What’s in a date? Rather a lot, probably, in the case of this, Mercadante’s laststaged opera, produced in Naples in 1866. The previous year had seen the premiere of Tristan und Isolde, and the following year Verdi was to complete Don Carlos. Yet here was an opera that looked back to the forms of Donizetti and sometimes the melodies of Bellini. It incorporates some of the new ways too, with a large, busy orchestra and some relatively adventurous harmonies. And, because of various difficulties including trouble with the censor, it had lain in the composer’s desk drawer since 1849. Moreover, despite shoddy stageproduction by the San Carlo, the opera was enthusiastically received in its first season. Even so, it completely failed to gain a place in the repertoire, the movement of the times being against it.

But do these circumstances matter now? And do the dates matter, placing the composer so firmly with the old school, so marginal to a historical narrative which essentially records what it sees as “significant advances” (or “progress”)? In some ways one would like to ignore all that and simply accept the work as an object to be enjoyed in the present day. Personally, I didn’t find that quite possible, but warmed to it as a last, even a heroic, exposition of opera as opera: unashamed of its forms, unadulterated by the “progressive” concept of music-drama.

At the lowest estimate, it is the Well-Made- Opera, a Job Well Done. The story, set in Roman times, is strong, with characters and situations that engage the emotions. The libretto is both eloquent and economical, apportioning the set-pieces skilfully with a keen eye to overall structure and dramatic effectiveness. Each number has its distinctive strength and will often (in ensemble especially) rise with exultant favour.

The performance matches the enterprise of those who have made this premiere recording possible. Maurizio Benini conducts with appreciative understanding of the traditions and his players bring out the full flavour of Mercadante’s imaginative score. As Jeremy Commons observes in his invaluable introductory essay, the only soloist of whom much is asked in the way of florid singing is the soprano, and Susan Patterson has mastered the technical difficulties of her role with impressive success. Paul Charles Clarke brings unpleasant tone to an unpleasant part and makes a suitable contrast to the more ingratiating tenor of Charles Castronovo. The role of Virginia’s father ideally needs richer, more authoritative tones than those of Stefano Antonucci, and Marco, arch-snurge of the whole piece, deserves nastier tones than those of Andrew Foster- Williams, whose singing (as singing) gives much pleasure. The Geoffrey Mitchell Choir is on excellent form – as ever.