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Those fortunate enough to have seen the recent production of Jean-Baptiste Lully's Atys mounted by Les Arts Florissants will remember the sumptuously staged realm of sleep in Act III, during which costumed lute and recorder players appeared alongside the singers and dancers. Although conductor William Christie and director Jean-Marie Villégier made no attempt to reproduce the original seventeenth-century staging, they did adhere to Quinault's instructions for this scene to the extent of making musicians prominently visible. Atys is not exceptional in calling for stage musicians: Lully regularly included instrumentalists among the dramatis personae of his tragédies en musique, the genre on which he lavished most of his creative energies after 1672, and the practice is even more evident in the thirty or so ballets he composed for Louis XIV's court during the preceding two decades. The phenomenon of on-stage instrumentalists – much more extensive than the use of the banda in nineteenth-century Italian opera – has been studied only for the information it affords about the development of Lolly's orchestra or the iconography of French Baroque opera. This article is concerned rather with why instrumentalists appeared on stage at all, what they represented, how they functioned as characters, and the impact they had on the visual spectacle.
Considerations of exoticism and particularly of orientalism in opera seem to focus, either explicitly or implicitly, on generalities – even when scholars have looked at only a few isolated works taken almost exclusively from ‘serious’ or ‘great’ repertories. However, in order to understand this complex phenomenon in its contemporary context, it is necessary to work from a knowledge of the extraordinary diversity of ‘exotic’ opera.
One of the final scenes of Farinelli, Il Castrato, dir. Gerard Corbiau (Sony Pictures Classics, 1994), shows a solar eclipse witnessed, eighteenth-century style, by members of the court of Philip V of Spain around 1740. Restless spectators squint through pieces of tinted glass prepared in the smoke of a small fire. It is a precious visual detail, a jot of history in this sumptuously though often inaccurately detailed film that offsets the melodrama to follow. Without warning, a wind, helped along by corny, time-lapse photography, ushers in a sea of Goya-like clouds. A murmur passes through the entourage; eerie blackness falls on the court.
After conducting the premiere of I masnadieri in London, Verdi traveled to Paris, where he hoped to finally lead the life he wished. He had little time to relax, however: within a week of his arrival on July 28, 1847, the new directors of the Opéra, Nestor Roqueplan and Charles Duponchel, succeeded in convincing the composer to provide an opera for the fall season. Such short notice did not allow Verdi time to compose a new work, and so he negotiated a contract that would let him rework I lombardi, an opera first performed in 1843. Eugène Scribe suggested that Verdi collaborate with librettists Alphonse Royer and Gustave Vaëz, who agreed to fit a modified plot to existing music. We know very little about the collaboration between librettists and composer. With Verdi living in Paris, the parties involved could discuss emerging issues face to face and did not have to rely on the postal system. Unfortunately, the constant presence of two librettists, two impresarios, and two editors (Léon and Marie Escudier) not only deprived posterity of insightful correspondence regarding the project but sufficed to drive Verdi mad, as he himself confessed in a letter to a friend. As to the music, Verdi rearranged some of the numbers, omitted others, composed a few new ones, and replaced transitions where necessary.
Although the librettists had to adapt the Lombardi libretto to a modified plot, they aimed at a free translation, often preserving only key words and the overall sense.
The French have long taken great pride in the verse forms of their lyric, epic, and dramatic literature. Opera librettos form an important subclass of this corpus, so it is somewhat surprising that comprehensive theoretical works analyzing French verse largely exclude operatic texts. Several reasons may account for this exclusion.
First, librettos are not generally considered to be autonomous works but rather texts subservient to music. Throughout most of the nineteenth century, French librettos were written entirely in verse but at the same time had to provide enough variety of poetic meter, accentual pattern, and stanzaic structure to accommodate the musical style envisioned by the composer. In recitatives, the meters were generally longer and changed more frequently, whereas in arias, they tended to be shorter, more uniform, and more regularly accented to allow for regular rhythms and phrases.
