Chapter Two
THE RENAISSANCE AND THE BEGINNINGS OF OPERA
We have mentioned the liturgical drama as an ancestor of opera. Another forerunner, the intermedio, featured songs, dance, and pageant between scenes of a secular drama. The intermedii were popular in courts all over Europe during the Renaissance. Some of these were so elaborate that the audiences lost interest in the dramas themselves. The two essential elements for opera were in place at the end of the sixteenth century—namely, a drama suitable to be set to continuous music and music that was capable of dramatic expression. The former was found in the pastoral, an idyllic lyric poem performed with gentle dramatic action that dominated court theaters in the middle of the sixteenth century. The other was to be found in a new form of monodic recitative invented by two singers who were also composers—Jacopo Peri (1561–1633) and the previously mentioned Giulio Caccini.
Peri and Caccini were members of an illustrious group of scholars, poets, and musicians called the Camerata, who met at the palace of Count Bardi in Florence. This group also included Jacopo Corsi, who later became patron of the group, poet Ottavio Rinnucini, composer Emilio del Cavalieri, and singer Vincenzo Galilei (father of the famous astronomer). In 1581 or 1582, Galilei published a work entitled Dialogue about Ancient and Modern Music based on the ideas of Girolamo Mei (1519–1594). This work became the basis for the theory that guided the work of the Camerata.
The word “renaissance” means the revival of anything that has long been dead or extinct. The aim of the Camerata was to revive the Greek drama with its music, which they considered to be perfect. Since the actual Greek music was not written down, the scholars of the Camerata had to deduce the character of the music from such manuscripts of the ancients as were available. After long study and discussion of these writings, they concluded that the secret of the Greek music drama was the achievement of the perfect synthesis of words and music. Being acutely aware of the power of music, they thought that this union could only be achieved by always making the words dominate the music.
Works written in the “new” monodic style, therefore, had to be composed according to the following principles:
1. First, the text was to be sung with the simplest accompaniment, such as a lute or, preferably, a lyre, played by the singer himself. The words were to be clearly understood, therefore there was to be no polyphonic writing.
2. Second, songs were to follow natural speech rhythms, avoiding dance-like meters of popular songs or textural repetitions and free of the contrapuntal restrictions found in madrigal and motet writing.
3. Third, the music was to reflect the true emotions and accents felt by the protagonist, not mere abstract detail.
The employment of these principles by the Florentine reformers became the basis for true dramatic music and the creation of opera, which simply means “the work.”
Caccini was the most influential figure in the Camerata. He devised a style of solo singing over an instrumental accompaniment called stile rappresentativo, based on the above principles. He also wrote in stile recitativo, a free arioso type of melody. Early in 1597 the first opera, Dafne—Rinnucini’s text set to music by Peri, with some parts by Corsi—was presented in Corsi’s palace. It was here that the traditions of Bel Canto were born.
Bel Canto is a relatively modern term. Some believe that the traditional Italian school of singing needed a special title to distinguish it from the declamatory style that was coming to the fore in the music dramas of Wagner, the late style of Verdi, and the Verismo operas. Philip A. Duey devotes a whole chapter of his book to a search for the origins of the term. In 1823, Stendhal in his Life of Rossini wrote, “The art of bel canto was created in the year 1680 by Pistocchi; and its progress was hastened immeasurably by Pistocchi’s pupil Bernacchi (c. 1720.) The peak of perfection was attained in 1778, under the aegis of Pacchiarotti; but since that date, the race of male sopranos has died out, and the art has degenerated.”1 We have read several opinions from the Middle Ages on the ingredients necessary for fine singing. Henry Pleasants gives a modern definition in The Great Singers:
The term is exposed, in its nonpejorative usage, to appropriation by any teacher satisfied that he possesses the secret of beautiful singing or by any singer who thinks that he sings beautifully. When teachers and singers use it they have in mind, as a rule, a mellifluous kind of singing aimed at an agreeable well rounded tone, an even scale from top to bottom, an unbroken legato, a nicety of intonation, an eloquence of phrase and cadence, a purity of vowels and a disciplined avoidance of shouting, nasality, harsh or open sounds, disjointed registers, undue vehemence, and any other evidence of vulgarity, or bad or negligent schooling. Within this frame of reference, bel canto can be applied even to the best singers of Wagner.2
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which we can call “The Age of Bel Canto,” the singer was supreme. It is an astounding fact that the production of opera was the chief industry of the patchwork quilt of petty states that was the Italian nation during this time. Never before or since has the art of singing been raised to such a level of perfection. Since we approach singing with post-Romantic and post twentieth-century sensibilities, it is difficult for us to comprehend the standards that prevailed during this era. Good singing was its own objective. The rich harmonic texture of the nineteenth-century orchestra with its dictatorial conductor did not yet exist. There were no stage directors or designers to whose “concepts” the singer had to surrender. Most of us seem unable to remember that every good thing comes with a price tag. The grand operas that came after Rossini are undeniably exciting, but the price that we have paid is the loss of those incandescent moments that came with the spontaneous improvisation of the superbly equipped artists of the previous two centuries.
During the Age of Bel Canto the composer and the singer were viewed as co-creators of the work. The composer provided the musical framework and the singer was expected to finish the composition with his own improvisatory skill and imagination. Each artist had his own repertoire of ornaments and embellishments whose original purpose was to enhance the expression of the emotion of the text.
By now the goals and the components of bel canto are all known to us and can be itemized. The aim is to evoke a sense of wonder through unusual quality of timbre, variety of colour and delicacy, virtuosic complexity of vocal display, and ecstatic lyrical abandon. To achieve this, bel canto opera dispenses with realism and dramatic truth, which it regards as banal and vulgar, replacing them with a fairy-tale view of human feelings and of nature. Thus a decisive function is performed by (a) so-called hedonism, which actually is the expression of the smoothness, pathos, and the tenderness of vocal sound; (b) virtuosity, in other words the amazing feats of daring needed to portray the wonders of a world of fantasy; (c) symbolic, flowery language which underlines the mythical status of the characters; (d) contrapuntal skill and the art of improvisation; (e) the abstract nature of the relationship between sex and role, as symbolized by the castrato and the travesti; (f) the taste for rare, stylized voices and, in contrast, a sort of antipathy towards voices regarded as commonplace and vulgar.3
The messa di voce was considered to be the soul of Bel Canto. Some of these brilliant phrases could be extended to over a minute in length in a single breath, but this required the participation of a race of extraordinary specialists. Those glorious but tragic specialists were the castrati.
THE CASTRATI
These conditions set the stage for the rise of the castrati:
1. The Pauline Dictum;
2. The increasing complexity and brilliance of the wide ranging music of the late Renaissance; and
3. The invention of opera.
“Mullier taceat in ecclesia.” (“Women are to be silent in church.”) That was the admonition of St. Paul, which was meant to prevent women from teaching men or preaching in church. It was called the Pauline Dictum and was seized upon by the Church to prevent women from also singing in the church. For centuries, descants were sung in the church by boy sopranos, but in social singing girls also sang these parts. Secular solo singing by women was cultivated in many courts. For example, in Ferrara, from 1579 to 1597, the famous trio of Lucrezia and Isabella Bendidio and Laura Peperara sang 350 madrigals by memory. Women were soloists in the intermedii presentations in Florence and in the first operas. The early seventeenth century was the age of cultivated women singers, but those who appeared in the theater were considered as little better than prostitutes in many localities. In Rome all women performers were banned until 1798, but in Bologna, Romagna, and the aforementioned Ferrara, women were allowed on the stage without censure. The eighteenth century was a little better, but the castrati dominated all forms of vocal music. In general, it seems that the best women singers were only equal to the less competent castrati, lacking the physical advantages, rigorous training, and tradition of spontaneous invention of i musici (the common name for castrati). One fascinating aspect of seventeenth-century opera is that the composers favored the female alto voice when allowed, but reserved the high soprano parts for castrati. The result was that the male characters in such a work actually sang higher than the females!
In the Church, the descant parts presented certain problems. The demand for talented boys greatly exceeded the supply, and the services of the best of them were highly competed for. Orlando di Lasso (1532–1594) was abducted three times before his parents allowed him to go into the service of Ferdinand Gonzaga, viceroy of Sicily, as a boy soprano. Besides the problem of the shortage of naturally talented boys, these boys had two deficiencies:
1. They were usually unruly, singing musically uncertainly at first, and their voices changed just as they were getting more proficient; and
2. They were often not free of technical deficiencies and were also not physically capable of coping with the increased range and complexity of the polyphonic music of the sixteenth century.
