Divas and Scholars

by Philip Gossett

  SINGING OPERA IN TRANSLATION

  In this context, the problem of singing translations should be relatively simple. After all, if Rossini himself was content to have a trusted friend place new French words under music written to completely unrelated Italian ones, why should we have any hesitation about singing the French operas by Rossini, Donizetti, or Verdi in Italian? On the surface it would seem that only the worst kind of pedantry would balk at that prospect. Yet the situation is considerably more complicated, and one significant problem in the performance today of operas by Italian composers active during the first six decades of the nineteenth century is the survival (and in some case the dominance) in the modern performing tradition of nineteenth-century translations into Italian of these French operas by Italian composers.

  The idea that operas, for aesthetic reasons, should be sung in the languages in which they were originally written is relatively modern.35 During the nineteenth century, certainly, the Italian public knew L’oro del reno or Il profeta and not Das Rheingold or Le Prophète, the Germans Aschenbrödel or Die Macht des Schiksals and not La Cenerentola or La forza del destino, the French Les Noces de Figaro and not Le nozze di Figaro. In countries for which the genre had strong native roots or sought to develop such roots, opera performed in a language other than the local tongue embodied distinct, albeit varied, social and cultural messages. For Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who expressed his position most strongly in his 1753 Lettre sur la musique française, comic opera presented in Paris in Italian by an Italian troupe was energized by a simplicity and naturalness of expression lacking in the formal tragédielyrique of the French court.36 For Carl Maria von Weber, opera produced at the Dresden court in Italian under the direction of Francesco Morlacchi represented the loathed foreign and aristocratic influence whose presence blocked both the growth of native German forms associated with local composers and the development of an audience encompassing a broader range of social classes.37 For composers in Russia and in the countries of Eastern Europe, opera in German or Italian hindered the development of those indigenous forms that were part of the nationalist political project.38 And such nationalistic projects have not dimmed today. Much of the explicit and implicit criticism directed toward the performances of Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera in Parma in January 2001, the first opera presented in that city’s Verdi Festival during the centennial of the composer’s death, were directed at the “Russianness” of the conductor, Valéry Gergiev, and his Slavic singers. Rather than concentrate on the accomplishments of these Russian musicians that revealed new facets of Verdi’s art, some critics preferred to lament what they heard as limitations to the “Italianness” of their performance. Imagine if they had performed the opera in Russian!

  Performing operas from other traditions in translation has always had both a practical and a cultural function. Practically, of course, it answered some of the objections raised in debates over the introduction of Italian opera into London during the first half of the eighteenth century: many critics perceived as absurd an entertainment performed in a language the audience did not understand.39 But translation, and the process of adaptation that often accompanied it, also helped works conceived in other traditions be absorbed into a national sphere and, ultimately, integrated stylisically into national traditions. The effect of Rossini’s style on French opera of the early nineteenth century was furthered by the performance of his operas in French adaptations, first at the Théâtre de l’Odéon,40 then (undertaken, in this case, by the composer himself) at the Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique. The effect of Wagnerism on French and Italian opera of the later nineteenth century was furthered by the performance of Wagnerian operas in the local language at the major opera houses in France and Italy.41 Translation helped break down at least one level of public resistance to stylistic novelty.

  Certain operas were more widely known during the nineteenth century in translation than in the original tongue. This was true for Eastern European operas translated into German or for French operas by Italian composers that circulated widely in Italian theaters. Because these works had many more performances outside their country of origin than within it, and because the languages in which they were written were considered either difficult to sing or not widely known, the operas were often learned and performed in German or Italian. When they were imported into countries such as England or the United States, in which native opera did not flourish, they continued to be performed in the most widely available translation. Although the situation has changed markedly, some of these nineteenth-century preferences remain operative today. The increasing rigidity and internationalization of the operatic community in the twentieth century, furthermore, provided a practical underpinning for these preferences. The same singers tended to perform the same work in different countries, often going onstage with only a few days of frenetic rehearsals, helping to foster an atmosphere that accepted French operas being sung in Italian in the United States.

  Rossini’s Guillaume Tell is such a work, and we will now take another look at the performances at La Scala in December 1988, mentioned at the beginning of this chapter.

  GUGLIELMO TELL AT LA SCALA: “LIBERTÉ”

  Once the decision was made to perform a critical edition of Guillaume Tell in Italian translation, it was necessary to determine which Italian words to sing. At first glance that seemed obvious: the standard nineteenth-century translation. In fact, performances of Guillaume Tell outside France were rarely given in French during the nineteenth century. Leaving aside German translations, various Italian versions are found among early editions and librettos, but the translation by Calisto Bassi, prepared for the first presentation of the opera in Italy (Lucca, 1831), is the one that has entered the modern performing tradition. A variant of it was printed in the vocal score issued by Ricordi in the middle of the nineteenth century and has been reissued with few changes until our own day.42

