Mercadante was such a good workman – so expert in his writing for voices, with increasing interest in orchestration, and, perhaps above all, an ability to work within the conventions while adapting them to suit a dramatic purpose – that perhaps the reason for his failure to survive as a repertoire-composer is an apparent inability to come up with ‘the big tune’. We’ve had several revivals now on disc, and all have made a favourable impression – but, having been restored to the shelves, they don’t leave their melodies behind them. Compare Norma (1831) written three years before Emma d’Antiochia, or Lucia di Lammermoor, one year later: it isn’t so much the drama or what you might call the applied musicianship that accounts for the difference in performing history, but rather the tunes. Emma is full of good things, but I can’t at the end summon up a melody to take home with me.

The opera is set in 12th-century Syria, but that is purely nominal. Its structure is the familiar ‘A loves B who loves C who is loved by D’. An improbable coincidence puts the tragedy in motion, but we’re used to that, too. What we then follow is the emotional turbulence of four decent people, none of whom wishes the others harm, all of them sharing a code of honour which makes life much more difficult for those who have it, but without which there is nothing so noble as tragedy, only random misfortune.

The librettist is Felice Romani, and, despite criticism, both contemporary and modern, he has constructed the three acts effectively, in the first two avoiding set-pieces that impede dramatic development, and in the last offering the composer opportunity for an unusual climax. The expected solo for the prima donna is followed by a duet in which she is joined by the seconda: it should be more moving than (in my experience) it is, a likely factor in the work’s limited public and critical success.

The original Emma was Giuditta Pasta, a soprano of extraordinary dramatic intensity often invoked in reputation for comparison with Maria Callas. It says much for Nelly Miricioiu that she should be not merely Opera Rara’s obvious choice for the role, but also an artist whose qualifications could hardly be bettered internationally. Her voice (its occasionally worn upper tones apart) is in remarkably good condition and her style seems to have freed itself from habits which threatened to become mannerisms.

Bruce Ford is likewise natural casting for Ruggiero, the fullness of his middle notes playing off nicely against the more slender brightness of the very able second tenor, Colin Lee. Maria Costanza Nocentini is a clear-cut, sympathetic Adelia, and Roberto Severo a young baritone who sounds here, appropriately, older that his years, resonant but (if the distinction is tenable) not vibrant. David Parry conducts, and the London Philharmonic play, in a way which, without distracting from the vocal line, recommends Mercadante’s scoring as a constant source of interest and pleasure. The recording is vivid, Jeremy Commons’ essay scholarly as ever, and the whole set a credit to its producers and to the Peter Moores Foundation.