To make up for the short supply of boys, falsettists were often used as section leaders or employed alone. It appears that a special method for developing the falsetto register in both range and flexibility was in use in Spain, because the papal choir in the sixteenth century imported most of its sopranos from there. The use of the falsetto was probably sufficient for less imposing times and conditions, but the opposition that would reject the falsetto in artistic singing was growing.
The advent of the castrati was an emphatic rejection of the falsetto, and the degeneration of the art of the falsetto must have set in with the introduction of the castrati. This happened in the last half of the sixteenth century. The last falsettist, Giovanni de Sanctis of Toledo, was employed in the papal choir from 1588 to 1625.
From earliest times in Constantinople, eunuchs were constantly in use in harems and as officials, and from the twelfth century on were dominant in choirs in the Eastern Church. Balsamone, tutor to the Emperor Constantine Porphygenitus, wrote that singing eunuchs were widely employed in the Byzantine court. In 1137 a eunuch named Manuel arrived in Smolensk, where he was employed as a music teacher and singer. Duey quotes author Steven Runciman as saying, “For a boy to be really successful it might be wise to castrate him, for Byzantium was the eunuch’s paradise. Even the noblest parents were not above mutilating their sons to help in their advancement, nor was there any disgrace in it.”4 We shall see how seriously this tragic advice was taken in Italy during the Age of Bel Canto.
This is considerable doubt about how the institution of the musici came about, for there is no mention of eunuch singers in Italy for many centuries. It does seem logical that Moorish influence in Spain could possibly account for the so-called “Spanish secret of the falsetto” and that the Spanish falsettists were really covert castrati, who were avoiding censure for their unfortunate condition. It is likely that the appearance of castrati in considerable numbers around 1600 was to some extent the Church’s admission of their existence rather that a completely new introduction. One of the earliest of the castrati, Padre Francisco Soto, a Spaniard, appears in Vatican records as a falsettist in 1562. The first admitted castrati in the papal choir were Pietro Paolo Foglianato and Girolamo Rossini in 1599. This choir continued to employ castrati until 1913, when the last of them, Allesandro Moreschi (1858–1922), retired. Moreschi made some recordings, which are fascinating and valuable documents historically but very poor musically.
It is difficult for us, in the twenty-first century, to imagine the conditions that gave rise to the institution of the castrati. Their phenomenal range, flexibility, fantastic control of the breath, and ability to dazzle auditors with vocal feats has been well documented. But one of the most compelling reasons for their supremacy is the emotional impact of hearing a cry, like that of an abandoned child, set to music just calculated to produce such an affect. This emotionalism, widely reported, refutes the notion of some that Baroque music was “just music,” devoid of feeling. The castrati (or evirati, another commonly used name) were sometimes called soprani naturali to distinguish them from the artificial sopranos—the falsettists. The uncommon musical skill of the castrati was a result of years of rigorous training in the cloistered environment of the conservatorio.
The physical effect of castration was that the natural effects of puberty were interrupted. The larynx (a secondary sexual organ) was prevented from growing and remained cartilaginous, while the body developed into that of a grown man, albeit with certain other outward physical effects. The typical castrato grew somewhat larger than normal, but often with a small head, and took on certain feminine characteristics. The chest was very large and round, partly influenced by strenuous breathing exercises done from the time that he was a child. The hair on the head was thicker and the face was beardless. The body was hairless, the skin rather sallow and flabby. Some of the evirati developed breasts, a condition called gynecomastia. Almost all of them made debuts in feminine roles around the age of sixteen. As they grew older, their voices reflected a slow mutation so that they moved lower in pitch, a soprano often finishing his career as a contralto. The boyish voice took on a tenor quality in the bottom that was much louder and more brilliant than any female mezzo-soprano or contralto. Dr. Charles Burney5 reported hearing Gasparo Pacchierotti, who had a range of over three octaves, sing tenor arias in their original keys. The most important point was that the castrato voice retained the quality of a boy’s voice, but because it was driven by the strength of a grown man, it was much more powerful and penetrating. Also the small larynx, large chest capacity, and attention to attacks accounted for the fantastic length of the musical phrases that these superb artists were able to perform. It is less well known that the castrati were able to extend their voices upward to ranges of over three octaves by the use of the falsetto, which would probably have sounded like Whistle Voice.
The castrati or evirati were most often children of the poor; for only those in desperate need would have allowed the mutilation of their children. The indigent often sold their children. In England, they were sent to the mines and factories. Early in the seventeenth century, Italian infants were castrated with the idea that it was the operation itself that produced the great voice. Some 4,000 annually were mutilated in this way. Later on, this was done only after the presence of a voice was discerned.
Often, they did not know who their fathers were. Heriot tells the story of Vittorio Loreto, who was a famous and rich artist. One day the servants came to him reporting that there was a poor man outside, claiming to be the castrato’s father and begging for money. Loreto dispatched the servants to the man with an empty purse, saying that he was paying his father with the same coin with which he had been paid.6
There were two kinds of castration. That of the harem eunuch, previously mentioned, was often of the drastic kind, in which all the external organs were removed. This was usually inflicted as punishment and was often fatal. The Italian version of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was of a more limited kind called infibulation. The ducts leading to the testicles were severed, so that the latter shriveled and disappeared over the course of time. The operation was performed in a hot bath, usually with the boy drugged by wine or opium. It was clandestine and carried a threat of excommunication from the Church. At times the death penalty was also imposed. Apparently the doctors in Bologna were most esteemed for this operation as well as all other surgical procedures. Sometimes these doctors traveled abroad for the express purpose of gelding boys. A few castrati were German but they never achieved fame. There was one Englishman of note, John Abell (c.1660–1736).
The training methods of the day were very rigorous, including the use of corporeal punishment for offenders. There were many boys whose voices failed or did not prove up to expectations. Despite special care and treatment in the schools, many castrati ran away or were relegated to the church choirs, which became repositories for the rejects of the opera houses. Many became abbates, minor orders of priests. Burney stated that every Italian town was full of these wretched creatures. The castrati students suffered terribly, especially psychologically, at the hands of the masters and from the ridicule of the other students.
Some teachers like Porpora, Pistocchi, and Bernacchi were very great. Some taught privately; others were paid by the nobility and gave lessons to the poor. Most were paid a percentage of the fees of their successful pupils. Benedetto Marcello ironically says, “Out of the goodness of his heart [the singing-master] will give lessons gratis to poor young people of either sex, contenting himself merely with drawing up an engagement whereby they undertake to make over to him 2/3 of their salary for the first 24 performances, 1/2 for the next 24, and 1/3 for the rest of their life.”7 Here, according to Heriot, is the youthful Cafarelli’s daily schedule:
In the morning
1 hour singing passages of difficult execution,
1 hour study of letters,
1 hour singing exercises in front of a mirror, to practice deportment and gesture, and to guard against ugly grimaces while singing, etc.
In the afternoon
1/2 hour of theoretical work,
1/2 hour of counterpoint on a canto fermo (in other words, practice in improvisation),
1 hour studying counterpoint with a cartella, (a small slate),
1 hour studying letters.
The rest of the day was spent in exercise at the harpsichord, and in the composition of psalms, motets etc. It is noticeable that the voice was not overburdened with too much use, and that as much attention was given to the theory of singing and all its ramifications, as to actual practice. Under the heading of ‘letters’ one of the main points stressed was the value of words, and how they should be sung so as to bring out their meaning rather than obscuring it.8
It took Porpora seven years of this kind of rigorous training to produce the finished artist Caffarelli.
The singer had to be produced almost like a work of art; the physical powers developed to the highest point, the mental powers to control them to the utmost, the whole had to become so balanced that no physical movement could be made without the direction of the mind, and no mental movement should be made without its physical expression. This was the aim toward which singers and singing-masters strove, the ideal which, when attained by an individual gave him the undisputed supremacy of a Farinelli or a Pacchierotti. To attain it, merely to approach it—was the labour of years—patient—self-sacrificing, intelligent labour on the part of both master and pupil. It could not begin too early, it could not continue too long. The singers of the last century began to learn how to produce and steady the voice before they were ten; they continued studying how to render it supple and docile not only beginning their career at seventeen or eighteen, but long afterwards; they went on refining their style, selecting their ideas, all their lives.9
At the age of between 15 and 20, a castrato who had developed his voice and learned his musical lessons well made his debut, often in a female role. Most of the famous musici such as Farinelli, Gizziello, Caffarelli, Carestini, Marchesi, Pacchierotti, and Crescentini made such debuts. In the eighteenth century, ordinary people at carnivals and masques did such cross-dressing in a spirit of fun. The typical young castrato studied feminine mannerisms and deportment. Goethe reported that they were so good at it that they often pleased better than women. Many examples of this fascination for cross-dressing can be seen in many of the operas and plays of the period with their many cases of mistaken identity, disguises, and the like. One bizarre aspect of this is the fact that women, desperate for careers in opera, occasionally masqueraded as castrati impersonating men! Henry Pleasants states that “The term musico, after the disappearance of the castrati from opera, was passed on, curiously, to female mezzo-sopranos and contraltos specializing in male roles.”