  In fact, as we shall see, none of the ninteenth-century translations is adequate. One translation was even prepared with Rossini’s blessing (though not his active intervention): Luigi Balocchi, librettist of the opera Rossini wrote for the coronation of Charles X, Il viaggio a Reims, was responsible for the translation printed in the Artaria edition, published in Vienna. But this translation was hopelessly compromised by political considerations. As Paolo Cattelan—who helped to develop the translation used at La Scala in 1988—explained, a story about Austrian tyranny could hardly be told in Vienna or Milan (ruled at the time by Austria) without significant modifications.43 Short of attempting an entirely new translation of Tell, then, Calisto Bassi’s work remains the best starting point for a modern Italian-language performance, and there are many advantages to this translation, including its familiarity to modern audiences (especially in Italy). Yet the translation is problematic in three ways: its failure to take into account Rossini’s alterations in the text; its treatment of politics; and its use of verse forms.

  Elizabeth Bartlet’s study of the original performing materials of Guillaume Tell, which are preserved in Paris at the Bibliothèque de l’Opéra, revealed for the first time that Rossini made significant changes in the vocal lines during the rehearsal period, changes that continued to be reflected in French performances of the opera until uncertainty about the origin of these practices sent performers back to printed scores that never incorporated Rossini’s alterations. A simple example is found in the chorus “Ciel qui du monde,” in which the Swiss peasants and soloists bless the three couples who are to be joined in matrimony as part of the festivities that dominate the first act. Only Arnold is differentiated musically and textually from the others: just as he has set himself apart from his countrymen by his love for the Austrian princess, Mathilde, Rossini sets him apart from the ensemble. As Professor Bartlet has demonstrated, the French text originally set by Rossini presents a quite different characterization of Arnold than the revised text found in the performing materials of the Opéra and preserved in part in the original Frenc
h printed libretto.44

  Original:

  Ils vont s’unir, quelle souffrance!

  Ils vont s’unir, pour moi plus d’espérance

  Quels maux j’endure! fatal amour!

  [They are to be united, what torment! They are to be united, there is no more hope for me. What pains I suffer! fatal love!]

  Revision:

  Ils vont s’unir... Qu’ils sont heureux!

  Ils vont s’unir... Le Ciel bénit leurs vœux.

  Ivresse pure! ô chaste amour!

  [They are to be united... May they be happy! They are to be united... May Heaven bless their vows. Pure joy! chaste love!]

  The differences between the way Arnold is pictured in these two texts is very striking. But the revised characterization, less egocentric and more sensitive to the beauty of the ceremony he is witnessing, was never adapted into the Italian translations. This problem could be solved with relative ease by developing a new translation of the French revision, following the outlines of the nineteenth-century Italian translation.

  Even where the new critical edition does not provide a different reading in French, comparison of the original text and the contemporary Italian translations reveals a concerted effort to reduce the political force of the original. In Italy during the 1830s and 1840s, great caution was required when dealing with politically sensitive matters or issues having to do with religion. (Well known are the bouts Donizetti and Verdi fought, and often lost, with local censors.)45 The original French plot of Guillaume Tell was considered unacceptable at various times between 1830 and 1860 in Italy, and librettos with entirely different geographical settings and transformed events were often adapted to Rossini’s music. In the Valace that had its premiere at La Scala in 1836, Scottish followers of Robert Bruce fight against the usurper Edward I, King of England, and various MacGregors, Maxwells, and Kirkpatricks fill the stage. Pretty much the same story was performed in Bologna in 1840, but with the protagonist’s name changed from Guglielmo Valace to Rodolfo di Sterlinga. (Curiously, Rossini had a hand in this revival, writing for it a new finale in Italian, a manuscript of which resurfaced only in the past decade.)46 But even when the opera was given with its original names, as Guglielmo Tell, the translators had to be cautious.

  Here are two characteristic examples from the Calisto Bassi translation, a translation that continued to be sung in Italy until 1988 and still circulates among the unwary today. In the second act, Guillaume and another Swiss patriot, Walter, challenge Arnold to defend his country rather than fight in the army of their oppressors. During this trio, they reveal that the Austrians have murdered Arnold’s father, Melcthal, at which point all three join in a cry for revenge. The following three strophes are given in the original French, as set to music by Rossini, together with the contemporary translation, essentially that of Calisto Bassi.47

  The many strong political images of the French text are rendered pallid in the Italian: Gesler as a tyrant becomes Gessler as a traitor; the fields of the country swallowing the blood of its children disappears altogether in favor of new attention to the spilled blood of warriors; the notion that glory replaces liberty in Arnold’s soul is reduced to glory inviting him to arms; and, of course, the key words of the third strophe, “La liberté pour nous conspire,” disappear altogether. These are not small matters: the very essence of the concept behind Rossini’s music, the ideas to which his music offers a “moral atmosphere,” have lost the greater part of their power. (Notice, too, how the French octosyllabes and décasyllabes, measured in the French fashion without the feminine ending, are transformed without differentiation into an Italian doppio quinario meter. But we will return to metrical questions in the next section.)

