by Glover, Jane
The end of 1788 was not a good time either for the Mozarts or for Vienna. Wolfgang and Constanze were recovering from the death of their daughter Theresia, and, without regular income, also had real money concerns. Vienna too was in a perilous financial state, for the Emperor’s campaigns against the Turks were draining the coffers; early in 1789, Joseph even announced his intention to suspend the Italian opera company altogether. Da Ponte moved quickly to raise a petition, and persuaded the Emperor to change his mind; but the livelihoods of everyone involved in operatic activity in Vienna now seemed more than precarious. Nevertheless, in the summer of 1789, Figaro was remounted, with Caterina Cavalieri as the Countess, Adriana Gabrielli as Susanna, and Francesco Albertarelli (recently Vienna’s Don Giovanni) as the Count. As the hottest property in operatic Vienna, Gabrielli could ask for her ‘own’ new music, and so Mozart wrote her ‘Un moto di gioia’, K579, to replace ‘Venite inginocchiatevi’ in Act II, and ‘Al desio di chi t’adora’, K577, to replace (astonishingly) ‘Deh vieni e non tardar’ in Act IV. Joseph II was so pleased with this revival that, in September 1789, he asked Mozart and Da Ponte for a new opera; and between them they devised, not a reworking of an old libretto, nor the retelling of an old story, but a completely new subject on a contemporary theme: Così fan tutte.
The genesis of this new opera is not entirely clear. According to Constanze, the libretto was first offered to Salieri, who rejected it – possibly because he considered its subject-matter wholly inappropriate for opera, that province of ancient heroes and noble ideals. And indeed, on the surface, the story is frankly absurd. Ferrando and Guglielmo, the two young fiancés of the sisters Fiordiligi and Dorabella, are challenged by an older friend, Don Alfonso, to try to capture each other’s sweethearts. They should appear to leave town, return in disguise so as not to be recognized by the girls, and then court the opposite partner. They would be assisted by the girls’ maid Despina, who would enter fully into the spirit of the game and herself adopt disguises (first as a doctor, and then as a lawyer); and the women would indeed fall for the charms of the wrong man. Originally entitled La scuola degli amanti (The School for Lovers), there was a distinct suggestion of lessons being taught to a fickle society. But there would be much opportunity too for high comedy, largely at the expense of the two women.
There had been couple-swapping plots before this proposal. Salieri himself had set Casti’s La grotta di Trofonio, in 1788, with great success; and even Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream would have been familiar to Viennese audiences. But the exchange of partners in both these stories, and many others like them, was achieved through the device of magic and the supernatural, and here in the new story there was no such forgiving licence. Any change of heart would be seen as the entire responsibility of the people concerned. It is hardly surprising that the respectable Salieri refused to have anything to do with such a libretto.
But when Da Ponte brought the idea to Mozart, the two composers realized that incomparable riches were to be gained by opening up this Pandora’s box of emotion. For the story was much more than a lighthearted comedy put before a society eager for superficial gossip and anecdote. In a way, it was an encapsulation of an Enlightenment subject, concerning the traditional challenges to love, honour and duty. But the emotional chaos that such mischief engendered was potentially vast, and this was real grist to the combined mill of Mozart and Da Ponte. As Fiordiligi and Dorabella try to adhere to the mores and conventions of their society, to their whole upbringing and contemporary manners, they gradually discover them to be without foundation, and absolutely no defence against any onslaught on their emotions. Stripped therefore of any moral or spiritual guidance, they become isolated and vulnerable. And so, as told by Mozart and Da Ponte, the story ends with another heap of emotional ruin: human behaviour has effectively been mocked, and most devastatingly penetrated too. The new title, Così fan tutte (All Women Are like That), would have come to Mozart and Da Ponte as they considered the whole ironic thrust of the story; and one of them would have quoted Basilio’s line from the Act I trio in Figaro, ‘Così fan tutte le belle’. Almost as a private joke, they built on this, making ‘Così fan tutte’ a seminal line for the men at both the beginning and the end of the opera. And Mozart even set it up in the overture, distributing the very notes of Basilio’s line among the woodwinds, deceptively feather-light, beguilingly sweet.