Some of the castrati were very rich and famous, for they were the equivalent of the pop star of the twenty-first century. Usually they were attached to royal households with a handsome stipend but were allowed to pursue their careers in theaters all over Europe. Some castrati were homosexual, but the proportion does not seem to be more than among unmutilated men. They were forbidden to marry in the Catholic Church and also in most Protestant denominations.
There have been numerous tales about the love affairs of the castrati and there were many scandals. Many of these stories involved ladies of noble birth and position. Most likely, these stories were greatly exaggerated, but the castrati were capable of unfruitful intercourse. Since they could not achieve sexual satisfaction, modern science is skeptical of the many legends of their sexual activity. It is probable that some of them simulated a greater degree of sexuality than was biologically possible to compensate for feelings of inferiority.
Much has been made of the vanity and arrogance of the castrati. Some, like Caffarelli and Luigi Marchesi (1754–1829) were very temperamental and aggressive. Others like Farinelli and Gasparo Pacchierotti were of noble character and highly cultured. Many of the castrati were scapegoats, like the Jews under Hitler, and blamed for many of society’s ills. Dr. Burney made a good case for fair treatment:
I must, however, in justice, as well as humanity, endeavor to remove some prejudices which throw an unmerited contempt upon beings, who, as they are by no means accountable for that imperfection under which they labor, are entitled to all the pity and alleviation we can bestow. . . .
They are not cowards and do not lack fortitude in times of danger; they are not devoid of interest in literature or other serious study; they are not deficient in mental ability, and, as for composition, and the theory of Music, not only the best singers of the Pope’s chapel ever since the beginning of the last century [1600], but the best composers among the soprani in that service.10
THEATRICAL AND MUSICAL CONDITIONS IN THE
SEVENTEENTH AND EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES
The Florentine ideas, in their undiluted form, did not last long. Soon the limited scope of the recitative style led to boredom (tedio del recitativo). Claudio Monteverdi (1567–1643), unfettered by the Florentine strictures, used all of his contemporary musical and dramatic resources to write music dramas that are still living works today. He should be credited with being the founder of opera, as we now understand it.
In the early part of the seventeenth century, opera was produced solely for the entertainment and glorification of the nobility and to celebrate special occasions, such as coronations and marriages. The Baroque court opera emphasized spectacle over content. Elaborate machines produced marvelous stage effects like tempests, battle scenes, naval encounters, ghosts, and gods who descended from the heavens (deus ex machina). The Florentine ideals and dramatic verities of Monteverdi gave way to works that were short on logic and continuity. There were madrigal-like choruses and ballets interspersed with comic scenes. The solo singer did not yet have the importance that he later enjoyed during the eighteenth century.
In France, the Baroque court opera remained frozen in time until well into the eighteenth century. Contemporaries from England and Italy considered the French music and singers abominable. Goldoni, after hearing a French opera cried, “ ’Tis a paradise for the eyes, but a hell for the ears.”
In the early seventeenth century, the recitative and aria began to evolve into separate units, each with its own function. The drama moved forward during the recitatives and came to a complete standstill during the aria, which was designed to show the character in various moods, such as rage, then sorrow, and other emotions. The musical form that became the main structure of Italian opera seria was established during this time. Estaban Arteaga stated that it was the singing of Baldassare Ferri (1610–1680), the first castrato to achieve international fame, that led to the adoption of the da capo aria in the opera seria. The early part of the seventeenth century also saw the beginnings of the opera seria’s alter ego—the opera buffa or comic opera, founded on the long Italian tradition of the commedia dell’arte and the earlier intermedii.
In the later half of the seventeenth century, as opera became increasingly a public spectacle, many changes became inevitable. Opera is usually dated from 1600 with the Camerata, but it would probably be more appropriate to date it from the opening of the first public opera house in 1637 in Venice. Between then and the end of the century, 388 operas were produced in Venice alone, in 17 theaters. Four were in continuous operation at any one time in a city of 125,000 people. The nobility and other wealthy families rented boxes for the season but ordinary citizens could attend the opera for today’s equivalent of a dollar.”11
The high-minded Renaissance interest in antiquity was soon viewed as old fashioned and tiresome by this new audience. Classical subject matter became overlaid with medieval romances and accidenti verissimi—incidents devised and added by the librettists. Characters became abstract personifications of familiar passions, involved with their external political or amorous predicaments. The age-old device of mistaken identity continued in popularity, especially since castrati sang both male and female roles.
The theatrical machines for producing astounding effects were an indispensable part of opera in this period, though their splendor declined before the end of the century.
Il Pomo D’Oro by Pietro Antonio Cesti (1623–1669) is the most famous example of a baroque court opera in the grand style. It was composed for the wedding of the Emperor Leopold I of Austria with the Infanta Margherita of Spain, and performed early in 1667 with a magnificence of staging appropriate to an imperial court desirous of not being outdone by the royal festivals of Louis XIV of Versailles. The five acts contained sixty-six scenes, in the course of which twenty-four different stage sets were required, some of them involving exceedingly elaborate machines. There were several ballets in each act and a grand triple ballet at the end.12
After 1645, composers began to eliminate the chorus from their scores. It is not clear why this happened but it is probable that it was done in the interest of economy and the public’s demand for the new sensation, the virtuoso soloist. During the seventeenth century the artistic potential of the human voice was expanded and steadily raised by a succession of brilliant artists and teachers. By the beginning of the eighteenth century, singing was raised to such a level that the performances of such luminaries as Baldassare Ferri, Niccolino, and Antonio Pistocchi were considered to be old hat. Consider this in light of the fact that Giovanni Bontempi, describing Ferri, stated that:
to sing a descending chromatic scale, trilling on each note, from the high G and A to the same note on the lower octave, a feat, if not impossible, certainly very difficult for any other singer, was child’s play for Ferri; for again, without taking a breath, he would continue on to other trills, passages and artistic wonders. He often added a soft crescendo to these chromatic scales, building out trills at the same time, a feat never previously accomplished or heard of.13
At the beginning of the eighteenth century, with the exception of France, the type of work called the opera seria dominated the musical landscape of Europe. This style of opera was the principal vehicle for the display of the virtuosity of great singers of the period. Musically speaking, it is often called the aria opera. All the artistic improvisatory genius of these superbly equipped artists was poured into the form called the da capo aria. From a dramatic or literary point of view, the opera seria can be called the opera of moods or affects. It is very important for the singer to grasp the fundamental difference between this type of work and the more realistic operas that followed. The libretto of the opera seria was crafted to present each of the characters in a variety of discrete emotional situations or moods, which are strictly governed by the necessities of the music. Realism, consistency of plot, character development, and logic are all secondary to the main aim, namely, to glorify the art of singing and the singing artist.
One can imagine the operatic experience of the eighteenth century as a tableau, or concert in costume, with the characters in a series of static poses assigned their positions on stage according to their importance in the libretto. The newer style reduced the cast to six stereotyped characters, each of whom represented familiar human virtues and vices; plots were symmetrical, and the drama became mostly a propaganda vehicle for the institution of the monarchy. Devotion to duty and high-minded virtue were the subjects of the stories. Comic scenes and special theatrical effects were abolished along with the chorus. The outstanding author of such libretti was Farinelli’s friend, Pietro Metastasio, whose 27 drammi per musica were set to music over 1,000 times in the eighteenth century. Included in that number was La clemenza di Tito, Mozart’s throwback opera written after Don Giovanni and Le nozze di Figaro.
During the course of the opera, we see in the ubiquitous da capo arias various aspects of each character, like different facets of a jewel. When the drama comes to a close (usually with a lieto fine or happy ending, like a Hollywood film of the thirties), we have glimpsed perhaps eight different moods and have a more complete picture of each character. The tyrant is proved to have a heart of gold, the constant lover turns out to be unfaithful, the servant girl is a princess in disguise, and so on. If this dramatic scheme seems arbitrary and artificial, it is an art form of perfect validity but is very different from the libretto of an opera such as La Bohème.