Second, librettos followed neither French drama in maintaining a uniform meter throughout an entire work nor lyric poetry in relying exclusively on stanzas. Thus, the mixture of stanzaic, non-stanzaic, and hybrid forms, as well as the greater freedom librettists took with traditional rules, seem to have caused theorists to regard the French libretto as an unsuitable genre for illustrating the principles of versification, even though many parts of these librettos would have been sufficiently traditional to illustrate particular points. Moreover, there is in fact no single “theory” of French versification. The treatises reflect a wide variety of approaches, some more or less compatible with each other, others contradictory.
Scribe and Verdi discussed the Vêpres project as early as 1853 and may have met in person before rehearsals began on November 16, 1854. Evidence regarding Verdi's prosodic concerns, however, is limited to a few extant letters, which also debunk the long-standing assumption that the composer, with his supposedly inferior knowledge of French, readily accepted Scribe's verses without requesting changes. In fact, the letters portray a composer actively involved in structuring the libretto – from its dramatic pace down to details of poetic meter and accentual rhythm – and a librettist aware of Verdi's talent and graciously complying with his wishes.
On at least three occasions, Verdi requested regularly accented verses. Two of these requests refer to choral sections, and in both cases the composer was looking for meters corresponding with two of the most regularly accented Italian equivalents, the vers de sept syllabes (corresponding to the Italian ottonario) and the vers de cinq syllabes (corresponding to the Italian senario). In a letter of June 7, 1854, Verdi elaborated:
I come to ask your kindness for a small change in the second act. I would need the chorus “O bonheur! O délice!” to have verses of eight instead of verses of seven, as for example [the highlighted syllables reflect Verdi's intentions]
O marty̲r de la patri̱e
Pour brise̱r la tyranni̱e
You can keep – if it suits you – the same ideas, the same rhymes, only be so good to change the rhythm to verses of eight.
Music intended to fit a libretto requires of a critic all the attention and study regarding suitable melody, phrasing, rhythm, cut, harmony, and accompaniment.
– Abramo Basevi
Some of the conventions a composer had to follow when writing for the Paris Opéra have long been well known: a four- or five-act design, grand emotions (i.e., a focus on issues that concern a large segment of society rather than isolated individuals), ballets, extended choral sections, musical forms that complied with French expectations (such as ternary aria forms), and certain dramatic requirements. But when it comes to defining French melody in the broadest sense, including consideration of rhythmic and harmonic characteristics, relationship to prosody and accompaniment, and principles of melodic development, opinions have been vague and often contradictory. One nineteenth-century critic for the Gazzetta musicale di Milano, for example, questioned whether the melodic style even at the Opéra could truly pass as French. In reaction to a review in a Berlin paper that detected French influences in Verdi's Rigoletto, the critic responded:
Of what French opera does the Berlin paper speak here? We cannot recognize the true physiognomy of French melody except in comic operas. In serious opera, of which the major temple is the grand Opéra, as someone else observed, French music is cosmopolitan; and in fact, quite rarely are we given the chance to perceive in the grand works performed in that theater the vices inherent in the melody and the music of the French in general.
This is Meyerbeer! said the crowd while exiting, after having applauded.
Le petit journal, March 13, 1867
All in all, the work was what it was supposed to be, a French opera, not an Italian opera.
La Patrie, March 18, 1867
Aspects of versification and Verdi's musical response
In 1865, Verdi was in frequent contact with Léon Escudier, his publisher in France, about the revisions of Macbeth for the Paris Opéra. Although Émile Perrin, the Opéra's director, preferred to mount this revised opera rather than revive one from the repertoire, he still hoped to entice the maestro to compose an entirely new work. Verdi refrained from committing himself but sent signals, though negative overall, that left a door open for a new commission; it was clear that the final decision would depend on a suitable libretto. Perrin accordingly dispatched Escudier to Busseto, along with a libretto titled Cleopatra and a scenario for Don Carlos. Of these and other possible topics, Verdi considered Don Carlos the best by far, and by the end of August 1865, the Opéra and the composer had come to a basic agreement for a new production. At the beginning of December, Verdi joined Joseph Méry and Camille Du Locle in Paris to work on the libretto for Don Carlos, and by the time the composer returned to Sant'Agata in March 1866, the libretto was nearly complete, except for the final version of act V.
Just as in 1847 with Jérusalem, Verdi's presence on site rendered written correspondence between librettists and composer unnecessary.