Mozart and Da Ponte cast their opera entirely from people they knew. The two sisters Fiordiligi and Dorabella would be played by Adriana Gabrielli and another soprano, recently arrived in Vienna, Luise Villeneuve. She too came from Italy, where she had had great success at the Teatro San Moisè in Venice, in Martin y Soler’s Una cosa rara and L’arbore di Diana; and indeed it was as Amor, again in L’arbore di Diana, that she made her Viennese debut in June 1789. (It is tempting to speculate that Adriana Gabrielli might have repeated her great interpretation of Diana, even though she was about to appear as Susanna in the Figaro revival, and that the two sopranos had therefore already been seen together on stage.) Mozart wrote two insertion arias for Villeneuve in L’arbore: ‘Chi sà, chi sà qual sia’, K582, and ‘Vado, ma dove’, K583; and when she went into Cimarosa’s I due baroni he similarly gave her ‘Alma grande e nobil core’, K578. All these arias show that her tessitura was lower than that of Aloysia Lange or Caterina Cavalieri, or indeed Adriana Gabrielli; but she was enormously expressive, and agile too in her coloratura. There are even suggestions that she might have been Gabrielli’s sister, in which case Mozart and Da Ponte would have been thrilled to find such perfect casting for Fiordiligi and Dorabella.
Ferrando would be sung by the tenor Vincenzo Calvesi. Although he had yet to perform in a Mozart opera in Vienna, he had been a leading lyric tenor there since 1785, when he had appeared in Paisiello’s Il re Teodoro in Venezia. Subsequently he had been seen in Salieri’s (couple-swapping) La grotta di Trofonio and Bianchi’s La villanella rapita, also in 1783, Martin y Soler’s Una cosa rara in 1786, and L’arbore di Diana, with Laschi and Mandini, in 1787. For La villanella rapita Mozart had written a new trio and quartet, and so Calvesi’s voice and capabilities too were well known to him before he began writing Così fan tutte.
And the rest of the cast were all old friends. Francesco Benucci, back from his trip to London to see Nancy Storace, and incidentally to perform extracts from Figaro with her on the stage of the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket, would play Guglielmo. Alfonso would be Francesco Bussani, now elevated to the post of Vice-Director of Spectacle, but still singing too; and his wife Dorotea, who had created Cherubino in 1786, would play Despina. The Bussanis did not have the most cordial relationship with Da Ponte, who was to accuse Francesco of being ‘a jack-of-all-trades, save that of an honest man’,56 an intriguer, and even an ‘enemy’; but he would certainly make use of all these supposed attributes in the character of Alfonso. And if he mistrusted Dorotea Bussani too, she nevertheless served him well. She must have been a remarkably versatile performer: from the adolescent page, Cherubino, in 1786, to the worldly, vivacious maid Despina, capable of all manner of disguises, in 1790, was already quite a leap. But in 1792, still only twenty-nine, she would play an elderly aunt, Fidalma, in Cimarosa’s runaway success Il matrimonio segreto. Again, her versatility and depth as a singing actress would be well exploited by both Mozart and Da Ponte.
All six characters in Così fan tutte are drawn with incomparable richness by Mozart and Da Ponte, and, yet again, it is the women who benefit most from their penetrating understanding. Ferrando and Guglielmo do, of course, make a painful transition from confident young playboys, ready to gamble unthinkingly with the affections of their girlfriends, at the start of the opera, to confused lovers at the end of it. The chemistry between them, controlled and manipulated as it is by the cynical, even cruel Don Alfonso, is never less than fascinating. Their easy, blokish camaraderie is gradually punctured by competition, envy and resentment, and in the penultimate scene of the opera they all but come to blows
. Yet the destruction of the women’s security is even greater, for Fiordiligi and Dorabella are innocent participants in the game that goes so badly wrong. Their passage from carefree society girls to distraught neurotics is all the more merciless because they have had no active part in the collapse of their world. Unlike the Countess, or Donna Elvira, who are seen to be in distress from their first appearances, these women begin in a state of thoughtless bliss, and end, like their maid Despina perhaps, in one of wretched disillusionment.
