and surgeon too.

He was in the full tide of chatter when the count started. Barber knew, without looking, that the window opened--and _she_ was in the balcony.

Rosina--lovely as the night--stood in the balcony, holding a letter in her hand. She was wondering where somebody was.

Crack!--she had barely got into the balcony than the old doctor was after her.

“A fine morning, child. What letter’s that?”

As she answered, she saw the proposed owner of the letter. “A letter--no--a piece of music. Oh, dear, it has fallen into the street--pray go and pick it up.”

He required no recommendation. He trundled his jealous old legs to the street door, but the letter was delivered. He looked sharply about, while the young lady deplored that the wind had carried it away.

“I’ll surely have that balcony walled up,” said the old doctor--“I surely will.”

And he went in and barred the door.

As for the letter--opened and read by Figaro--it stated that the lady had a laudible curiosity to know who and what was the serenader, and why he came there--that she was touched by his attentions; that she was wretched; that she hated her guardian; and that her name was Rosina.

After reading the letter, said Figaro--“And a sad old fellow is that same guardian--a miser, a monster, a wretch.”

Again the barber was brought up short--the doctor had left his house again--going to see a patient. And he left strict injunctions to let no one enter while he was away; though, if Don Basilio came--let him wait outside.

A stream of condemnation for Don Basilio--who, truth to say, was a rival of Figaro’s. “A match-maker by trade,” said Figaro; “a penniless, know-nothing rapscallion, who had recently set up as a music master. A long, lank, lean man, with a nose like a hook; and he taught Rosina music too!”

“Chink--chink.” This speaking sound was the passage of gold from count to barber. Barber engaged upon _that_ argument to do all things.

Clearly the first thing to do was to get into the house. One second, and the barber had it. A regiment had just arrived--the count must disguise himself as a soldier and present a billet. The count was charmed with the idea; and the barber was charmed with himself. “Chink--chink,” from the barber’s purse. Another thought. He must be drunk--’twould put the guardian off his guard--what _gentleman_ would be drunk!

So, on the very best terms with each other, the count and the barber walked off to put their plans into execution.