The music of such an opera seria, on the other hand, is free to expand while expressing emotion, constrained only by its own forms and not governed by naturalistic stage action. It was literally made to order for virtuoso singers, unconcerned with the fancies of stage directors or the rigid phrasing of unyielding conductors. Its weakness was that, as with any kind of freedom, it was liable to wretched excess. In the hands of artists of taste and restraint as well as fantastic technical ability, such as Girolamo Crescentini and Gasparo Pacchierotti, the Age of Bel Canto produced the most glorious singing the world has ever known. However, as the century wore on, the quality of the musical drama as a whole declined.
In the older style, represented by such men as Handel and Allesandro Scarlatti, the orchestra was a more equal partner with the voice, the harmony richer, and the forms were freer, while still depending on the da capo aria scheme. By 1720, the newer style, sometimes called Neapolitan, came to dominate the operatic landscape. In the operas of Leonardo Leo, Leonardo Vinci, and Johann Adolph Hasse, among others, the orchestra was relegated to a lesser importance, merely giving harmonic support to the main melodic line. The orchestration was reduced, and the general tendency was toward simplicity and lightness. Even Handel, in his later operas, made concessions to the modern style.
The recitative and aria are the central musical structures in these operas. These two elements tend to balance each other; the former represents the drama (tension), while the other represents the music (release). It is said that the recitative loads the gun and the aria fires it. The other elements in the opera seria, such as ensemble numbers and orchestral interludes, merely support the main action of the arias.
The typical full or five-part da capo aria, as found at its highest point of development in Hasse,14 has the following scheme:
A (first four-line stanza): ritornello I; first section, cadencing on the dominant or relative major; ritornello II; second section, in the nature of a development of the material of the first, with extended coloratura passages, modulating back to the tonic and sometimes with a return of the theme of the first section; cadenza; ritornello III.
B (second four-line stanza): in one section, shorter than A, in a related key, and with material either (1) continuing a developing that of A, or (2) contrasting with A; ending with ritornello IV (usually ritornello I).
A da capo (usually without ritornello I), with additional improvised coloratura and a longer cadenza.
The above scheme is frequently shortened in later composers (for example, De Majo) by omitting a portion of part A in the da capo, or by setting both stanzas in one movement ABA’ form. The da capo aria in one shape or another, however, persists throughout the whole eighteenth century opera seria, along with other aria forms.15
From this matrix emerged stylized aria types that audiences recognized as belonging to one emotional situation or another. Aria types mentioned in the eighteenth century by Englishman John Brown:
Aria cantabile—by pre-eminence so called as if it alone were Song: and indeed it is the only kind of song which gives the singer the opportunity of displaying at once and in the highest degree, all of his powers [. . .]. The proper subjects for this air are sentiments of tenderness.
Aria di portamento—chiefly composed of long notes, such as the singer can dwell on and have thereby, an opportunity of more effectively displaying the beauties and calling forth the powers of his voice. The subjects proper to this air are sentiments of dignity.
Aria di mezzo carattere—a species of Air which, though expressive neither of the dignity of this last, nor of the pathos of the former, is, however, serious and pleasing.
Aria parlante—speaking Air which admits neither of long notes in the composition, nor of many ornaments in the execution. The rapidity of motion of this Air is proportioned to the violence of the passion which is expressed by it. This species of Air goes sometimes by the name of aria di nota e parola, and likewise of aria agitata16 [. . .].
Aria di bravura, or aria di agilita—is that which is composed chiefly, indeed, too often, merely to indulge the singer in the display of certain powers in the execution, particularly extraordinary agility or compass of voice.17
Singing reached a plateau of technique and spontaneous musicality in the eighteenth century that has never since been equaled. Because this art was improvised, there is no record left in the scores of the period, and we have to rely on accounts of performances and such scraps of information that we have. It is clear that there were two related practices: one is coloratura or fioritura—the ornamentation of a given melodic line; the other is the cadenza, which, as the name implies, deals with the insertion of improvised passages at cadences. Ornamentation of the melodic line by solo singers has a long and distinguished history and is still carried on, perhaps unconsciously, by pop and jazz singers today. It rose to special prominence in the last part of the seventeenth century in Italy, with the ascendancy of the opera seria. In the eighteenth century, the achievements of the great Italian singing schools took the art to its highest level. This is especially so in the da capo aria, where, in the return to the first part of the air, the singer was expected to show his full powers.
Pier Francesco Tosi (c. 1650–1730) is our greatest authority on singing in the eighteenth century. His Observations on the Florid Song are still valid today as guideposts for singers concerned with elegance and style. He remarked:
Among the things worthy of consideration, the first to be taken notice of, is the manner in which all airs divided into three parts are to be sung. In the first they require nothing but the simplest ornaments, of a good taste and few, that the compositions may remain simple, plain, and pure; in the second they expect that to this purity some artful graces be added, by which the judicious may hear that the ability of the singer is greater; and, in repeating the air, he that does not vary it for the better is no great master.18
In the rapid bravura arias, opportunity for improvised ornamentation is less than in the arias of a slower tempo. Inserted in arias, where they served as a vehicle for the display of the singers’ powers, the cadenzas were often extended to ridiculous lengths. A burlesque petition to the management of the Paris Opera “by the Italian Eunuchs” includes, “A cadenza, to be according to the rules, must last seven minutes and thirty-six seconds, all without drawing a breath; for the whole must be done in one breath, even though the actor should faint on the stage.”19 Tosi was equally scornful:
Gentlemen Moderns: [1723] can you possibly deny that you laugh among yourselves when you have recourse to your long-strung passages in the cadences, to go a-begging for applause from the blind ignorant? You will call this trick by the name of an alms, begging for charity as it were for those ‘E Vivas’ which you very well know you do not deserve from justice. And in return you laugh at your admirers, though they have not hands, feet, nor voice enough to applaud you. Is this justice? Is this gratitude?—Oh! If they should ever find you out! My beloved singers, though the abuses of your cadences are of use to you, they are much more prejudicial to the profession and are the greatest fault you can commit, because at the same time you know yourselves to be in the wrong. For your own sakes, undeceive the world and employ the rare talent you are endowed with on things that are worthy of you. In the meantime I will return with more courage to my opinions.20
This advice could be applied to those who attempt to negotiate dramatic literature by forcing and screaming. The climactic high note seems to be the only criterion for operatic singing these days. The advertising and Hollywood caricature of the fat lady in the horned helmet screaming about God-knows-what in a foreign language is pervasive, and the larger public rightly rejects it. At this writing, all of classical music only accounts for three percent of music sales in this country. Of course, this is not an endorsement for the other ninety-seven percent!
There were good reasons for the desperation of the singing star of the Age of Bel Canto to surprise and astound (far stupire). Attending the opera in eighteenth-century Italy was more like going to a three-ring circus. Audiences, though knowledgeable, had no illusions about high art and were there to be entertained. Burney complained that “the noise was abominable, except while two or three airs and a duet were singing, with which everyone was in raptures.”21 The singers were forced to overcome distractions such as conversation, dining, gambling, and drinking, and they often resorted to bombastic effects to gain attention.
The chaste delivery of a lovely air, sparingly embellished and free of extraneous melodic deviations may have assured him of the approbation of the connoisseurs, but a messa di voce of lung bursting length roulades of stunning rapidity, incisive and prolonged trills and ascents to improbable vocal heights provided a more predictable guarantee of the public’s and applause just as the resplendent high note does today.22
Heriot provides us with a colorful account of the Italian theater of the eighteenth century:
The pit of the theater was filled with a heterogeneous mass of more or less disreputable characters—servants, gondoliers, young rakes on the loose—who had a fine time behaving exactly as they saw fit, shouting and bandying insults, chattering loudly, searching for some gallant adventure, and occasionally staging a riot (as on a famous occasion in 1763 their English counterparts did at Covent Garden). Among them wenches circulated, hawking refreshments and themselves, while the bottom row of boxes was given up to women of doubtful character, who were often admitted free by the management as an added attraction, and with whom assignations could be made during the performance. Honest tradesmen and their families took refuge in the topmost boxes, whilst nobility could, in many places, occupy the principal tiers. Lady Morgan, visiting Turin in 1819, remarks of the opera there: “Long deemed the private property of royalty, it has undergone the general purification which followed the restoration, and is exclusively set apart for the noblesse; the Queen presiding over the distribution and prices of the boxes. Her list decides the number of quarterings requisite to occupy the aristocratic rows of the first and second circles and determines the point of roture, which banishes to the higher circles the piccoli nobili.”23
OPERA BUFFA
So far we have studied only the serious opera of the Age of Bel Canto. It is well to now consider the opera buffa or burletta, the “humble sister” of the opera seria. Comic opera was performed in the off seasons, between acts of spoken plays and for the general entertainment of the masses. The singers were not the great virtuosi, nor was the music meant to inspire or uplift. However, composers, who were never paid very much in the eighteenth century, had to make a living, and burlettas were written by many of the great composers of the day, such as Pergolesi, Galuppi, Jomelli, Leo, and Piccini. The singers, held to the high standards of the serious opera, were nothing special, but that level of mediocrity would be considered very good today. They were very good actors and improvisers, rooted in the traditions of the commedia dell’arte.
