"When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross."
-- Sinclair Lewis
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Sunday Classics: Verdi's Queen Elisabeth demands justice from King Philip but gets something else
>
Ferruccio Furlanetto (at the Met last year) as the sleepless King Philip in his study -- with the fateful jewel box
The KING's study in Madrid. The KING, plunged in deep meditation, leaning on a table covered with papers, where candles are near burning out. Day begins to illuminate the colored glass of the windows.
KING PHILIP [as if in a dream]:
She never loved me.
No, that heart is closed to me.
She doesn't love me, she doesn't love me.
I still see her again, contemplating with a sad look
my white mane the day that she came here from France.
No, she doesn't love me, she doesn't love me.
[in Italian, as above]Cesare Siepi (bs), King Philip II; Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Nov. 11, 1950
[in Italian, as above]Nicola Rossi-Lemeni (bs), King Philip II; NHK Symphony Orchestra (Tokyo), Oliviero de Fabritiis, cond. Telecast performance, Sept. 2, 1967
[in French (slightly different text)]Erwin Schrott (bs), King Philip II; Rafat Jezierski, cello; Orquestra de la Communitat Valenciana, Riccardo Frizza, cond. Decca, recorded Jan.-Feb. 2008
Back when we began our journey, I said that sleeplessly half-deranged state in which we found the king, exacerbated by the severe bullying inflicted by the Grand Inquisitor, would lead him to commit a monstrous act. That act is the climax of the slender bit of scene which is our work unit this week.
Sunday Classics preview: Poor King Philip receives yet another unwelcome early-morning visitor
>
by Ken
I've thought of another loose end I'd really hate not to tie up: our gradual traversal of the great scene in King Philip's study in Act IV (Act III of the four-act version) of Verdi's Don Carlos.
We've already covered the Spanish king's bleak pre-dawn monologue ("Verdi's King Philip -- a man in crisis," January 2013), where he makes clear that he knows his young wife, the French princess Elisabeth, doesn't love him and never loved him, the proceeds to pretend that his only problem is that even royalty doesn't give people to see into human hearts, where only God can see. And then we've seen the 90-year-old blind Grand Inquisitor pay a just-at-dawn call on the king ("'The pride of the king withers before the pride of the priest!' (Verdi's King Philip)," March 2013) to take advantage of his sleep-deprived, half-crazed state of mind to bully him into submission.
Tonight's brief exchange (whose significance to me personally I'll explain tomorrow) comes after the king has received his next early-morning visitor: the queen, demanding justice for the theft of her jewel box.
VERDI: Don Carlos, Act IV (III), Scene 1: Elisabeth, "Ben lo sapete"
ELISABETH: You know it well: Once my hand
was promised to your son.
Now I belong to you, submissive to God,
but I am immaculate as the lily.
And now there is suspicion
of the honor of Elisabeth . . .
there is doubt about me . . .
And the person who commits the outrage is the king. KING PHILIP: You speak to me too boldly!
You think me weak
and seem to defy me;
weakness in me
can turn to fury.
Tremble then,
for you, for me!
Eleanor Steber (s), Elisabeth; Jerome Hines (bs), King Philip II; Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, Mar. 5, 1955
Sena Jurinac (s), Elisabeth; Cesare Siepi (bs), King Philip II; Vienna State Opera Orchestra, Silvio Varviso, cond. Live performance, June 15, 1968
Gundula Janowitz (s), Elisabeth; Nicolai Ghiaurov (bs), King Philip II; Vienna State Opera Orchestra, Horst Stein, cond. Live performance, Oct. 25, 1970
Sunday Classics: "The pride of the King withers before the pride of the priest!" (King Philip, in "Don Carlos")
>
Eric Halfvorson as the Grand Inquisitor and Ferruccio Furlanetto as King Philip in Don Carlos at Covent Garden -- we'll be hearing both, though not together (and not even in the same language).
by Ken
As I noted in Friday's preview ("Every day is a good day for an auto-da-fé"), this week we pick up at the point where we left off in the January 27 post "Verdi's King Philip -- a man in crisis," with King Philip II of Spain alone in his study at dawn, having (presumably once again) spent a sleepless night over what he presumes to be the infidelity of his wife. And then at this ungodly hour, enter the Grand Inquisitor, 90 and blind, having been summoned by the king, yes, but clearly seizing the advantage of the hour (at his age, how much sleep does he need?), almost certainly knowing from spies in the palace that the king isn't sleeping anyway.
Over the years I've imagined "doing" this scene all sorts of ways, but not quite this one -- just laying it out there. I had 20 or so performances laid out in front of me, and contemplated all sorts of ways of breaking the scene up or down, and in the end I just threw my hands up and decided to let it speak for itself. With, moreover, a translation I've hardly touched, and with which I'm not thrilled, and which in addition is of the French text, which is not what nearly all our performances are using, and there are important differences. For example, when the Inquisitor asks Philip what means he has chosen to punish his son, in French the king answers with the enigmatic "All . . . or nothing," which certainly does call for more explanation, whereas in the Italian he simply replies, "Extreme means."
Nevertheless, I'm going to trust that the nine minutes or so of the scene will speak for itself, as (I believe I put it), the 90-year-old blind man wipes the floor with the most powerful -- secular, that is -- person on the planet.
Sunday Classics preview: Every day is a good day for an auto-da-fé
>
In the course of his travels, Candide finds himself in Lisbon just in time for both an earthquake and an auto-da-fé, the "act of faith" that was the Inquisitorial Church's patented mode of festivity built around the burning of heretics. Composer Leonard Bernstein conducts the London Symphony Chorus and Orchestra in this famous July 1982 concert performance of Candide, with Clive Bayley (Bear-Keeper), Neil Jenkins (Cosmetic Merchant), Lindsay Benson (Doctor), Richard Suart (Junkman), John Treleaven (Alchemist), Adolph Green (Dr. Pangloss), and Jerry Hadley (Candide). We're going to hear the start of a less jolly theatrical auto-da-fé.
by Ken
Lately we've heard some orchestral introductions that not only set the scenes for the memorable operatic scenes they introduce, but grab the listener's imagination unforgettably. For example, in February 24's "In Boris Godunov, the Russian people do just as they're told" we heard the introductions to the two scenes of the Prologue to Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov (heard here in Rimsky-Korsakov's edition).
MUSSORGSKY: Boris Godunov (ed. Rimsky-Korsakov):
Prelude
Opening of the Coronation Scene
Alexei Maslennikov (t), Prince Shuisky; Sofia Radio Chorus, Vienna State Opera Chorus, Vienna Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. Decca, recorded November 1970
Here are three equally vivid and equally contrasting musical introductions, to consecutive events: [1]
[2]
[3]
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, Georg Solti, cond. Decca, recorded 1965-66
Sunday Classics: Verdi's King Philip -- a man in crisis
>
On 78s, to fit on a single side, Philip's monologue was often begun at "Dormirò sol nel manto mio regal," as in the case of this classic recording Ezio Pinza made for Victor on Feb. 17, 1927
KING PHILIP: I will only sleep in my royal mantle,
when I have attained the evening of my days.
I will only sleep beneath the black vault,
I will sleep beneath the black vault
there in my tomb in the Escurial!
If only the royal crown gave me the power
to read in hearts what God alone can see!
Ah, if only the royal crown &c.
[Spoken in half voice]
If the prince sleeps, the traitor is standing watch.
The king will lose his crown, the husband his honor.
I will only sleep in my royal mantle
when I have attained the evening of my days.
I will only sleep beneath the black vault,
I will sleep beneath the black vault
there in my tomb in the Escurial!
Ah, if only the royal crown gave me the power
to read in hearts!
[Long silence]
She never loved me.
No, that heart is closed to me.
She doesn't love me, she doesn't love me.
by Ken
SINCE I SCREWED THE LINK UP FRIDAY NIGHT --
Let me see if I can get it right here. The new stand-alone "Sunday Classics with Ken" blog is at sundayclassicswithken.com. Still very much a work in progress, so comments are doubly welcome.
Yes, yes, Sunday Classics is on hiatus. Nevertheless, Friday night we began focusing on the great monologue of King Philip II in his study from the next-to-last act of Verdi's Don Carlos. And we began by spotlighting a couple of passages from the monologue, which I'd never had the opportunity to have listeners listen to together.