  At the very end of the opera, the grandiose conclusion celebrating the freedom of the Swiss, the French text (in octosyllabes) provides an ecstatic image well matched to Rossini’s soaring phrase. It is derived from a popular ranz des vaches motif, based on a Swiss popular melody, one of the motifs that dominate much of the thematic material of the opera.48 In the Italian translation of Calisto Bassi, however, the sentiment (here rendered in ottonario verse) is trivialized beyond recognition.49

  Liberté redescends des cieux,

  Et que ton règne recommence!

  [Liberty, descend again from the heavens, and may your reign begin again.]

  Quel contento che in me sento

  Non può l’anima spiegar.

  [My soul cannot explain the happiness I feel within me.]

  Fortunately, the “moral atmosphere” of Rossini’s music drives the expression well beyond the insipid words: A new translation of this text (used in the La Scala performances) has sought to imitate better the sense of the original French, reserving for the conclusion the forbidden word, “libertà”:

  Del tuo regno fia l’avvento

  Sulla terra, o libertà.

  [May your reign begin on earth, o liberty.]

  These examples are only the beginning. On page after page, the French text is compromised, and with it the verbal meaning of Rossini’s opera. It is hard to imagine how these censorial interventions (whether they involved actual censorship or self-censorship) could have survived for so long. Yet the issues they raise appear simple to resolve. A modern Italian translator could modify, revise, or replace Calisto Bassi’s words so that the new Italian text would correspond more closely in meaning to the original French, as in the words from the finale just quoted. Yet doing so turns out not to be quite such a simple task, after all, for there is more at work here (and in all the translations of this repertory currently in use) than just fitting new words to old music.

  GUGLIELMO TELL AT LA SCALA: METRICS

  More complex and far-reaching in significance is the problem of verse forms. Italian poesia per musica (poetry for music) had its own rules during the first half of the nineteenth century. So did French poetry. But the rules were not the same, as contemporaries were well aware.50 In the libretto printed to accompany a performance of Rossini’s Le Siège de Corinthe in Genoa in the spring of 1828, the following paragraph was included in the preface:

  Until now there have been three adaptations of L’assedio di Corinto for use in Italian theaters, but unfortunately the one destined to be employed in the theater of Genoa, having been made to agree too slavishly with the words in the French score and not with the printed libretto, cannot help but be extremely irregular and defective.51

  This expression of caring about a national style of verse, insisting that it has its own claims, independent of the music, led Italian nineteenth-century translators to compromise without hesitation the connection between the music and the words. To come to grips with this problem, the Genoese libretto changed the printed libretto to make it more regular, less defective, but—in this case—may have allowed the words sung from the stage to continue to match the music.

  For the most part, however, translations were not prepared to match musical phrases. The original text was instead transformed into a text appropriate for the other language’s poetic meters, and the resulting words were made to fit, one way or another, the previously composed music.52 Even when the composer himself was involved with the translation, as Verdi most assuredly was for Les Vêpres siciliennes (as we shall see), the obstacles to overcome often became insurmountable: music conceived for a set of poetic meters appropriate to one language could not be transformed to accommodate a contrasting set of poetic meters in another language without being seriously compromised.

  French poetry for recitative, for example, was constructed of lines of diverse length, including classical twelve-syllable alexandrines, as well as ten-, eight-, and six-syllable lines (always measured without the feminine ending). Italian recitative, on the other hand, was constructed of versi sciolti, a mixture of settenari and endecasillabi. An Italian poet, translating recitative from the French and attempting to produce recognizable verse forms in his own language, has no choice but completely to reshape the original. Here is a section from th
e elaborate accompanied recitative that introduces Mathilde’s Romance, “Sombre forêt.”53

  Although the meaning of the translation is essentially the same as the original (with a few extra phrases added that do not affect the sense), the French text employs three octosyllabes and one alexandrine; to cover the same ground, the Italian text adopts four endecasillabi and a settenario (actually the final verse continues as the first part of another endecasillabo). The person responsible for inserting the Italian translation under the original music faced an impossible task: there were far too many syllables in the translation and all had to be accommodated. (We don’t know the identity of this musician, but we do know that Rossini was not involved.) The result, musically speaking, is disastrous.

  In the original it is a beautifully constructed passage, simple in outline, but with astute control of registral ascent and descent, effective use of chordal changes to underline the rhyme (“campagnes” and “montagnes”), refreshing triplets for “Qui charme ma pensée,” and delicate ascending chromaticism at “et cause mon effroi.” The Italian version transforms the thirty-eight syllables of the French text into fifty-one syllables, eliminates all characteristic features of the original, and substitutes a music wholly without charm, a music that nonetheless held the stage in Italy and countries where the opera was performed in Italian for a century and a half, a music that continues to be sung today by those teachers and students in conservatories and private studios who insist—mindlessly—on performing the piece in Italian, even though Rossini’s own music is readily available (example 11.5). This in the most frequently sung solo composition from the opera. Yet it is typical of how Rossini’s music is treated throughout.