The contralto voice, so dear to the composers of opera seria, was not used in the opera buffa. On the other hand, the tenor, who was relegated to supporting roles in the opera seria, became the male lead, while the bass, formerly a messenger or other minor character, assumed the roles—familiar to us—of the blustering old doctor or blundering servant. Thus, the archetype of the romantic tenor like Almaviva and the basso-buffo, such as Dr. Bartolo and Don Pasquale, were born. The musical language and orchestration were cut from the same cloth as the opera seria, but concerted numbers of six or more characters, all babbling about being driven mad or howling about the state of their confusion, were used as finales. The opera seria was a stylistic dead end as soon as the race of singers for whom it was created died out, but from the humble seed of the burletta sprouted the mighty tree that led to the full-length comic operas of Mozart, Rossini, and Donizetti and, indeed, the dramatic operas of Verdi and Puccini.
Before we move on, we should consider one other feature of the Age of Bel Canto. Mozart said that he fashioned his music like a tailor makes a fine suit of clothes; that is, it was fitted to the individual artist, matched to his own strengths and weaknesses. This was common practice for Handel, Hasse, and all of the composers of the period. It was Beethoven who first wrote the music and then found the artists to perform it. The singers of the premiere of Fidelio complained that it was unsingable, and Henriette Sontag and Caroline Unger pleaded that the tessitura of the soprano parts of the Ninth Symphony and Missa Solemnis were too high. Beethoven told them to go home and practice until they could negotiate their parts. They did, and this marked the beginning of the end of the art of improvisation. Who can say whether we are richer or poorer for it?
SOME FAMOUS SINGERS OF THE AGE OF BEL CANTO
The Castrati
There were literally hundreds of singing stars in the Age of Bel Canto and further study of their lives and times will greatly benefit the modern singer. Space considerations dictate that we consider only three of the musici.
Farinelli or Farinello (Carlo Broschi, 1705–1782)
Farinelli, who may have been the greatest singer who ever lived, was undoubtedly the most famous of the castrati. He was also remarkable in many other ways. Vernon Lee says that he was named for a certain Farina, who was his patron, while Pleasants states that the pseudonym Farinello was applied to the Broschi family—not just the singer—and that it means rascal or rogue in Italian. Whatever the case, there was never a hint of scandal associated with Farinelli. The 1994 movie Farinelli adds a number of lurid details that were created for the titillation of modern audiences. The Broschis were a noble family and it is strange that they would have consented to Carlo’s orchiectomy, but his father was an amateur musician and perhaps—in some strange way—thought that he was assuring his son’s future.
Farinelli moved to Naples while very young and studied with Porpora. He made his debut in a serenata, Angelico e Medoro, with book by Metastasio, in 1720. He was fifteen. The librettist and singer became lifelong friends. In a famous anecdote Burney mentions that:
When he was seventeen he went to Rome with Porpora. During the run of an opera there was a struggle between him and a famous player on the trumpet. It started as an amiable and sportive contest until the audience began to take sides. After severally swelling a note, in which each manifested the power of his lungs and tried to rival each other in brilliancy and force, they had both a swell and shake together, in thirds, which was continued so long, while the audience eagerly awaited the event that both seemed to be exhausted and, in fact, the trumpeter wholly spent, gave it up, thinking that his antagonist was as much tired as himself and that it would be a drawn battle, when Farinelli, with a smile on his countenance, showing that he had only been sporting with him all the time, broke out all at once in the same breath, with fresh vigor, and not only swelled and shook the note, but ran the most rapid and difficult divisions and was at last silenced only by the acclamations of the audience. From this period may be dated that superiority which he ever maintained over his contemporaries.24
Figure 2.1. Farinelli (Carlo Broschi).
Farinelli’s fame became legendary; he was very handsome and was known as “Il Ragazzo” (The Boy). He was very popular with the female side of the audience, but no amorous scandals have ever been attributed to him. He traveled to Vienna in 1724 and then from one triumph to another all over Italy. In 1727 in Bologna, Farinelli had an encounter with Antonio Bernacchi, each trying to outdo the other in feats of skill and derring-do. The outcome was considered to be a draw and the two became fast friends. Bernacchi passed on his technique of developing a strong middle register with elaborate embellishments, and Farinelli used it ever after.
In Vienna in 1731 the Emperor Charles VI advised Farinelli to give up trying to astonish his hearers and to set about engaging their emotions. Farinelli took the advice, retired for a time for further study, and soon became as well known for his pathos as he already was for his brilliance and agility. In 1734, he traveled to London to sing for Porpora’s Opera of the Nobility—the rival to Handel’s company. At the first rehearsal, the orchestra was so astonished at Farinelli’s virtuosity that they quite forgot to play. Heriot wrote:
“Senesino had the part of a furious tyrant, and Farinelli that of an unfortunate hero in chains; but in the course of the first air, the captive so softened the heart of the tyrant, that Senesino, forgetting his stage-character, ran to Farinelli and embraced him as his own.” It was perhaps on this occasion too, that a lady of fashion uttered the famous phrase, “One God, one Farinelli!”25
At first there was hysterical acclaim for Farinelli and great popularity for the Italian opera, but the expensive battle between Handel and Porpora caused the decline of opera in London by 1737. Then a surprising event occurred, which, no doubt, has been vastly exaggerated and has become the stuff of legend. Phillip V of Spain suffered from a deep melancholia and would not even attend to matters of personal hygiene, much less his duties as head of state. Elizabeth Farnese, who was interested in remaining Queen, arranged for the King to hear “accidentally” hear Farinelli, and Phillip is said to have come out of his depression as if by magic.
Farinelli was engaged to sing for the King nightly and is said to have sung the same four arias every night. The King lived for another nine years. Farinelli became practically a Prime Minister without portfolio and wielded great influence over the Spanish court. He seems not to have been ambitious in a political sense, and stories of his generosity and nobility are well known. In addition to his other duties, Farinelli became head of the court opera and many of the most famous singers of his era were anxious to work with him. When Phillip died, Farinelli had perhaps even more influence over his successor, Ferdinand VI. When the Queen also passed away, Farinelli was unable to console Ferdinand, who soon also died. Charles III, who became the King, cared nothing for music and felt the need to clean house; so, in 1759, Farinelli retired on a pension to Bologna. He lived very comfortably in a fine villa, often visited by those who, like Dr. Burney, treasured the memory of his glorious singing in days gone by.
Gaetano Majorano (Caffarelli or Caffariello, 1710–1783)
If Farinelli represented the best traits of an artist and a man of the eighteenth century, then Caffarelli was surely the personification of its dark side. Whereas Farinelli was generous, unassuming, and maintained the highest artistic standards, Caffarelli was vain, quarrelsome, arrogant, and often performed badly and in poor taste. Yet Porpora always felt that Caffarelli was the greater singer, probably because, in contrast to Farinelli’s placid temperament, he sang with great fire and was capable of wonderful bursts of inspiration. This unpredictable kind of talent, like that of the late Franco Corelli, cannot be bound by rigid rules and is always controversial. It is often beloved by the public and censured by critics.
Caffarelli was born Gaetano Majorano at Bitono, near Bari. As in the case of Farinelli, there is disagreement about the source of his pseudonym. It likely came from a certain Domenico Caffarelli, who presumably arranged for the boy’s castration when he was twelve. Caffarelli may have been one of the few who chose to be castrated voluntarily for the sake of his voice. He was sent to Porpora, who challenged the boy to follow his instructions to the letter for as long as he felt necessary. After seven years, as the story goes, Porpora pronounced Caffarelli to be the greatest singer in the world and sent him forth to a glorious but notorious career. It was probably Caffarelli’s vanity and insolence above all else that has earned the musici their reputation for “prima donna” behavior.
Figure 2.2. Caffarelli (Gaetano Majorano).
Caffarelli made his debut in a feminine part in Sarro’s Il Valdemaro at the Teatro delle Dame, Rome, in 1726. He was hailed for his beautiful voice, handsome face, and perfect technique. He traveled widely for the next few years, piling success upon success, never failing to insult crowned heads and famous colleagues alike. In 1734 in Venice, he appeared with Farinelli in Giacomelli’s Merope, both receiving rapturous applause for their very different styles. In 1735 Caffarelli succeeded the aged Matteuccio at the Royal Chapel in Naples with a handsome salary and permission to travel. He journeyed to London in 1738, where he created the title part in Handel’s Serse, which included the famous “Ombra mai fu.” The London climate did not agree with Caffarelli, nor did the public, enamored with Farinelli, take to him. He returned to Naples by way of a triumphal tour of Italian cities.