Sunday Classics preview: "I still see her looking in silence at my white hair" -- King Philip in "Don Carlos"
>
Ferruccio Furlanetto as King Philip in his study
in Don Carlos at the Met
Io la rivedo ancor, contemplar triste in volto
il mio crin bianco il dì che qui di Francia venne.
No, amor per me non ha, amor per me non ha.
I still see her again, contemplating with a sad look
my white mane the day that she came here from France.
No, she doesn't love me, she doesn't love me.
Jerome Hines (bs), King Philip II; Orchestra of the Teatro Colón (Buenos Aires), Fernando Previtali, cond. Live performance, Sept. 2, 1962
Ferruccio Furlanetto (bs), King Philip II; Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, James Levine, cond. Sony, recorded Apr.-May 1992
by Ken
Yes, yes, I know Sunday Classics is supposed to be on hiatus. Let's just call this a hiatus from the hiatus. We've got stuff to deal with, even while I plow ahead with the laborious task of importing Sunday Classics posts into the new stand-alone "Sunday Classics with Ken" blog at sundayclassicswithken.blogspot.com. (At last count we were all the way back to July 2012!)
To get back to it, here is the same passage from Don Carlos which we just heard in the standard Italian translation, only now in the original French, which, let me remind you, is the only language Verdi ever worked on this opera in. In the bits of it we're going to be hearing tonight, the differences aren't enormous sense-wise, but I've included the originals so you have a chance to see how much more naturally the syntax flows in the French.
Je la revois encor, regardant en silence
mes cheveux blancs le jour qu'elle arriva de France.
Non, elle ne m'aime pas, elle ne m'aime pas.
I still see her again, looking in silence at
my white hair the day that she arrived from France.
No, she doesn't love me, she doesn't love me.
José van Dam (bs-b), King Philip II; Orchestre de Paris, Antonio Pappano, cond. EMI, recorded live at the Théâtre du Châtelet (Paris), Mar. 10-16, 1996
SEE, I GOT THIS IDEA THAT WE COULD JUXTAPOSE
THESE TWO PASSAGES FROM PHILIP'S MONOLOGUE
The thing is, this week I helped a friend sort through and arrange his CD collection, making it possible to pull the stuff he had duplicated. As a result I came away with a pile of stuff that I didn't have, which included this broadcast performance of King Philip's monologue by Jerome Hines from Buenos Aires's Teatro Colón. As it happens . . . .
Sunday Classics: In "Don Carlos," can Posa talk King Phillip out of his proto-Cheneyite concept of bringing about peace?
>
At the Met in 1980, Sherrill Milnes is the Marquis of Posa and Paul Plishka, King Phillip II. The poster has included as much of the scene as he could squeeze into a YouTube clip, starting later than we're going to, but continuing to the end of the scene, including the section we're not going to be considering.
by Ken
As I explained in last night's preview, this all started last Sunday, when I had occasion to call maestro Verdi to the witness stand to give us his take on the ruthlessly unbridled butchery and destruction by which Spain's Catholic king Phillip II, in the name of the Holy Church, attempted to obliterate the Protestant uprising in the Netherlands.
We heard just a tiny bit of the scene between Phillip and the most trusted of the Spanish nobles, the Marquis of Posa, in which Posa -- a fervent champion of liberation for Flanders -- attempts to bring the king back to the path of sanity and humanity. Today we're going to hear the full scene, or rather most of the Phillip-Posa scene, the part that concerns the political issues. (Phillip opportunely changes the subject, revealing to Posa his insane jealousy regarding his beautiful wife Elisabeth, the daughter of the French king, who had been intensely pressured to marry the Spanish crown prince, or Infante," Carlos as part of a negotiated end to the Hundred Years War, only to wind up being coupled instead with the king himself. As a matter of fact, in Act I, still in France, Elisabeth had fallen hopelessly in love with a disguised member of Carlos's party who turned out to be Carlos himself. However, as much as Elisabeth and Carlos might wish the situation were otherwise, they haven't done anything.)
In an opera that caused Verdi more difficulty than any of his others, this scene gave him particular fits. He substantially rewrote it not once, but twice, but in the end did he ever get it right. It is, among other things, as I wrote last week, "a scene that for many of us was practically an anthem during the Vietnam conflict, when it seemed that President Johnson was trying to bring just such a 'peace' to that tormented country." Alas, it has become if anything more timely, in a world that we might describe as having been Cheneyfied.
You'll be happy to hear that I'm not going to talk much, not try to analyze or do much explaining. All we're going to break the scene down just a bit, and then put it back together.
Sunday Classics preview: "Don Carlos" -- Carlos is surprised by his old friend Rodrigo
>
Baritone Simon Keenlyside as the Marquis of Posa and tenor Jonas Kaufmann as Don Carlos in the first monastery scene of Don Carlos at Covent Garden, 2009
The opening of the first monastery scene of Don Carlos VERDI: Don Carlos: Act II, Scene 1, Monks, "Carlo, il sommo imperatore" . . . Don Carlos, "Al chiostro di San Giusto"
Scene: The tomb of Charles V in the monastery of San Yuste. A chorus of monks is praying in the offstage chapel. Onstage, a kneeling monk prays before the tomb.
MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor, is no longer more than mute dust. At the feet of his heavenly maker his haughty soul now trembles. A MONK: He wanted to rule over the world, forgetting the one who in the sky guides the stars on their faithful path. His pride was immense; his error was profound. MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor &c. A MONK: Great is God alone, and if he wills it he makes heaven and earth tremble. Ah! Merciful God, compassionate to the sinner, you will grant that peace and pardon descend on him from heaven. MONKS: Let your wrath not fall, not fall on his soul. ALL: Great is God alone. He alone is great. [Day dawns slowly. Enter DON CARLOS, pale and agitated. The chorus of monks exits the chapel, crosses the scene, and disappears into the corridors of the cloister.] DON CARLOS: At the monastery of San Yuste, where my grandfather Charles V ended his life, weary of his grandeur, I seek in vain peace and forgetfulness of the past. Of the one who was stolen from me the image wanders with me into this icy cloister. MONK [rising and approaching CARLOS]: The sorrow of earth follows us even into the cloister. The heart's war only in heaven will be calmed. CARLOS: His voice! My heart trembles! I thought -- what terror! -- I saw the emperor, who in his habit was concealing his breastplate and golden crown. It's said that he still appears in the cloister! MONK [retiring]: The heart's war in heaven will be calmed. DON CARLOS: O terror! O terror!
Paul Plishka (bs), A Monk; Michael Sylvester (t), Don Carlos; Metropolitan Opera Chorus and Orchestra, James Levine, cond. Sony, recorded Apr.-May 1992
by Ken
Earlier this week I felt an urgent need to hearken unto the scene from Don Carlos in which the Marquis of Posa attempts to persuade King Phillip II of Spain, the man who orchestrated the bloodbath and orgy of destruction in the Netherlands by which, in the name of the Catholic Church, he proposed to bring peace to that woebegotten land of Protestant heretics. I said at the time that we needed to take a listen to this scene, which Verdi almost entirely rewrote twice before getting it stunningly right. For tonight's preview we're going to back up and hear how Rodrigo, the Marquis of Posa, is introduced to the audience in the scene at the Monastery of San Yuste (Act II, Scene 1 in the five-act version; the opening scene of the four-act reduction that Verdi reluctantly countenanced), before the tomb of the Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, where his grandson and namesake, the crown prince (Infant) Carlos, has repaired in despair.
In a March 2010 set of posts that culminated in "In Verdi's Don Carlos, all paths lead back to the tomb of Charles V," we devoted a fair amount of attention to this scene at San Yuste, starting with the physical setting, the tomb of Charles V (1500-1558), the father of King Phillip, who abdicated the throne unexpectedly in 1556, at the height of his power. (Via Verdi's first full-fledged masterpiece, Ernani, we also traced the emperor's history back to his debauched youth, and the moment when, hiding in the tomb of his ancestor Charlemagne, received news of his election as Holy Roman Emperor.)