And Mozart, so familiar anyway with the reality of sisters who sang, charted the fall of Fiordiligi and Dorabella even in their music. From the very beginning, they seem to be virtually inseparable, singing identical lines with identical coloratura, then locked together in thirds as they share their easy contentment. In their young, privileged, affluent lives, nothing much has so far troubled them, the most serious blot on the horizon seeming merely to be the late arrival of their fiancés. (And here Da Ponte recognizes the natural, unguarded colloquialism of siblings, as Dorabella – rather shockingly after such a sublime opening duet – asks of her sister, ‘Ma che diavol vuol dir che i nostri sposi ritardono a venir?’ – But where the devil are they?) The arrival first of Alfonso and then of Ferrando and Guglielmo with their unwelcome news (the story is that they have been called away to the battlefield, as indeed any young man could be in the winter of 1789) changes the temperature of the scene. In the first, glorious quintet, the girls continue to react identically, with emotion and a little fear, as the boys act out their pretended dismay, and Alfonso gamely supports them. After the announcement that Ferrando and Guglielmo must leave forthwith, there is a tearful parting in the second quintet (‘Di scrivermi ogni giorno’ – Promise to write to me every day). Here individual syllables are separated as if by sobs for all four lovers (as Alfonso stifles his inclination to laugh) before the flood of emotion brings abundant lyricism, bound by an exquisite viola line, and punctuated by wide dynamic contrasts. Mozart was especially proud of this quintet, as Constanze was later to recount; and there was resonance in it for him too, who, after he had dragged himself away from Mannheim and Aloysia in December 1778, had written to his father:
For me, to whom nothing has ever been more painful than leaving Mannheim, this journey was only partly agreeable, and would not have been at all pleasant, but indeed very boring, if from my youth up I had not been so much accustomed to leave people, countries and cities, and with no great hope of soon, or ever again, seeing the kind friends whom I left behind.57
After the departure of the boys, Fiordiligi and Dorabella sing their sublime prayer ‘Soave sia il vento’ (May the breezes be gentle). Still in thirds, they are joined together now in bereft dejection, and even Alfonso affects to console them.
It is in their next scene that the two sisters begin to show their individuality. As they return to their sitting room, where Despina has prepared their breakfast, Dorabella suddenly loses control, and in a melodramatic aria, ‘Smanie implacabili’, she unleashes veritably adolescent hysterics. She demands solitude and a darkened room, she hyperventilates, and, Elettra-like, she calls upon the Furies, to whom she will present a wretched example of tragic love. Mozart has great fun with this exaggerated display of self-pity, and supplies turbulent undercurrents in her accompaniment too: restless strings, and wailing cries from the supporting winds. When eventually Despina prises out of the girls what exactly is their problem, her tough line of practicality sends them both running from the room; and they only reappear when Ferrando and Guglielmo return in their ludicrous disguise as ‘Albanians’. Still unsettled by Despina’s attitude, Fiordiligi and Dorabella call her crude names (‘Ragazzaccia tracotante’ – Arrogant slut) for having allowed men into their house on such a day, and, musically clinging together in their thirds once more, toe the conventional line. They explode with forte outrage to the intruders, and breathe piano apologies to their absent lovers. Ferrando and Guglielmo are delighted.
But when Alfonso emerges from his observation post and feigns astonished pleasure at meeting two of his dearest friends, it is time for Fiordiligi to take control of the situation. ‘E in casa mia che fanno?’ (But what are they doing in my house?), she demands; and the boys’ reply takes them completely off guard. ‘Amor . . . qui ci conduce’ (Love brought us here), they croon over a seductive cushion of string sound, whereupon they concoct, line by line, turn and turn about, their first gallant thrust in the game of flirtation. Dorabella is dumbfounded, but Fiordiligi roars into action: ‘Temerari!’ (How dare you!). In a tough, forthright and extremely angular accompanied recitative she declares that the sisters’ hearts are not available, as they are entrusted elsewhere, and that they will remain faithful to their fiancés. ‘Come scoglio’ (Like a rock), she continues in her aria, now thoroughly in her stride, she will stand to resist any onslaught. And Mozart raids every corner of Gabrielli’s formidable technique, describing her impregnable ‘scoglio’ in a musical line of immense compass and power, with vast leaps of range, dazzling (Cavalieri-like) coloratura, and marvellous fortitude. And when Guglielmo vainly tries to enumerate their good points and physical credentials, Fiordiligi and Dorabella flee exasperated from the room, leaving the boys helpless with the most successful operatic laughter ever written.