Caffarelli was always getting into trouble. As early as 1728 in Rome, he became involved with a noblewoman and had to hide all night in an unused cistern and afterwards be protected from the jealous husband’s assassins by the infatuated lady’s bodyguard. On another occasion an ecclesiastical court accused him of sacrilege for brawling with Reginelli, another castrato. Matters did not improve when:
At a performance of Latilla’s Olimpia nell Isola d’Ebuda, he distinguished himself, according to the official report by “disturbing the other performers, acting in a manner bordering on lasciviousness (on stage) with one of the female singers, conversing with the spectators in the boxes on the stage, ironically echoing whatever member of the company was singing an aria and finally refusing to sing in the ripieno with the others.”26
He was sent to prison but released after three days by command of the King. The management of the San Carlo invited Gizziello to replace Caffarelli, but Gizziello refused because he was afraid of Caffarelli.
Despite his atrocious behavior, Caffarelli’s singing continued to receive hysterical acclaim. He triumphed in operas by Leo, Hasse, Sarro, and Mancini. In Leo’s Allesandro nel Indie, he shared the applause with an elephant (a present to King Charles from the Sultan of Turkey). In 1748, Caffarelli continued to act up.
Donati, director of the San Carlo theater writes: “Yesterday evening at the Royal Theater . . . when he came to the duet at the end of the second act, the musico Caffarelli began to sing the first two verses in a manner quite different from that written by the Saxon maestro (Hasse) but the prima donna Astrua, though thus obliged to improvise, managed as well as she could and the first and second sections went quietly enough. At the repeat, however, Caffarelli produced a new version different from his first one and full of rhythmic variations and syncopations with the anticipation of the beat. When the Astrua, in responding, tried to get back into the proper tempo, Caffarelli had the audacity, not only to demonstrate with his hands, how she should keep time, but even suggested vocally how she should sing. This was seen and understood by everyone, and I cannot tell you the scandal that was aroused by the incident; there was a universal murmur of outrage from the boxes and the pit. Caffarelli destested prima donnas and his aim had been to make the Astrua look foolish; but his efforts only rebounded on his own head once again he narrowly escaped imprisonment.”27
In his later career, the musico who had eagerly submitted to Porpora’s exacting training program became lazy and careless. After a lengthy career of more triumphs, troubles, duels, and other scandals, he retired to Naples, where he purchased a dukedom and built an elaborate palazzo with the inscription over the portal: “Amphion Thebas, ego domum” (“Amphion built Thebes, I a house”), to which Neapolitan graffiti was added: “Ille cum, tu sine” (“He with; you without”)!
A curious echo of the career of one of the greatest of the musici is found in the second act of The Barber of Seville. Very few operagoers ever catch the reference when, following Rosina’s aria in the lesson scene, Bartolo exclaims: “But that aria, for heavens sake! It’s so annoying; the music in my time was another thing! Ah! For example, when Caffariello sang that famous air [. . .].”
Gasparo Pacchierotti (1740–1821)
of all these dim figures of long-forgotten singers which arise, tremulous and hazy, from out of the faded pages of biographies and scores, evoked by some intense word of admiration or some pathetic snatch of melody, there is one more poetical than the rest—for all such ghosts of genius are poetical—that of Gasparo Pacchierotti, who flourished just over a century ago. For in those that heard him he left so deep an impression of supreme genius, of moral and intellectual beauty, that even now we cannot read of him without falling under a sort of charm. In the pages in which the writers speak of Pacchierotti, there lies, as it were, a faded, crumbling flower of feeling; whose discoloured fragments still retain a perfume that goes strangely to the imagination; so that we almost fancy that we ourselves must once, vaguely and distantly, have heard that weirdly sweet voice, those subtle, pathetic intonations. Some such occult charm, acting after a century, there must be, for no story, no romance, is connected with this singer that could explain the interest he awakens.28
Farinelli is widely considered to be the greatest of the castrati and possibly the greatest of all singers. But in the latter part of the eighteenth century, in a group of great singers who are considered a “second golden age,” there lived a singer who could have been the greater artist. His name was Gasparo Pacchierotti. Pacchierotti was born in Fabriano, near Ancona. He began singing in church choirs as a boy and received long and careful training even for that exacting period. Unlike most evirati, he made his debut at sixteen singing secondary parts in Vienna, Venice, and Milan. He returned to Venice in 1769 as primo musico of the leading theater, the San Benedetto. He was invited to Palermo, but when he arrived at Naples on the way there he was informed that the prima donna, Anna de Amicis, refused to sing with “a player of second parts.” Humiliated, he consented to sing two arias with the orchestra of the San Carlo as an audition to show his full powers. He was immediately offered his choice of Naples or Palermo and proudly chose the latter. From that time his fame spread, and even Amicis became a devoted fan.
He sang with great success all over Italy and in 1778 went to London, where his fame had preceded him. He did not disappoint. Lord Mount Edgecumbe,29 in his Musical Reminiscences, writes:
Pacchierotti’s voice was an extensive soprano, full and sweet in the highest degree: His powers of execution were great, but he had far too good taste and good sense to make a display of them where it would have been misapplied, confining it to one aria d’agilita in each opera, confident that the chief delight in singing and his own supreme excellence lay in touching expression and exquisite pathos. Yet he was so thorough a musician that nothing came amiss to him; every style was to him equally easy, and he could sing, at first sight, all songs of the most opposite characters, not merely with the facility and correctness which a complete knowledge of music must give, but entering at once into the views of the composer, and giving them all the spirit and expression he had designed. Such was his genius in his embellishments and cadences, that their variety was inexhaustible. He could not sing a song twice in exactly the same way; yet never did he introduce an ornament that was not judicious and appropriate to the composition. His shake (then considered as an indispensable requisite, without which no one could be esteemed a perfect singer) was the very best that could be heard in every form in which that grace could be executed. Whether taken from above or below, between whole or semi-tones, fast or slow, it was always open, equal, and distinct, giving the greatest brilliancy to his cadences, and often introduced into his passages with the happiest effect. As an actor, with many disadvantages of person [tall, gawky, and awkward] he was, nevertheless, forcible and impressive; for he felt warmly, had excellent judgment, and was an enthusiast for his profession. His recitative was inimitably fine, so that even those who did not understand the language could not fail to comprehend from his countenance, voice, and action every sentiment that he expressed. As a concert singer, and particularly in private society he shone almost more than on the stage; for he sang with greater spirit in a small circle of friends, and was more gratified with their applause than in a public concert room or crowded theater. I was in the habit of so hearing him most frequently, and having been intimately acquainted with him for many years, am enabled to speak thus minutely of his performances. On such occasions he would give way to his fancy, and seem almost inspired; and I have often seen his auditors, even those the least musical, moved to tears while he was singing. Possessing a very large collection of music, he could give an infinite variety of songs by every master of reputation. I have more than once heard him sing a cantata of Haydn’s called Arianna a Nasso, composed for a single voice, with only a piano-forte accompaniment’ and that played by Haydn himself; it is needless to say that the performance was perfect. To this detail of his merits and peculiar qualities as a singer, I must add that he was a worthy good man, modest and diffident even to a fault; for it was to an excess that at times checked his exertions and made him dissatisfied with himself when he had given the greatest delight to his hearers. He was unpresuming in his manners, grateful and attached to all his numerous friends and patrons.30
Burney too, thought that Pacchierotti was the greatest singer that he had ever heard: “The low notes of his voice were so full and flexible that in private, among particular friends and admirers, I have often heard him sing Ansani’s and David’s tenor songs in their original pitch, in a most perfect and admirable manner, going down sometimes as low as B-flat or the second line in the bass.”31
Taking the two authorities together, it is clear that Pacchierotti, though commonly thought of as a contralto, had a range of over three octaves. His voice must have had a very strong effect on the emotions, for of no other singer are there so many accounts of listeners, even the least sensitive, being profoundly moved. In a performance in Rome of Artaserse by his old mentor Bertoni, he had to sing the words “Eppur, son innocente,” to be followed by an instrumental interlude leading to an aria. But the orchestra was silent. Pacchierotti turned inquiringly to the concertmaster. “We are all in tears,” said the conductor, and the orchestra was unable to continue for some minutes. This manner of singing recitatives, where improvisation and embellishment support the dramatic aims of the composer, is a lost art, and this loss, in the hands of lesser artists, gave to the Bel Canto the reputation of vain and artistically empty display.