We heard the cosmically brooding little orchestral prelude, and the brooding chorus of monks punctuated by the meditations of a particular monk who recalls the overweaning ambitions and vanity of the late emperor; and we heard the haunting little chunk of recitative in which Carlos voices the grief and despair that have brought him to the site of his grandfather's post-imperial retreat and tomb of his grandfather, for me one of the loveliest bits in this astounding opera -- unfortunately appearing only in the original five-act version. (As I suggested in the earlier post, I think it's a mark of Verdi's basic disapproval of the idea of a four-act reduction of this opera that he'd worked so hard at which allowed him to excise this extraordinary moment, in order to shoehorn a salvaged version of Carlos's Act I aria.) Then we jumped a bit and heard a bunch of high-class performances of the oath of loyalty before God to each other and to the cause of liberty sworn by Carlos and his dearest friend Rodrigo, the Marquis of Posa.
All that we missed from this scene, really, is what immediately follows: the dramatic reunion of Carlos and his cherished old friend. So with that plunked in, in the click-through we'll hear the whole thing.
Do Catholics (and Christians generally) know anything about their history? Help us, maestro Verdi
>
Here again is the performance of Beethoven's Egmont Overture we saw and heard in last night's music preview, by the New York Philharmonic under then-music director Lorin Maazel, at the Seoul Arts Center, Feb. 28, 2008.
by Ken
In case you're just coming in at this point, this is sort of a postscript to a pair of posts I wrote Friday night and last night.
In last night's music preview ("Wait for it . . ."), in presenting Beethoven's Egmont Overture, which has a climax of a thrill content unlike anything else I know in music, I happily recycled the historical background and musical description provided in a San Francisco Symphony program note by the late Michael Steinberg, starting with the political background:
On the morning of June 5, 1568, the counts Egmont and Horn were beheaded in the marketplace in Brussels; their heads were displayed on poles until three in the afternoon. They had been arrested the previous September on orders from the Duke of Alba, the Spanish governor of the Netherlands, and condemned to death for lèse majesté and for joining with “rebels against the holy, apostolic, and Roman church as well as for favoring the intolerable conspiracies of the Prince of Orange and other gentlemen.” . . .
Serious unrest began early in the 1560s . . . . Count Lamoral van Egmont, a popular military leader, was one of Alba’s first victims. What Egmont fought for and came uniquely to symbolize was beyond the reach of Spanish executioners. The process was slow and bloody, but in 1648, as part of the Treaty of Westphalia that concluded the Thirty Years’ War, the United States of the Netherlands were recognized by Philipp IV of Spain as an independent political entity.
Michael explains then that between 1775 and 1787 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote a play on the subject, and in the early years of the 19th century Beethoven provided incidental music for a production. Michael writes, "With Napoleon, his French troops, and his puppet kings spread all over Europe, the drama of the rebellious disaffection of the Netherlands took on a new and vivid relevance." The whole point is that I wanted readers to understand the stakes musicalized by Beethoven in that amazing final episode of the Egmont Overture, and so I then quoted Michael's concise musical précis:
The Overture begins with a grave introduction, which moves into an impassioned allegro. In the striking contrast of musical characters, commentators have seen the portrayal of oppression and of pleading. The brilliant closing music is that of the drama’s Victory Symphony, played as Egmont goes proudly to his death, confident in the rightness and the coming triumph of his cause.
It's always neat to get feedback showing that a reader has "gotten" it, and our friend me chimed in with a comment:
More Catholic crimes against humanity. That figures.
How christians can think their religion is any better than islam is beyond me.
This referred back to a comment added to my Friday night post, "'Republicans are not anti-science entirely,' says Tina Dupuy, 'they're anti . . . sometimes'," on the basis of which I was diagnosed a highly articulate if misguided, emphatically Catholic commenter as anti-Christian. The commenter was clearly unfamiliar with my previous rants on the subject of Crap Christians, made what I thought was a fascinating leap to the assumption that I had somehow equated "Crap Christians" with "all Christians," and proceeded to defend the wholesomeness and integrity of Christianity (meaning, really Catholicism) against my bigoted ravings. Of course the defense was built on a string of well-meant but historical and factual gibberish.
I had my say, and then to my great delight me offered some well-pointed points of refutation. What I would have found embarrassing, if I had been the commenter, was the blanket ignorance he displayed of how his religion has dealt both with its worshippers and its nonworshippers both in the present and in its long and troubled history. Of which a hardly atypical but notably monstrous example was the long and brutal repression of Protestant Flanders by the greatest Catholic power of the 15th through 17th centuries, Hapsburg Spain, in close collaboration with Rome. This was, after all, the era of the Spanish Inquisition. And I don't think it's at all beside the point that the present pope is a child of the Inquisition. It has been clear throughout Pope Cardinal Ratguts's sorry career that there's no time or place, and certainly no theological mindset, to which he's more attuned than that of the Inquisition.
From a musical standpoint, the great document of the bloodbath inflicted on the Flemish by Spain is Verdi's monumental opera Don Carlos, in which the background issue is the brutality of the repression inflicted by King Phillip II -- at the time the most powerful man on the planet, and indeed the very ruler who sent the Duke of Alba to Flanders to "pacify" the place, by whatever means necessary. It's occured to me that, while we've dipped into Don Carlos a number of times, we've never addressed the dramatization of this issue, in particular in the form of three scenes: the one in which the Marquis of Posa, newly returned to Spain from Flanders, takes advantage of his access to the king and lays out the death being inflicted by Spanish military might, hoping to sway his thinking; then the grand auto-da-fé scene in which, amid great pomp and celebration, a group of heretics is burned (yippee!); and then the confrontation between King Phillip and the blind old Grand Inquisitor, who makes clear who's in charge.
I think we really need to take a closer look at these scenes, and in particular that first scene, in which Phillip makes clear that as far as he's concerned it's only with massive shedding of blood that he can bring "peace" to Flanders. It's a scene that for many of us was practically an anthem during the Vietnam conflict, when it seemed that President Johnson was trying to bring just such a "peace" to that tormented country.
For tonight I though we would listen just to this tiny chunk: the king's smug defense of his policy of mayhem and death for the obstreperous Flemish Protestants, and Posa's horrified response. Then maybe next weekend we can listen in greater length and breadth.
VERDI: Don Carlos: Act II, Scene 2, from the Phillip-Posa scene, King Phillip, "Volgi un guardo alle Spagne" ("Cast a glance at Spain")
KING PHILLIP: Cast a glance at Spain. The artisan in the city, the peasant in the countryside, faithful to God and to the king has no complaint. This same peace I am giving to my Flanders. MARQUIS OF POSA: Horrendous, horrendous peace! It's the peace of the sepulcher! O King, don't ever let history say of you: He was Nero!
Jerome Hines (bs), King Phillip II; Robert Merrill (b), Rodrigo, Marquis of Posa; Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Fausto Cleva, cond. Live performance, Apr. 4, 1959
NOSTALGIC POSTSCRIPT: In the scramble to get this post ready, it didn't occur to me to mention that Jerome Hines was the Phillip and Robert Merrill the Posa of my first Don Carlos, a few years later than this.
Sunday Classics: Remembering Margaret Price, Part 8 -- Verdi's Élisabeth de Valois and (yes, again) Desdemona
>
VERDI: Don Carlos (in Italian): Act V, Aria, Élisabeth de Valois, "Tu che le vanità"
Scene: The monastery of San Yuste
ÉLISABETH enters slowly, lost in thought. She approaches the tomb of Charles V and kneels.
ÉLISABETH: You who knew the vanities of the world and enjoy in the tomb profound repose, if they still weep in heaven, weep for my sorrow, and bear my tears to the throne of the Lord.
Carlos will come here. Yes! Let him leave and forget forever. To Posa I swore to watch over his days. Let him follow his destiny; glory will trace it. For me, my day has already reached its evening.
France, noble land, so dear to my verdant years! Fontainebleau! Toward you my thoughts spread their wings. There God heard my vow to love for eternity, and that eternity lasted only a single day.
Amid you, lovely gardens of this Iberian land, if Carlo should ever tarry in the evening, may the turf, the brooks, the fountains, the woods, the blossoms sing of our love in harmony.