At the beginning of the finale to the first act (and the first half of the opera) the girls are back together again in close harmony and gentle imitative counterpoint, but now of dismay, as opposed to the playful happiness of their opening scene. When the ‘Albanians’ rush in, claiming to have taken poison, Fiordiligi and Dorabella yell for Despina, who tells them to stay with the men while she goes to fetch a doctor (herself in the first of her disguises). But a subtle change now occurs, and it is Dorabella who leads, showing more than a passing interest in the two young men (‘Che figure interresanti!’ – What interesting faces!). Increasingly the girls find themselves curiously attracted to the strangers, and privately confess to Zerlina-like weakenings (‘Più resister non poss’io’ – I can’t resist much longer). They end the act in a state of continued outer resolve, but inner emotional confusion.
By the beginning of the second act Fiordiligi and Dorabella have recovered a little of their equilibrium, and cling sanctimoniously to the ‘correct’ position. But they are rattled, and again speak roughly (‘Cospettaccio!’, ‘Che diavolo!’) and even cruelly to Despina, especially when she proposes that, to counter any rumours of impropriety, they could tell the inquisitive outside world that the new admirers were hers. Dorabella flatly dismisses the suggestion: ‘Chi vuol che il creda?’ (Who would believe that?). But, still on the side of the young men, Despina tries to teach Fiordiligi and Dorabella how to ensnare a new lover, and after she has left the room, the girls do now reveal cracks in their armour. Again it is Dorabella who takes the initiative, playfully leading her sister into a giggling charade of choosing one of the two Albanians; and as their little enacted scene develops, with extended ornamental melismas on ‘Che spassetto io proverò!’ (What fun I’ll have!), the accompanying instruments giggle and sigh too. Already Fiordiligi and Dorabella are a step removed from the massive resolve of the Act I finale. And when, in the following scene, they encounter their suitors again, there is no longer any aggressive resistance, no hint of rocks, but a soft, polite unease. Ferrando and Guglielmo lay on a wind band and a small choir to serenade them; Despina and Alfonso give all four young people a quick lesson in social engagement, and leave them alone. At first the scene is charming, full of adolescent embarrassment as, truly unable to take control of the situation, they all resort desperately to idiotic smalltalk about the weather and the foliage. But again it is Dorabella who is the first to succumb, easily submitting to Guglielmo’s clumsy flirtartion. Alone together, they sing a duet (‘Il core vi dono’ – I give you this heart), full of double meanings, significant pauses and silences, as the real gravity of what is happening strikes them. Their vocal lines answer each other at first, but then come together on their heartbeats. Soon Dorabe
lla is singing in close harmony with Guglielmo, and they leave entwined in each other’s arms.
Fiordiligi meanwhile is desperately resisting the attractions of Ferrando, and when at last he leaves her alone she is in a true state of panic. And here, in exactly the same position in the opera as the soliloquies for the Countess, or for Cavalieri’s Viennese Donna Elvira, is a pivotal, crucial, accompanied recitative and aria for Fiordiligi. She longs for Ferrando to return, and cries after him, but checks herself. And so she confesses that she is totally aroused by him: ‘Io ardo, e l’ardor mio non è più effetto d’un amor virtuoso’ (I am on fire, and my passion is no longer that of a virtuous love). With shaking stabs of string accompaniment, as if to smite herself with the reality of her shameful feelings, she lists them: ‘E smania, affanno, pentimento, leggerezza, perfidia e tradimento’ (This is madness, anguish, remorse, fickleness, deceit and betrayal). And then, Countess-like, Fiordiligi embarks on a glorious, slow, simple line, as she begs forgiveness from her absent Guglielmo: ‘Per pietà, ben mio, perdona’. Da Ponte’s text here overflows with guilt and remorse, and a frail attempt to hope that her constancy might drive away her hateful desires. But whereas in Figaro the Countess’s references to constancy turned her around, giving her hope and optimism, here Fiordiligi’s attempt at resolve only leads her back into her ‘vergogna e orror’ (shame and horror). She sings more wide, desperate, vocal leaps, and doleful ornamentation; and throughout all this, most significantly, she is shadowed by a prominent solo horn, traditionally the instrument of the cuckold. The fast section to Fiordiligi’s aria is agitated, repetitive and angular, as she continues on her path of overwhelming guilt and self-chastisement, and apologizes to Guglielmo, whose trust deserved better reward (‘Si dovea miglior mercede, caro bene, al tuo candor’). Both Da Ponte and Mozart have recognized and exploited the unbearable poignancy of Fiordiligi’s solitary confrontation with a seemingly cruel world, devoid of moral or spiritual guidance. The Enlightenment, it seems, has failed her.