Pacchierotti was a person of fine character, but, like many celebrities, he was unable to avoid certain scandalous incidents. A certain Neapolitan marchesa became infatuated with him and, according to Michael Kelly, he was lucky to escape assassination by her lover. Also in Naples, a certain officer in the royal guard named Ruffo, who was a fan or lover of the famous (and notorious) soprano Caterina Gabrielli, accosted Pacchierotti in the street. Pacchierotti, an excellent swordsman, challenged Ruffo to a duel and forced an apology. For this infraction he went to prison for a short time. He was jailed again late in his life, when a letter he had written to the soprano Angelica Catalani was intercepted by the police and found to be mildly subversive.
Gasparo Pacchierotti sang at the opening of La Scala in Milan in 1778, and his last public appearance was at the opening of the Fenice in Venice in 1792. Rossini visited Pacchierotti in his old age and listened to his complaints about the decline of the art of singing. The young composer exclaimed, “Give me another Pacchierotti and I shall know how to write for him!”
The Prima Donnas
It has been calculated that seventy percent of the leading singers of the Age of Bel Canto were male sopranos and altos, but, because of our fascination for the castrati, it is easy to overlook the real accomplishments of women singers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I have read that the best of the women singers were only equal to the least accomplished castrato. This must be an exaggeration, for there were women who had been taught by the best maestri, like Porpora, and there are many accounts of battles between the musici and their prima donna rivals. Venice had four conservatori for girls, which were founded as asylums for orphans but later became famous schools for talented girls. The student body provided not only fine singers but also excellent orchestras. Dr. Burney visited the Pietà in 1770:
This afternoon I again went to the Pietà; there was not much company, and the girls played a thousand tricks in singing, particularly in the duets, where there was a trial of skill and of natural powers, as who could go highest, lowest, swell a note the longest, or run divisions with greatest rapidity. They always finish with a symphony; and last Wednesday they played one composed by Sarte [sic], which I had heard before in England, at the opera of the Olympiade.
The band is certainly very powerful, as there are in the hospital above a thousand girls, and out of these, there are seventy musicians, vocal and instrumental.32
At the Incurabili the next day:
Of these young singers I have spoken rather warmly before, but in this performance they discovered still new talents and new cultivations. Their music of to-night was rather more grave than that which I had heard here before, and I thought they were more firm in it: their intonations were more exact, and as more time was allowed for it, a greater volume of voice, by the two principal performers was thrown out. But in their closes, I know not which astonished me most, the compass of voice, variety of passages, or rapidity of execution; indeed all were such as would have merited and received great applause in the first operas in Europe.33
Francesca Cuzzoni (c.1700–1770) and Faustina Bordoni (1693–1783)
The two most famous female singers of the eighteenth century, Francesca Cuzzoni and Faustina Bordoni—called simply Faustina—are always spoken of together, for they were rivals whose careers were always intertwined. They were two very different kinds of talents, like Callas and Tebaldi in our day, but their fans also insisted on vociferously taking sides, and the rivalry culminated in a hair-pulling battle on stage in 1727.
Figure 2.3. Francesca Cuzzoni.
Figure 2.4. Faustina Bordoni.
Francesca Cuzzoni made her debut in Venice in 1719 and later in that year sang there with Faustina and Bernacchi. After triumphs on most of the principal stages in Italy, she went to London in 1722. Cuzzoni was Handel’s star soprano and created many of the leading roles in his operas such as Giulio Cesare, Rodelinda, Alessandro, Tamerlano, and Artaserse. Apparently, she was as irascible as Handel himself, because he threatened her with defenestration when she refused to sing the aria “Falsa Immagine” in her debut opera, Otho, in 1722. She relented, and from then on her success was assured. In 1727 she created such an effect in Admeto with her “warbling” style that an enthusiast cried out from the audience, “Damn her! She has a nest of nightingales in her belly!”
Cuzzoni was at her best in slow arias giving her the opportunity for soulful expression. Tosi said that her intonation was perfect, rhythm exact, and she had a very beautiful vocal quality with a delightful soothing cantabile. Quantz, as quoted by Burney, wrote that she had a fine trill and “took possession of the soul of every auditor by her tender and touching expression.” Several commentators remarked that Cuzzoni was not very attractive and did not look well on the stage, but her extraordinary singing always saved the day.
In 1728, Cuzzoni appeared in Siroe and Tolomeo with continued success. However, the management, weary of the continual strife, offered Faustina one guinea more per year than Cuzzoni, and she, having taken an oath to never take less than her rival, found herself unemployed. She returned to London in 1734 to appear with Farinelli, Senesino (Francesco Bernardi), and Antonio Montagnana, one of the first star basses. She then returned to Europe, and in the next few years her voice and career went into decline. After spending time in debtor’s prison in Holland, she died in poverty and squalor, making buttons for a living, in 1770.
The career of Faustina (Bordoni) could not have been more different from that of her rival. Faustina was from a noble family, beautiful, and very charming in her personal dealings with the court and colleagues (excepting rivals like Cuzzoni and Regina Mingotti, who incurred her jealousy in Dresden). In addition to all this, Faustina was married to Johann Adolph Hasse, who was considered the outstanding composer of opera in the middle of the eighteenth century. Unlike Cuzzoni, Faustina was a mezzo-soprano who was unexcelled in velocity and vocal acrobatics. Tosi stated that Cuzzoni and Faustina “with equal force, in a different style, help to keep the tottering profession from immediately falling into ruin.”34 Mancini was lavish in his praise of Faustina. He agreed with Burney that her agility brought something new to the art of singing. He further stated:
Our Faustina Hasse sang with this rare method so that she could not be imitated. Besides this natural excellence of agility, she had another kind of agility, accompanying with everything a fast and very solid trill and mordent. She had a perfect intonation, a secure knowledge of spinning forth the tone and sustaining the voice. The refined art of conserving and refreshing the breath, and the excellence of a finished taste. All of these were sublime gifts in her, perfectly mastered, and maintained through assiduous study, by which she attained a facile execution of great perfection, united to the just precepts of the art. If from all this emerges a complex perfection, one must also say that our virtuosa reaped approbation as her just reward, with universal esteem; so much is true, that she always received merited applause, and distinction in every place where she was heard.35
In 1716, Faustina made her debut and immediately achieved a reputation as a great singer and was known as the “New Syren.” She sang at Naples, and a medal was struck in her honor at Florence in 1722. She was engaged at the Court Theater in Vienna in 1724, and Handel immediately secured her for the London season of 1726 when she appeared in his Alessandro. She stayed in London for only two seasons and then returned to Venice where she married Hasse in 1730. The Hasses then went to Dresden, where he became director and she reigned as prima donna assoluta in the opera of the richest and most brilliant court in Europe. Faustina retired from the stage in 1751, her supremacy only challenged by the arrival of Mingotti in 1747. The fortunes of war caused the Dresden opera to be disbanded in 1763, and the couple moved to Vienna until 1775, when they retired to Venice. The Hasses lived comfortably and died in the same year, she at ninety.
Vittoria Tesi (1700–1775)
Notwithstanding the deserved celebrity of Cuzzoni and Faustina, Mancini considered Vittoria Tesi to be the outstanding female singer of his time. Tesi had a contralto voice of masculine strength. She could sing high or low with ease, had a fiery temperament and a large voice, and excelled in masculine roles. Tesi was not as accomplished in florid singing as Cuzzoni or Faustina, but, in Mancini’s words, “she had a perfect and exquisite method, and yet, animated with her natural genius, she resolved to acquire with more tenacity the art of acting.” In 1743 she married a barber named Tramontini, apparently to escape the attentions of a nobleman who was not content to have her only as a mistress and wished to marry her. From that time she billed herself as “Tesi-Tramontini, virtuosa di Camera della Granduchessa di Toscana.” She opened a singing school in Vienna in 1747 and numbered among her pupils Anna de Amicis, who had initially refused to sing with Pacchierotti and who took a friendly interest in the boy Mozart, singing in his earliest operatic efforts in Italy.