Farewell! Farewell, bright golden dreams, lost illusion! The knot is cut, the light is snuffed out. Farewell! Farewell again, verdant years!
Yielding to cruel pain, the heart has just one desire: the peace of the tomb!
You who knew &c.
Ah, lay my tears at the feet of the Lord.
Margaret Price (s), Élisabeth de Valois; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Claudio Abbado, cond. Live performance, 1978
by Ken
This week we're going to take care of some unfinished business in our series commemorating the Welsh soprano Margaret Price, focusing on some of her Verdi roles, which played an increasing part in her repertory over time, with impressive if not necessarily entirely convincing results.
Tonight we're going to revisit her Desdemona in Otello, but we start with two excerpts from the last act of Don Carlos, from a famous La Scala production conducted by Claudio Abbado, with Plácido Domingo in the title role, starting with the queen''s bleak monologue sung in the standard Italian translation as "Tu che le vanità," which we've already heard sung beautifully -- in fact, very different kinds of beautifully -- by Eleanor Steber (at the Met in 1955) and Maria Callas (the 1958 EMI studio recording of the aria) in a March 2010 Sunday Classics post, "In Verdi's Don Carlos, all paths lead back to the tomb of Charles V."
That post focused on the locale: the tomb of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in the monastery of San Yuste, where he died in 1558, having retired there after mysteriously abdicating the throne in 1556. Earlier in that post we heard Charles's grandson and namesake Prince Carlos make his way to the tomb following the collapse of his dream of marrying Elisabeth, the daughter of the French king, Henri II, after it was decided that the princess would instead marry Carlos's father, the Spanish king, Philip II. And as I indicated in that series of post, I found it hard not to think of a scene before a crypt -- in fact that of yet an earlier forebear, the Emperor Charlemagne -- in Verdi's much earlier opera Ernani. That was the day when, in one of Verdi's great scenes, a licentious young king beset by conspiracies retreated to the tomb of his own ancestor and dug deep inside himself to find what he was made as he awaited word of his election as Holy Roman Emperor. At those two tombs, Charlemagne's and Charles V's, Verdi set some of his most haunted and haunting soul-searching.
Both Élisabeth and Carlos have struggled to accept their unexpected roles as stepmother and stepson. Following the murder of their friend Rodrigo, the duke of Posa, a casualty of the Flemish struggle for liberation from the tyranny of Spain, on orders of King Philip (strong-armed by the ancient Grand Inquisitor), Élisabeth tries, while waiting to say a final good-bye to Carlos, to find something to hold onto.
Career beginnings (plus the Act I Love Duet from Verdi's Otello) Part 1: From Handel's Messiah to Wagner's Tristan, emerging in Mozart Part 2: The Countess in Mozart's Marriage of Figaro (plus "Or sai chi l'onore" from Don Giovanni) Part 3: Fiordiligi in Mozart's Così fan tutte [Plus postscript: more of "Soave sia il vento" in the later post Sunday, Bloody Sunday and the depths of Mozart's humanity] Part 4: Pamina in Mozart's Magic Flute Part 5: Agathe in Weber's Der Freischütz Part 6: Richard Strauss's Ariadne auf Naxos Part 7: Verdi's Otello with Price and others as Desdemona Part 8: Elisabeth in Verdi's Don Carlos and more of Price as Desdemona (tonight) Part 9: Verdi's A Masked Ball with Price and others as Amelia (coming tomorrow) Still to come: Price the song-singer
In Verdi's "Don Carlos," all paths lead back to the tomb of Charles V
>
The scene at the tomb of the Emperor Charles V, where Prince Carlos, the emperor's grandson, will shortly come seeking "peace and forgetfulness" (as we'll hear in a while), opens the four-act version of Don Carlos performed by Riccardo Muti at La Scala in December 1992. The monk who will so unnervingly remind Carlos of his grandfather is bass Andrea Silvestrelli.
"At the monastery of San Yuste, where my grandfather
Charles V ended his life, tired of his grandeur,
I seek in vain peace and forgetfulness of the past.
Of the one who was stolen from me
the image wanders with me into this icy cloister."
-- Don Carlos, at his grandfather's tomb, in Verdi's Don Carlos
by Ken
As I mentioned in Friday night's preview focusing on Verdi's Don Carlos, the scene I really want to get at is the first scene in the cloister of the monastery at San Yuste, before the tomb of Emperor Charles V. (Last night, you'll recall, we looked back to Verdi's much earlier opera Ernani to see the young King Carlos undergo a remarkable transformation at the time of his election as Holy Roman Emperor.) It's Act II, Scene 1 in the opera's original five-act version, but when Verdi grudgingly created a more practical four-act version, by cutting the prologue-like Act I, it became the opera's opening scene. And it makes not just an unusual but a singularly powerful opening scene -- there's nothing quite like it. (There's something with a more than casual resemblance, though. I'm afraid we have much too much to do today, but we'll come back to it.)
To refresh your memory, let's reset the scene. It begins with the scene you get by combining our mystery excerpts "E" and "B" from Frida:, a brief orchestral prelude, hushed and mysterious, dominated by the horns, followed by a sepulchral chorus of monks -- also dominated by the horns -- whom we might expect to be
Scene: The tomb of Charles V in the monastery of San Yuste. A choir of monks is praying in the offstage chapel. Onstage, a kneeling monk prays before the tomb.
MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor,
is no longer more than mute dust.
At the feet of his heavenly maker
his haughty soul now trembles. A MONK: He wanted to rule over the world,
forgetting the one who in the sky
guides the stars on their faithful path.
His pride was immense;
his error was profound. MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor &c. A MONK: Great is God alone, and if he wills it
he makes heaven and earth tremble.
Ah! Merciful God,
compassionate to the sinner,
you will grant
that peace and pardon
descend on him from heaven. MONKS: Let your wrath not fall,
not fall on his soul. ALL: Great is God alone.
He alone is great.
José van Dam (bs-b), the Monk; Chorus of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Berlin Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 15-20, 1978
At this point, young prince Carlos enters -- the grandson and namesake of the great emperor, and son of the current king of Spain, Philip II (named for his grandfather, King Philip I of Castille, who reunited Spain through his marriage to the daughter of King Ferdinand of Aragon). Carlos is in despair over the loss of his barely met dream woman, the princess Elisabeth of Valois, daughter of the French king François I. This is the business of Act I of the five-act version.
The marriage of Elisabeth and Carlos had been arranged as a way to end the ruinous (especially for France) Hundred Years' War, and Carlos had come surreptitiously to the forest of Fontainebleau to "reconnoiter" his bride-to-be. Happily for him, one look was all it took; he was hopelessly in love. That's what the poor boy was originally singing about in his aria:
[a] Recitative CARLOS: Fontainebleau! Immense and solitary forest!
What gardens bursting with flowers and light
could match, for the happy Don Carlos, the frozen ground
where his smiling Elisabeth passed?
Leaving Spain and my father's court,
braving the terrible wrath of Philip,
hidden among the people of his ambassador,
I've been able to see her finally, my beautiful fiancée,
the one who for so long has ruled my thoughts,
the one who from now on will rule my heart.
[b] Aria
I saw her, and in her smile,
in her eyes filled with an enchanting fire,
my heart, totally moved, could read
the happiness of living while loving her!
A future filled with tenderness!
Azure skies bathing all our days!
God smiles on our youth.
God bless our chaste loves!
Roberto Alagna (t), Don Carlos; Orchestre de Paris, Antonio Pappano, cond. EMI, recorded live March 1996
Plácido Domingo (t), Don Carlos; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Claudio Abbado, cond. DG, recorded January 1983 and June 1984
It got even better for Carlos. He managed to meet Elisabeth, pretending to be part of the Spanish ambassador's delegation, and she fell equally hard for him. Of course she couldn't admit her attraction, being engaged to the Spanish heir apparent and all. But in a truly magical musicodramatic moment, he declared, "Carlo son io." At least that's how it goes in the more familiar Italian translation. In the original French it's the even simpler "Je suis Carlos."
