Having just arrived in Paris (lured from Naples by a huge stipend), he wanted to convince the powers that be, from King Charles to the opera-goer in the street, that he was an excellent investment. In fact, after Charles’s downfall in 1830, he had to sue the next regime to keep his income, and he stopped writing operas altogether.

Viaggio has no plot to speak of. An inn-full of aristocratic tourists heading for Reims for the coronation are stranded (no horses) and decide to celebrate the event right where they are. We follow a series of amorous intrigues combined with political in-jokes – the Russian count suspects his Polish marchesa, but the Austrian baron (a student of harmony) reconciles these lovers; the English milord conceals his passion for the Roman chanteuse (that is, the possibility that Britain might return to Catholicism), and the Parisian cares more about the safety of her wardrobe than a lover’s doubtful fidelity.

But the stock political one-liners become delicious when turned into Rossini arias and duets. (Why isn’t this guy writing for Saturday Night Live?) To everyone’s surprise (including, no doubt, Rossini’s, wherever he is), Viaggio has lately become an international hit – perhaps because it gives so many singers a chance to shine, however briefly. Its huge number of more or less equal soloists makes Viaggio ideal for conservatories with bel canto studies – Rossini does not damage immature voices, as Wagner or Verdi easily may. Too, any Viaggio gives costume designers opportunities to be as silly as they like, and Mireille Dessingy has gone for it here: purple stripes, leather dusters, crazy bustles and hats, plaid suits of outlandish hue. Behind the action, Maestro Gergiev conducts “under cover” in a slouch hat and trench coat.

Though these performances were given at the Châtelet in Paris, the singers hail from the Academy of Young Singers at St. Petersburg’s Mariinsky Theatre (aka Kirov), and since singers from Russia’s many nationalities are nowadays flooding west, we may glimpse here some of the stars of tomorrow. Gergiev clearly intends to train the next generation to a better feel for Italian style than Russian singers used to have, and the results are commendable if imperfect: while few of these youngsters screech or whine as older Russians often did, and their fioritura is often superb, many of them run out of breath before their melodies do, and bark rather than conclude the line musically. Most of them sing Italian clearly, though, all of them are agile comic actors, and the Parisian audience is appreciative.

The most attractive and able voices belong to Anna Kiknadze as the Polish marchesa, whose low mezzo, a ripe Rossini sound, resembles Borodina's, Irma Guigolachvili’s gracious lyric soprano as Corinna, Larissa Youdina’s flamboyant coloratura as the fashion-conscious Parisian, Anastasia Belyaeva’s pleasing light soprano as the chic innkeeper, Daniil Shtoda’s exciting but sometimes breathless tenor as the jealous Russian, and Alexei Safiouline’s castanetted “Spanish” bass.

John Yohalem