Angelica Catalani (1780–1849)
There were many great female singers in the Age of Bel Canto but none seems so appropriate to close this chapter with than the self-styled Prima Cantatrice del Mondo, Angelica Catalani. Catalani apparently had a modern dramatic soprano-sized voice with an amazing agility. She was beautiful, imperious, and had notoriously bad taste. Fétis said that her voice was one of extraordinary purity and compass, extending to G’ ” with a sweet clear tone. Stendhal was conflicted: “Signora Catalani, whose prodigiously beautiful voice fills the soul with a kind of astonished wonder, as though it beheld a miracle; and the very confusion of our hearts blinds us at first to the noble and goddess-like impassivity of this unique artist.”36 Lord Mount Edgecumbe wrote:
Her voice is of a most uncommon quality, and capable of exertions almost supernatural [. . .] while its agility in divisions, running up and down the scale in semi-tones, and its compass in jumping over two octaves at once, are equally astonishing. It were to be wished that she were less lavish in the display of these wonderful powers, and sought to please more than surprise; but her taste is vicious, her excessive love of ornament spoiling every simple air, and her greatest delight (indeed her chief merit) being in songs of a bold and spirited character, where much is left to her discretion (or indiscretion) without being confined by the accompaniment, but in which she can indulge in ad libitum passages with a luxuriance and redundancy no other singer ever possessed, or if possessing ever practiced, and which she carries to a fantastical excess.37
Catalani’s wealth of natural endowments did not seem to include an excessive amount of intelligence. Crescentini said that he had offered her some advice, but she seemed incapable of understanding it. Among her favorite pieces were variations by Pierre Rode, which were written for the violin, but sung with her own words and inserted into every opera without regard for appropriateness. Stendhal was chagrined, “Later on, Signora Catalani included in her repertoire a vocal arrangement of Rodes’s Variations; it is true, however, that God somehow forgot to place a heart within reasonable proximity of this divine larynx.”38
Figure 2.5. Angelica Catalani.
In 1804, Catalani married a worthless hanger-on from the French embassy in Portugal named Valabregue. Valabregue’s chief interest was in obtaining as much money as possible from his wife’s exertions and spending it as fast as he could. An inveterate gambler, Valabregue lost vast fortunes at the gaming tables. In 1806 in London, the Valabregues went into the business of producing operas. Their contract with the King’s theater was an amazing document. Madame Catalani was to receive most of the profits and the theater was to pay most of the expenses. She chose the repertoire (the same hodgepodge pasticcios glorifying herself) and had complete control over all casting (no competition allowed). The avaricious pair of impresarios also saw little need to spend much money on such trappings as chorus, scenery, costumes, or salaries for supporting casts. This ruinous policy led to Catalani’s “cornering the market” as the sole singer of eminence in London for seven years. After a failed attempt to buy the theater and become its sole proprietors in 1813, the Valabregues moved to Paris, where the same style of management led to the ruin of the Théâtre-Italien after a run of five years, off and on.
This backward-looking type of opera production, as a tableau or concert in costume, was no longer in vogue. Valabregue was fond of saying, “My wife and four or five puppets—that’s all you need.” (In Paris, those “puppets” included Giuditta Pasta and Manuel Garcia I!) With the beginnings of Grand Opera, the stage was filled with realistic drama and the first dramatic singers. Catalani’s day and that of the opera seria was done. After 1818 Angelica Catalani traveled all over Europe concertizing, “her powers undiminished, her taste unimproved,” to quote Lord Mount-Edgecumbe. She died of cholera in 1849.
Vernon Lee (Violet Paget), who wrote Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy, was eloquent on the subject of singing in the Age of Bel Canto:
The singer was a much more important personage in the musical system of the eighteenth century than he is nowadays. He was not merely one of the wheels of the mechanism, he was its main pivot. For in a nation so practically, spontaneously musical as the Italian, the desire to sing preceded the existence of what could be sung: performers were not called into existence because men wished to hear such and such a composition but the composition was produced because men wished to sing. The singers were, therefore, not trained with a view to executing any peculiar sort of music, but the music was composed to suit the powers of the singers. Thus, ever since the beginning of the seventeenth century, when music first left the palace and the church for the theater, composition and vocal performance had developed simultaneously, narrowly linked together; composers always learning, first of all to sing, and singers always finishing their studies with composition; Scarlatti and Porpora teaching great singers, Stradella and Pistocchi forming great composers; the two branches therefore acting and reacting on each other so as to become perfectly homogeneous and equal. . . .
The singer, therefore, was neither a fiddle for other men to play upon, nor a musical box wound up by mechanism. He was an individual voice, an individual mind, developed to the utmost; a perfectly balanced organisation; and to him was confided the work of embodying the composer’s ideas, of moulding matter to suit the thought, of adapting the thought to suit the matter, of giving real existence to the form which existed only as an abstraction in the composer’s mind. The full responsibility of the work rested on him; the fullest liberty of action was therefore given him to execute it. Music, according to the notions of the eighteenth century, was no more the mere written score than a plan on white paper would have seemed architecture to the Greeks. Music was to be the result of the combination of the abstract written note with the concrete voice, with the ideal thought of the composer with the individuality of the performer. The composer was to give only the general, the abstract; while all that depended upon individual differences and material peculiarities was given up to the singer. The composer gave the unchangeable, the big notes, constituting the immutable form expressing the stable unvarying character; the singer added the small notes, which filled up and perfected that part of the form which depended on the physical material, which expressed the minutely subtle, ever changing mood. In short, while the composer represented the typical, the singer the individual. . . .
The Eighteenth Century required such a development of singing; it deemed it absolutely indispensable; and in that day of artistic strength and riches, the genius spent in an extemporized vocal ornament which was never transmitted to paper, in the delivery of a few notes which lasted but a second; the genius squandered in the most evanescent performance, the memory of which died with those who had heard it—all this seemed no waste and indeed, it could well be afforded; but when we read of it—we feel an indefinable sense of dissatisfaction, a wistful dreary sense of envy for what did not fall to our lot, and of pain at the thought that all that imagination, all that careful culture, has left no trace behind it. In turning over the leaves of memoirs and music books, we try, we strain as it were, to obtain an echo of that superbly wasted musical genius; nay, sometimes the vague figures of those we have never heard and never can hear, will almost haunt us.39
NOTES
1. Stendhal (Pseudonym of Marie-Henri Beyle), The Life of Rossini (London: Calder, 1956) 341.
2. Henry Pleasants, The Great Singers (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1966) 20.
3. Rodolfo Celletti, A History of Bel Canto (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991) 9.
4. Philip A. Duey, Bel Canto in its Golden Age (New York: King’s Crown, 1951) 167.
5. Dr. Charles Burney (1726–1814), English organist, composer, and one of the first music historians.
6. Angus Heriot, The Castrati in Opera (New York: Da Capo, 1972) 39.
7. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 39–40.
8. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 48.
9. Vernon Lee (Pseudonym of Violet Paget ), Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy, 1880 (London: Unwin, 1907) 182–83.
10. Dr. Charles Burney, A General History of Music from The Earliest Time to the Present Period (London, 1776) II 528.
11. Data from Donald Jay Grout, A Short History of Opera (New York: Columbia University Press, 1965) 78-9.
12. Grout, A Short History of Opera 91–92.
13. Pleasants, The Great Singers 55.
14. Johann Adolph Hasse (1699–1783), called Il Sassone (the Saxon) by his contemporaries, who considered him to be the eighteenth century’s greatest opera composer.
15. Grout, A Short History of Opera 211.
16. The “tempest” aria, in which the character compares his feelings with the raging of a storm, is an example of this type of aria.
17. Grout, A Short History of Opera 187–88.
18. Pier Francesco Tosi, Observations on the Florid Song, 1723, trans. M. Galliard, ed. Michael Pilkington (London: Stainer & Bell, 1987) 42.
19. Grout, A Short History of Opera 195.
20. Tosi, Observations on the Florid Song 54.
21. Pleasants, The Great Singers 31.
22. Pleasants, The Great Singers 35.
23. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 73.
24. Charles Burney, The Present State of Music in France and Italy, London, 1773, facsim. ed. (New York: Broude Brothers, 1969) 213–14.
25. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 99.
26. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 144–45.
27. Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 145–46.
28. Lee, Studies in the Eighteenth Century, 186–87.
29. Richard, second Earl of Mount Edgecumbe, (1764–1839) was an amateur musician and composer whose Musical Reminiscences are an important source of information about the Italian opera in London from 1773 to 1825.
30. Quoted in Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 167–68.
31. Quoted in Heriot, The Castrati in Opera 168.
32. Burney, The Present State of Music 168–69.
33. Burney, The Present State of Music 175–76.
34. Giambattista Mancini, Practical Reflections on Figured Singing, 1774 (Champaign, IL: Pro Musica, 1967) 10.
35. Pier Francesco Tosi, Observations on the Florid Song, 1743, trans. and annot. M. Galliard, ed. Michael Pilkington (London: Stainer & Bell, 1987) 79.
36. Stendhal, Life of Rossini 357.
37. Groves Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 3rd ed., vol. 1 (New York: Macmillan, 1935) 582.
38. Stendhal, Life of Rossini 326.
39. Lee, Studies of the Eighteenth Century 181–82, 186.