Now, to get back to "our" scene. It's at the point where Carlos enters San Yuste that the four- and five-act versions deviate for the only time. Oh, there are lots of other textual issues on which directors and conductors may make different choices, but they really aren't particular to four vs. five acts. However, we can say with confidence that's surprising when it comes to declarative statements about this opera that at this point:
* Darned near every four-act performance has Carlos sing an understandably agitated recitative that was newly composed for this version, leading into an only-slightly-modified version of his aria from the dropped Act I.
* Darned near every five-act performance has Carlo sing the brief bit of text translated from the French at the top of this post, music that is never heard in four-act performances. It lasts about 43 seconds in the performance we're about to hear; most performances probably take a couple of seconds less.
At the monastery of San Yuste, where my grandfather
Charles V finished out his life, weary of glory and honor.
I seek in vain the peace that my heart so desires.
Of the one who was stolen from me
the image wanders with me into this cloister of horror. MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. CARLOS: His voice! My heart trembles!
I thought -- what terror! --
I saw the emperor,
who in his habit was concealing
his breastplate and golden crown.
It's said that he still appears in the cloister! MONK: The heart's war
in heaven will be calmed. DON CARLOS: O terror! O terror!
Flaviano Labò (t), Don Carlos; Alessandro Maddalena (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Gabriele Santini, cond. DG, recorded 1961
A NOTE ON LANGUAGES
This is a nightmare with regard to Don Carlos, since the opera was written to a French libretto but is still far more often performed in Italian translation. There is a widespread misimpression that the original five-act version was in French but that the four-act revision was in Italian. Uh-uh. To my knowledge, the position of the ranking scholars of the opera is still that the composer never worked with any text but the French. Therefore, as a matter of practicality (and sanity), I've stuck as much as seemed sensible to the forms used in the French text -- for example "Carlos" (as in Spanish) rather than the Italian "Carlo" for the title character and "Elisabeth" rather than "Elisabetta" for his beloved (and later stepmother).
It's awfully difficult to be consistent, though, for example when quoting from actually sung text; "Carlo son io" is what tenors actually sing when performing in Italian. And I throw up my hands when it comes to figures of the historical importance of Emperor Charles V (Charles-Quint in French, Karl V in German) and King Philip II. Contrarily, I've stuck to "San Yuste" in preference to either the French "St. Juste" or the Italian "San Giusto," because it's a real place. For no particularly good reason, I can't bring myself to give up the familiar "Rodrigo" for "Rodrigue," though it's manifestly silly to butt "Carlos" up against "Rodrigo." (The difference, perhaps, is that "Carlos," the "French" option, is actually Spanish.)
As for the sung texts, there are significant (sometimes very significant) and much-discussed differences between the French and Italian. I've generally followed the language of the performance(s) being heard, which here is mostly Italian.
None of this works smoothly. So apologies all around, but I've done the best I could.
I said Friday that it was this scene of Don Carlos that had prompted this entire inquiry, and might have specified that I mean only this part of the scene. I don't know that many people give a hoot about it. Things become livelier in a moment, when Carlos's dear friend Rodrigo, the marquis of Posa, happens on the scene, and the two sing one of the great tenor-baritone duets, culminating in this thrilling oath of friendship and commitment to the liberation of oppressed Flanders:
CARLOS and RODRIGO: God, who in our souls
wished to instill hope and love,
in our hearts you must kindle
a desire for liberty.
We swear together to live
and die together. RODRIGO: On earth, in heaven -- BOTH: -- your goodness
can unite us.
Ah, God, who in our souls &c. RODRIGO: They're coming now. CARLOS: O terror!
Just seeing her I tremble! RODRIGO: Courage!
[Philip. leading Elisabeth, appears in the midst of the monks. Philip kneels for a moment before the tomb of Charles V, then proceeds on his way. The monks are heard from inside.] MONKS: Carlo, the great emperor &c. CARLOS: He has made her his!
I've lost her!
I've lost her. He has made her his!
Great God! RODRIGO: Come close to me,
close to me. You'll have more strength,
more strength! CARLO: He's made her his! I've lost her!
He's made her his! BOTH: We'll live together and die together!
Our last breath
will be, will be a shout, a shout:
Liberty!
We'll live together &c.
Jussi Bjoerling (t), Don Carlos; Robert Merrill (b), Rodrigo; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Nov. 11, 1950
Richard Tucker (t), Don Carlos; Ettore Bastianini (b), Rodrigo; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 5, 1955
Franco Corelli (t), Don Carlos; Nicolae Herlea (b), Rodrigo; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 7, 1964
(Although it was a decade later, Richard Tucker was my first Carlos and Robert Merrill my first Rodrigo. Bjoerling and Merrill of course recorded the whole duet for RCA on their mini-album of operatic duets -- a meager substitute for the complete Don Carlos they should have participated in. Carlos wasn't actually one of Franco Corelli's really good roles, since it didn't offer many opportunities for him to open up and let that glorious megatenor fly, but this is one such. This performance is also a nice memento of the Romanian baritone Nicolae Herlea; it's sobering to realize the Met roster was once so well-stocked with Italianate baritones that no great need was felt to keep him around.)
Still, as I say, this is not the part of the scene that I'm interested in. It's Carlos's flight to San Yuste, seeking something at the tomb of his grandfather: courage, answers, relief, or perhaps just oblivion. We don't, after all, know what Charles himself had sought there when he gave up the throne, either "weary of glory and honor" or "tired of his grandeur."
And so it's those 40-45 seconds I keep coming back to. Maybe we should hear this little chunk again. Here it is in French. Remember, it's only Carlos's first bit (about 42 seconds here) that was lost in the four-act reduction; the rest, as we'll hear in a moment, was successfully tacked onto Carlos's relocated aria.
Plácido Domingo (t), Don Carlos; Nikita Storojev (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Claudio Abbado, cond. DG, recorded January 1983 and June 1984
Perhaps Verdi himself thought so little of that tiny snip of music that he didn't give a second thought to throwing it overboard. He did, after all, have two problems to solve: rescuing Carlos's one and only aria (a modest one, especially alongside the extraordinary solo opportunities provided the soprano, mezzo, baritone, and bass in this opera, and really hard to make a special effect with, but still, one aria is better than none), and providing the basic plot details that were lost with the jettisoning of Act I. Here's how he did it.
[a] Opening of scene (see above)
[b] Recitative CARLOS: I've lost her, I've lost her!. Oh, supreme power!
Another, and it's my father,
Another, and it's my father,
stole the woman I adore,
the wife promised to me!
Ah, how pure and beautiful was the day,
the day without tomorrow,
on which, drunk with hope,
it was given to us to roam in the shade,
alone together, on the sweet soil of France,
in the forest of Fontainebleau!
[c] Aria CARLOS: I saw her, and her sweet smile
opened a new heaven to me.
Ahi, forever now I've been separated
from that heart by a father, a king!
My life now holds no hope
of a single day of joy.
You have robbed me, enchantress,
of heart and hope and dreams and love.
Alas! I've lost her! I've lost her!
[d] Solos MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. CARLOS: His voice! My heart trembles!
I thought -- what terror! --
I saw the emperor,
who in his habit was concealing
his breastplate and golden crown.
It's said that he still appears in the cloister! MONK: The heart's war
in heaven will be calmed. DON CARLOS: O terror! O terror!
[(b) at 6:18, (c) at 7:44, (d) at 9:30] Lubomir Vichegonov (bs), the Monk; Jussi Bjoerling (t), Don Carlos; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Nov. 11, 1950
[(b) at 6:10, (c) at 7:45, (d) at 9:28] Luben Vichey (bs), the Monk; Richard Tucker (t), Don Carlos; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Apr. 5, 1952
[Note that bass Lubomir Vichegonov, a Met stalwart of the era, has officially become Luben Vichey, which is how he's listed for his full Met career in the Metropolitan Opera Annals.]
(The Bjoerling performance was an obvious choice, but once you've heard Richard Tucker's out-of-his-mind-gorgeous 1952 performance, you'll understand why it's here too. For continuity, I've included the complete scene up to this point in both; if you don't want to listen to the previous part, you can just skip to the next track.)
For contrast, here's what the whole scene in the five-act version (or rather, again, the scene up to Rodrigo's entrance) sounds like:
Richard Margison (t), Don Carlos; Ildebrando D'Arcangelo (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, Bernard Haitink, cond. Philips, recorded July 1996
To the monks, and perhaps to the world, Charles V was vainglorious and overreaching. To Carlos, it sounds to me, he was more like the man we heard last night, in Act III of Ernani, reaching a crucial juncture in his life, and reaching deep in himself to see, in the end, what's there, what kind of man he is, or means to be.
It's an age-old question: Do people really change? It seems to me rather obvious that we change a little a lot, and that far less frequently we may change a lot. In most of our lives there come test points. Maybe it's not being elected Holy Roman Emperor, but in our own little world it may be just as consequential. Verdi not only managed to dramatize this process of rising to the challenge, of achieving a leap in personal growth, but did it in the form of a musical event -- what else is "O sommo Carlo" (and the ensuing ensemble) about?
"IF THEY STILL WEEP IN HEAVEN,
WEEP FOR MY SORROW"
I know I'm going on, but, It's frustrating to be scratching the surface of a work as vast and deep as Don Carlos. Perhaps we can let it go if we just follow some of the threads we've begun to trace back in "our" scene.
You'll recall that in Friday's quiz I tried to trick you into thinking that what is in fact the prelude to the final act of the opera might be its start. Perhaps you're sick by now of the Monks' Chorus, but we're going to hear it once again as resurrected in that prelude, and the extraordinary aria it introduces, Elisabeth's "Tu che le vanità," arguably Verdi's greatest soprano aria.
Elisabeth has uncomplainingly subjugated herself to the barrenness of her loveless marriage to King Philip, further tormented by the inevitable contact with her beloved (now) stepson, Carlos. One last meeting has been arranged at -- where else? -- the tomb of Charles V. And it's to the departed emperor that she addresses herself.
We're going to hear two quite remarkable but totally different performances. Eleanor Steber's is a vocal joy: the voice soaring easily and precisely and beautifully from top to bottom, with excellent advantage taken of this rare opportunity for Elisabeth to give voice to what's inside her. The Maria Callas of 1958 couldn't claim any of those vocal glories Steber commanded in 1955, but she was still Callas, which means the piece is taken very personally. To me this isn't an "either/or" proposition; I would hate to be without either.
Scene: The monastery of San Yuste. Elisabeth enters slowly, lost in thought. She approaches the tomb of Charles V and kneels.
ELISABETH: You who knew
the vanities of the world
and enjoy in the tomb
profound repose,
if they still weep in heaven,
weep for my sorrow,
and bear my tears
to the throne of the Lord.
Carlos will come here. Yes!
Let him leave and forget forever.
To Posa I swore
to watch over his days.
Let him follow his destiny;
glory will trace it.
For me, my day
has already reached its evening.
France, noble land,
so dear to my verdant years!
Fontainebleau! Toward you
my thoughts spread their wings.
There God heard my vow
to love for eternity,
and that eternity lasted
only a single day.
Amid you, lovely gardens
of this Iberian land,
if Carlo should ever
tarry in the evening,
may the turf, the brooks,
the fountains, the woods,
the blossoms sing of our
love in harmony.
Farewell! Farewell, bright golden dreams,
lost illusion!
The knot is cut,
the light is snuffed out.
Farewell! Farewell again, verdant years!
Yielding to cruel pain,
the heart has just one desire:
the peace of the tomb!
You who knew etc.
Ah, lay my tears
at the feet of the Lord.
[includes orchestral introduction to the act; aria at 2:27] Eleanor Steber (s), Elisabeth; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 5, 1955
Maria Callas (s), Elisabeth; Philharmonia Orchestra, Nicola Rescigno, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 19-24, 1958
Carlos arrives, and Elisabeth persuades him to recommit himself to the Flemish freedom cause, which he sees as a glorious death. Our final excerpt picks up at this point.
ELISABETH, then CARLOS: But above we will meet
in a better world.
The eternal future's
hours already sound for us,
and there we will find,
folded together with the Lord,
the happiness that
always flees us on earth. ELISABETH: On that day that for us
will have no tomorrow . . . BOTH: . . . we shall forget all reference
to affection here on earth. CARLOS: Farewell, my mother. ELISABETH: My son, farewell. CARLOS: Eternal farewell. ELISABETH: Eternal farewell. BOTH: Farwell! Farewell! CARLOS: Forever farewell! BOTH: Forever farewell!
Forever! KING PHILIP [entering, followed by the Grand Inquisitor and the officers of the Inquisition, and taking the arm of the queen]: Yes, forever!
I demand a double sacrifice!
I will do my duty.
{To the Grand Inquisitor] But you? THE GRAND INQUISITOR: The Holy Office will do its. ELISABETH: Heaven! THE GRAND INQUISITOR [to the officers, indicating Carlos]: Guards! CARLOS: God will avenge me!
His hand will shatter
the tribunal of blood!
[Don Carlos, defending himself, moves back toward the tomb of Charles V. The cloister gate opens, and the Monk of Act I appears, but in the mantle and with the royal crown appears. It is Charles V.] MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. THE GRAND INQUISITOR: It's the voice of Charles! OFFICERS OF THE INQUISITION: It's Charles V! KING PHILIP [terrified]: My father! ELISABETH: Oh heaven!
[Charles V drags the bewildered Carlos into the cloister.]
Mirella Freni (s), Elisabeth; José Carreras (t), Don Carlos; Nicolai Ghiaurov (bs), King Philip; Ruggero Raimondi (bs), the Grand Inquisitor; José van Dam (bs-b), the Monk (Charles V); Chorus of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Berlin Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 15-20, 1978
And the last thing we hear, sounded with vehemence by the brasses, is the Monks' Chorus in this newly violent form.
Sunday Classics: In Verdi's "Don Carlos," all paths lead back to the tomb of Charles V
>
The scene at the tomb of the Emperor Charles V, where Prince Carlos, the emperor's grandson, will shortly come seeking "peace and forgetfulness" (as we'll hear in a while), opens the four-act version of Don Carlos performed by Riccardo Muti at La Scala in December 1992. The monk who will so unnervingly remind Carlos of his grandfather is bass Andrea Silvestrelli.
"At the monastery of San Yuste, where my grandfather
Charles V ended his life, tired of his grandeur,
I seek in vain peace and forgetfulness of the past.
Of the one who was stolen from me
the image wanders with me into this icy cloister."
-- Don Carlos, at his grandfather's tomb, in Verdi's Don Carlos
by Ken
As I mentioned in Friday night's preview focusing on Verdi's Don Carlos, the scene I really want to get at is the first scene in the cloister of the monastery at San Yuste, before the tomb of Emperor Charles V. (Last night, you'll recall, we looked back to Verdi's much earlier opera Ernani to see the young King Carlos undergo a remarkable transformation at the time of his election as Holy Roman Emperor.) It's Act II, Scene 1 in the opera's original five-act version, but when Verdi grudgingly created a more practical four-act version, by cutting the prologue-like Act I, it became the opera's opening scene. And it makes not just an unusual but a singularly powerful opening scene -- there's nothing quite like it. (There's something with a more than casual resemblance, though. I'm afraid we have much too much to do today, but we'll come back to it.)
To refresh your memory, let's reset the scene. It begins with the scene you get by combining our mystery excerpts "E" and "B" from Frida:, a brief orchestral prelude, hushed and mysterious, dominated by the horns, followed by a sepulchral chorus of monks -- also dominated by the horns -- whom we might expect to be
Scene: The tomb of Charles V in the monastery of San Yuste. A choir of monks is praying in the offstage chapel. Onstage, a kneeling monk prays before the tomb.
MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor,
is no longer more than mute dust.
At the feet of his heavenly maker
his haughty soul now trembles. A MONK: He wanted to rule over the world,
forgetting the one who in the sky
guides the stars on their faithful path.
His pride was immense;
his error was profound. MONKS: Charles, the supreme emperor &c. A MONK: Great is God alone, and if he wills it
he makes heaven and earth tremble.
Ah! Merciful God,
compassionate to the sinner,
you will grant
that peace and pardon
descend on him from heaven. MONKS: Let your wrath not fall,
not fall on his soul. ALL: Great is God alone.
He alone is great.
José van Dam (bs-b), the Monk; Chorus of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Berlin Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 15-20, 1978
At this point, young prince Carlos enters -- the grandson and namesake of the great emperor, and son of the current king of Spain, Philip II (named for his grandfather, King Philip I of Castille, who reunited Spain through his marriage to the daughter of King Ferdinand of Aragon). Carlos is in despair over the loss of his barely met dream woman, the princess Elisabeth of Valois, daughter of the French king François I. This is the business of Act I of the five-act version.
The marriage of Elisabeth and Carlos had been arranged as a way to end the ruinous (especially for France) Hundred Years' War, and Carlos had come surreptitiously to the forest of Fontainebleau to "reconnoiter" his bride-to-be. Happily for him, one look was all it took; he was hopelessly in love. That's what the poor boy was originally singing about in his aria:
[a] Recitative CARLOS: Fontainebleau! Immense and solitary forest!
What gardens bursting with flowers and light
could match, for the happy Don Carlos, the frozen ground
where his smiling Elisabeth passed?
Leaving Spain and my father's court,
braving the terrible wrath of Philip,
hidden among the people of his ambassador,
I've been able to see her finally, my beautiful fiancée,
the one who for so long has ruled my thoughts,
the one who from now on will rule my heart.
[b] Aria
I saw her, and in her smile,
in her eyes filled with an enchanting fire,
my heart, totally moved, could read
the happiness of living while loving her!
A future filled with tenderness!
Azure skies bathing all our days!
God smiles on our youth.
God bless our chaste loves!
[aria at 1:54] Roberto Alagna (t), Don Carlos; Orchestre de Paris, Antonio Pappano, cond. EMI, recorded live March 1996
[aria at 1:45] Plácido Domingo (t), Don Carlos; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Claudio Abbado, cond. DG, recorded January 1983 and June 1984
It got even better for Carlos. He managed to meet Elisabeth, pretending to be part of the Spanish ambassador's delegation, and she fell equally hard for him. Of course she couldn't admit her attraction, being engaged to the Spanish heir apparent and all. But in a truly magical musicodramatic moment, he declared, "Carlo son io." At least that's how it goes in the more familiar Italian translation. In the original French it's the even simpler "Je suis Carlos."
Now, to get back to "our" scene. It's at the point where Carlos enters San Yuste that the four- and five-act versions deviate for the only time. Oh, there are lots of other textual issues on which directors and conductors may make different choices, but they really aren't particular to four vs. five acts. However, we can say with confidence that's surprising when it comes to declarative statements about this opera that at this point:
* Darned near every four-act performance has Carlos sing an understandably agitated recitative that was newly composed for this version, leading into an only-slightly-modified version of his aria from the dropped Act I.
* Darned near every five-act performance has Carlo sing the brief bit of text translated from the French at the top of this post, music that is never heard in four-act performances. It lasts about 43 seconds in the performance we're about to hear; most performances probably take a couple of seconds less.
b>CARLOS:
At the monastery of San Yuste, where my grandfather
Charles V finished out his life, weary of glory and honor.
I seek in vain the peace that my heart so desires.
Of the one who was stolen from me
the image wanders with me into this cloister of horror. MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. CARLOS: His voice! My heart trembles!
I thought -- what terror! --
I saw the emperor,
who in his habit was concealing
his breastplate and golden crown.
It's said that he still appears in the cloister! MONK: The heart's war
in heaven will be calmed. DON CARLOS: O terror! O terror! Flaviano Labò (t), Don Carlos; Alessandro Maddalena (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Gabriele Santini, cond. DG, recorded 1961
A NOTE ON LANGUAGES
This is a nightmare with regard to Don Carlos, since the opera was written to a French libretto but is still far more often performed in Italian translation. There is a widespread misimpression that the original five-act version was in French but that the four-act revision was in Italian. Uh-uh. To my knowledge, the position of the ranking scholars of the opera is still that the composer never worked with any text but the French. Therefore, as a matter of practicality (and sanity), I've stuck as much as seemed sensible to the forms used in the French text -- for example "Carlos" (as in Spanish) rather than the Italian "Carlo" for the title character and "Elisabeth" rather than "Elisabetta" for his beloved (and later stepmother).
It's awfully difficult to be consistent, though, for example when quoting from actually sung text; "Carlo son io" is what tenors actually sing when performing in Italian. And I throw up my hands when it comes to figures of the historical importance of Emperor Charles V (Charles-Quint in French, Karl V in German) and King Philip II. Contrarily, I've stuck to "San Yuste" in preference to either the French "St. Juste" or the Italian "San Giusto," because it's a real place. For no particularly good reason, I can't bring myself to give up the familiar "Rodrigo" for "Rodrigue," though it's manifestly silly to butt "Carlos" up against "Rodrigo." (The difference, perhaps, is that "Carlos," the "French" option, is actually Spanish.)
As for the sung texts, there are significant (sometimes very significant) and much-discussed differences between the French and Italian. I've generally followed the language of the performance(s) being heard, which here is mostly Italian.
None of this works smoothly. So apologies all around, but I've done the best I could.
I said Friday that it was this scene of Don Carlos that had prompted this entire inquiry, and might have specified that I mean only this part of the scene. I don't know that many people give a hoot about it. Things become livelier in a moment, when Carlos's dear friend Rodrigo, the marquis of Posa, happens on the scene, and the two sing one of the great tenor-baritone duets, culminating in this thrilling oath of friendship and commitment to the liberation of oppressed Flanders:
CARLOS and RODRIGO: God, who in our souls
wished to instill hope and love,
in our hearts you must kindle
a desire for liberty.
We swear together to live
and die together. RODRIGO: On earth, in heaven -- BOTH: -- your goodness
can unite us.
Ah, God, who in our souls &c. RODRIGO: They're coming now. CARLOS: O terror!
Just seeing her I tremble! RODRIGO: Courage!
[Philip. leading Elisabeth, appears in the midst of the monks. Philip kneels for a moment before the tomb of Charles V, then proceeds on his way. The monks are heard from inside.] MONKS: Carlo, the great emperor &c. CARLOS: He has made her his!
I've lost her!
I've lost her. He has made her his!
Great God! RODRIGO: Come close to me,
close to me. You'll have more strength,
more strength! CARLO: He's made her his! I've lost her!
He's made her his! BOTH: We'll live together and die together!
Our last breath
will be, will be a shout, a shout:
Liberty!
We'll live together &c.
Jussi Bjoerling (t), Don Carlos; Robert Merrill (b), Rodrigo; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Nov. 11, 1950
Richard Tucker (t), Don Carlos; Ettore Bastianini (b), Rodrigo; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 5, 1955
Franco Corelli (t), Don Carlos; Nicolae Herlea (b), Rodrigo; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 7, 1964
(Although it was a decade later, Richard Tucker was my first Carlos and Robert Merrill my first Rodrigo. Bjoerling and Merrill of course recorded the whole duet for RCA on their mini-album of operatic duets -- a meager substitute for the complete Don Carlos they should have participated in. Carlos wasn't actually one of Franco Corelli's really good roles, since it didn't offer many opportunities for him to open up and let that glorious megatenor fly, but this is one such. This performance is also a nice memento of the Romanian baritone Nicolae Herlea; it's sobering to realize the Met roster was once so well-stocked with Italianate baritones that no great need was felt to keep him around.)
Still, as I say, this is not the part of the scene that I'm interested in. It's Carlos's flight to San Yuste, seeking something at the tomb of his grandfather: courage, answers, relief, or perhaps just oblivion. We don't, after all, know what Charles himself had sought there when he gave up the throne, either "weary of glory and honor" or "tired of his grandeur."
And so it's those 40-45 seconds I keep coming back to. Maybe we should hear this little chunk again. Here it is in French. Remember, it's only Carlos's first bit (about 42 seconds here) that was lost in the four-act reduction; the rest, as we'll hear in a moment, was successfully tacked onto Carlos's relocated aria.
Plácido Domingo (t), Don Carlos; Nikita Storojev (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Teatro alla Scala, Claudio Abbado, cond. DG, recorded January 1983 and June 1984
Perhaps Verdi himself thought so little of that tiny snip of music that he didn't give a second thought to throwing it overboard. He did, after all, have two problems to solve: rescuing Carlos's one and only aria (a modest one, especially alongside the extraordinary solo opportunities provided the soprano, mezzo, baritone, and bass in this opera, and really hard to make a special effect with, but still, one aria is better than none), and providing the basic plot details that were lost with the jettisoning of Act I. Here's how he did it.
[a] Opening of scene (see above)
[b] Recitative CARLOS: I've lost her, I've lost her!. Oh, supreme power!
Another, and it's my father,
Another, and it's my father,
stole the woman I adore,
the wife promised to me!
Ah, how pure and beautiful was the day,
the day without tomorrow,
on which, drunk with hope,
it was given to us to roam in the shade,
alone together, on the sweet soil of France,
in the forest of Fontainebleau!
[c] Aria CARLOS: I saw her, and her sweet smile
opened a new heaven to me.
Ahi, forever now I've been separated
from that heart by a father, a king!
My life now holds no hope
of a single day of joy.
You have robbed me, enchantress,
of heart and hope and dreams and love.
Alas! I've lost her! I've lost her!
[d] Solos MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. CARLOS: His voice! My heart trembles!
I thought -- what terror! --
I saw the emperor,
who in his habit was concealing
his breastplate and golden crown.
It's said that he still appears in the cloister! MONK: The heart's war
in heaven will be calmed. DON CARLOS: O terror! O terror!
[(b) at 6:18, (c) at 7:44, (d) at 9:30] Lubomir Vichegonov (bs), the Monk; Jussi Bjoerling (t), Don Carlos; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Nov. 11, 1950
[(b) at 6:10, (c) at 7:45, (d) at 9:28] Luben Vichey (bs), the Monk; Richard Tucker (t), Don Carlos; Fritz Stiedry, cond. Live performance, Apr. 5, 1952
[Note that bass Lubomir Vichegonov, a Met stalwart of the era, has officially become Luben Vichey, which is how he's listed for his full Met career in the Metropolitan Opera Annals.]
(The Bjoerling performance was an obvious choice, but once you've heard Richard Tucker's out-of-his-mind-gorgeous 1952 performance, you'll understand why it's here too. For continuity, I've included the complete scene up to this point in both; if you don't want to listen to the previous part, you can just skip to the next track.)
For contrast, here's what the whole scene in the five-act version (or rather, again, the scene up to Rodrigo's entrance) sounds like:
Richard Margison (t), Don Carlos; Ildebrando D'Arcangelo (bs), the Monk; Orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, Bernard Haitink, cond. Philips, recorded July 1996
To the monks, and perhaps to the world, Charles V was vainglorious and overreaching. To Carlos, it sounds to me, he was more like the man we heard last night, in Act III of Ernani, reaching a crucial juncture in his life, and reaching deep in himself to see, in the end, what's there, what kind of man he is, or means to be.
It's an age-old question: Do people really change? It seems to me rather obvious that we change a little a lot, and that far less frequently we may change a lot. In most of our lives there come test points. Maybe it's not being elected Holy Roman Emperor, but in our own little world it may be just as consequential. Verdi not only managed to dramatize this process of rising to the challenge, of achieving a leap in personal growth, but did it in the form of a musical event -- what else is "O sommo Carlo" (and the ensuing ensemble) about?
"IF THEY STILL WEEP IN HEAVEN,
WEEP FOR MY SORROW"
I know I'm going on, but, It's frustrating to be scratching the surface of a work as vast and deep as Don Carlos. Perhaps we can let it go if we just follow some of the threads we've begun to trace back in "our" scene.
You'll recall that in Friday's quiz I tried to trick you into thinking that what is in fact the prelude to the final act of the opera might be its start. Perhaps you're sick by now of the Monks' Chorus, but we're going to hear it once again as resurrected in that prelude, and the extraordinary aria it introduces, Elisabeth's "Tu che le vanità," arguably Verdi's greatest soprano aria.
Elisabeth has uncomplainingly subjugated herself to the barrenness of her loveless marriage to King Philip, further tormented by the inevitable contact with her beloved (now) stepson, Carlos. One last meeting has been arranged at -- where else? -- the tomb of Charles V. And it's to the departed emperor that she addresses herself.
We're going to hear two quite remarkable but totally different performances. Eleanor Steber's is a vocal joy: the voice soaring easily and precisely and beautifully from top to bottom, with excellent advantage taken of this rare opportunity for Elisabeth to give voice to what's inside her. The Maria Callas of 1958 couldn't claim any of those vocal glories Steber commanded in 1955, but she was still Callas, which means the piece is taken very personally. To me this isn't an "either/or" proposition; I would hate to be without either.
Scene: The monastery of San Yuste. Elisabeth enters slowly, lost in thought. She approaches the tomb of Charles V and kneels.
ELISABETH: You who knew
the vanities of the world
and enjoy in the tomb
profound repose,
if they still weep in heaven,
weep for my sorrow,
and bear my tears
to the throne of the Lord.
Carlos will come here. Yes!
Let him leave and forget forever.
To Posa I swore
to watch over his days.
Let him follow his destiny;
glory will trace it.
For me, my day
has already reached its evening.
France, noble land,
so dear to my verdant years!
Fontainebleau! Toward you
my thoughts spread their wings.
There God heard my vow
to love for eternity,
and that eternity lasted
only a single day.
Amid you, lovely gardens
of this Iberian land,
if Carlo should ever
tarry in the evening,
may the turf, the brooks,
the fountains, the woods,
the blossoms sing of our
love in harmony.
Farewell! Farewell, bright golden dreams,
lost illusion!
The knot is cut,
the light is snuffed out.
Farewell! Farewell again, verdant years!
Yielding to cruel pain,
the heart has just one desire:
the peace of the tomb!
You who knew etc.
Ah, lay my tears
at the feet of the Lord.
[includes orchestral introduction to the act; aria at 2:27] Eleanor Steber (s), Elisabeth; Kurt Adler, cond. Live performance, March 5, 1955
Maria Callas (s), Elisabeth; Philharmonia Orchestra, Nicola Rescigno, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 19-24, 1958
Carlos arrives, and Elisabeth persuades him to recommit himself to the Flemish freedom cause, which he sees as a glorious death. Our final excerpt picks up at this point.
ELISABETH, then CARLOS: But above we will meet
in a better world.
The eternal future's
hours already sound for us,
and there we will find,
folded together with the Lord,
the happiness that
always flees us on earth. ELISABETH: On that day that for us
will have no tomorrow . . . BOTH: . . . we shall forget all reference
to affection here on earth. CARLOS: Farewell, my mother. ELISABETH: My son, farewell. CARLOS: Eternal farewell. ELISABETH: Eternal farewell. BOTH: Farwell! Farewell! CARLOS: Forever farewell! BOTH: Forever farewell!
Forever! KING PHILIP [entering, followed by the Grand Inquisitor and the officers of the Inquisition, and taking the arm of the queen]: Yes, forever!
I demand a double sacrifice!
I will do my duty.
{To the Grand Inquisitor] But you? THE GRAND INQUISITOR: The Holy Office will do its. ELISABETH: Heaven! THE GRAND INQUISITOR [to the officers, indicating Carlos]: Guards! CARLOS: God will avenge me!
His hand will shatter
the tribunal of blood!
[Don Carlos, defending himself, moves back toward the tomb of Charles V. The cloister gate opens, and the Monk of Act I appears, but in the mantle and with the royal crown appears. It is Charles V.] MONK: The sorrow of earth
follows us even into the cloister.
The heart's war only
in heaven will be calmed. THE GRAND INQUISITOR: It's the voice of Charles! OFFICERS OF THE INQUISITION: It's Charles V! KING PHILIP [terrified]: My father! ELISABETH: Oh heaven!
[Charles V drags the bewildered Carlos into the cloister.]
Mirella Freni (s), Elisabeth; José Carreras (t), Don Carlos; Nicolai Ghiaurov (bs), King Philip; Ruggero Raimondi (bs), the Grand Inquisitor; José van Dam (bs-b), the Monk (Charles V); Chorus of the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Berlin Philharmonic, Herbert von Karajan, cond. EMI, recorded Sept. 15-20, 1978
The last thing we hear, sounded with vehemence by the brasses, is the Monks' Chorus in this newly violent form.
