July 2013

Opera 21

July 2013

By Julia So単a

Sexism in Opera

Opera21 magazine

Collaborative, submission based magazine for the 21st Century Opera Enthusiast

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Table of Contents Volume 1 No. 7

3 Bel Canto & Women Holly Nicholas

5 Women’s Illness as Metaphor Ilana Walder-Biesanz 7 Così fan Tutte: Infidelity and Deception Kimberly Feltkamp

13 Why Don Giovanni is a rapist: A guide to reading the libretto Kevin Ng 14 La Donna é Mobile: Notes on the Stereotyping of Women in Select Operas Esther Corona 17 Come Scoglio* Kimberly Feltkamp

*Featured novella, in parts

Bel Canto and Women Holly Nicholas brother uses to explain her reluctance to celebrate her marriage. Ludovic Tezier, in an interval interview during the Metropolitan Opera’s Lucia in 2011, suggested that Enrico himself is mentally ill, and is another influence on Lucia’s deterioration. The trigger of her murder of Arturo and the hallucinations, therefore, is the loss of the only good thing she has left, after Edgardo publicly humiliates her.

Thus, it is important that the romantic music that Donizetti lavishes upon her relationship with Edgardo is pure indulgent bel canto, as a signifier of how much Lucia idealises their love, and in turn how much its loss will affect her. It is because of all these factors that she is unable to cope mentally and reacts violently, rather than because of an unexplainable female inability to control strong emotions. In this interpretation, Lucia di Lammermoor can still resonate deeply with modern audiences, because we are forced to recognise the terrifying capabilities of the minds of even the most harmless people. In short, the iconic image of Lucia in a white dress stained with blood cannot become a substitute for honest direction.

It is not just with violent women that the women of bel canto are neglected; they themselves are frequently the subjects of violence, as a way of explaining more submissive characters. In Mary Zimmerman’s production of Bellini’s La sonnambula at the Metropolitan Opera, the action was set in the present day. The quaint plot of La sonnambula is perfectly matched with Bellini’s ethereal and undemanding music, the height of operatic escapism. Therefore Zimmerman’s concept is ambitious, although not impossible to pull off.

The heroine Amina, traditionally a simple farm girl, became a dynamic modern opera performer, and her fiancée Elvino, her co-star.

Everything about bel canto is gratuitous. It is a genre in which singers are frequently expected to ornament already florid vocal writing, which often distracts both the performer and the audience from dramatic truth. Donizetti, Bellini and Rossini’s operas also often depend on the thrill of vocal ephemerality more than any other genre, because more often than not we appreciate ornamentation improvised or not - within the drama as an achievement by the singer themselves, rather than as an extraordinarily honest expression without words. Therefore, the fact that many popular bel canto operas have eponymous female heroines presents a problem: how do we adequately represent women in operas in which their characters are obscured by an oldfashioned focus on vocalism, which portrays seemingly archaic stereotypical character traits?

All too often, directors rely on stock images which they think will stimulate audiences, without considering how this further distances us from really listening to what these (very vocal) characters are saying.

Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor is a good example of an opera in which extreme virtuosity should not be separated from the drama because the famous mad scene, the dramatic resolution of the opera, cannot become a showpiece that does not engage with what we mean by ‘mad’. Using the scene’s reputation to let us assume that Lucia ‘just goes mad’ refers to Donizetti’s definition, which was based on pre-twentieth century notions of female hysteria. Through this lens, we can only see the work as an example of women as they were in the 1830s, which is to ignore the possibility of exploring a realistic explanation for Lucia’s violence – mental illness. At the start of the opera, Lucia is bereaved, a point her

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communicate. A recent production of Rossini’s La Donna del Lago at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden exemplifies an on-going school of thought that Rossini is completely unintelligible without help, to the detriment of the female protagonist. Not only is Elena subjected to the same kind of unnecessary violence as Zimmerman’s Amina, but this violence is dealt from all but one of the male characters, who come from all walks of life, removing any glimmer of justification for the inclusion of this violence, as all types of men are demonised, leaving no reason for the joyous final aria apart from an escape from a hostile and misogynistic environment. From a practical viewpoint, the systematic execution of the violence reveals it as a lazy attempt to shock the audience simplistically, much like bloodspattered Lucia, in the place of trusting the impression of fury or frustration created by complicated vocal writing. If the trend of providing moments of superficial excitement at the expense of female characters continues, opera will regress to the conceptions of women as they were when these works were composed.

The portrayal of women in distress in bel canto is possible without relying solely on stereotypical images or even the reversal of those images. A bel canto production which accepts the virtuosity with which the characters express themselves, with a strong sense of the environment the characters inhabit, as well as concentrating on how they interact with this environment and with each other through the musical drama, can be more insightful and affecting than a concept that tries to portray the narrative as something other than selfconsciously vocal. Fundamentally, it is only when these characters simply sing that they can speak to us.

When he believes she has been unfaithful, his extended angry aria ‘Tutto e sciolto…Ah, perche non posso odiarti’ builds to the point where he is forcing her to the floor, as she is forced to endure his literally screaming at her, as the tenor part is almost painfully high. Within the original setting of the opera, Amina’s endurance of this tirade is believable, as within that simple pastoral setting, adultery has a larger significance on the whole community, whereas more diverse notions of modern romantic relationships clearly required Zimmerman to raise the stakes of the break-up by telling us how devastated we should feel, through Elvino’s extreme reaction. This, however, is heavy-handed, and makes the resolution of a traditionally unbelievable opera even less believable. In an attempt to escape an overly romantic reading, Zimmerman touches on a portrayal of domestic violence, which would be affecting anywhere else, but here sticks out like a sore thumb in an opera with a happy ending.

Again, a refusal to engage with bel canto ultimately reduces the female protagonist to acting as an apologetic scapegoat for the quirks of the genre, instead of allowing her to sing for herself. This only perpetuates the idea that women can be categorised, when in fact this and most other operas allow for rounded and realistic portrayals of women.

Gioacchino Rossini’s operas are arguably the most difficult to deal with dramatically, because of his pattern of more functional recitative followed by a showy aria: the least reminiscent of normal human expression, and therefore requiring the largest suspension of disbelief.

This, however, is not a fault to be corrected by directorial intervention; Rossini’s music speaks for itself, no less his women. In fact, female characters in Rossini are more often silenced by attempts to stage bel canto as if it were Berg, than a failure of Rossini’s music to

Holly Nicholas is a Verdi fanatic and Classics student living in London. She blogs informally about opera at tornamiadir.tumblr.com, and is currently working on her undergraduate thesis about Roman history in opera.

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Women’s Illness as Metaphor Ilana Walder-Biesanz patients were considered particularly sensitive and artistic, and these traits were seen as the causes rather than the consequences of the disease. Explaining illness using individuals’ constitutions was a way of making sense of a scary and poorly understood phenomenon.

In her famous treatise Illness as Metaphor (in which she argues that metaphorical interpretations of illness are harmful and dishonest), Susan Sontag claims that TB was attributed to repressed passion: “With the modern diseases (once TB, now cancer), the romantic idea that the disease expresses the character is invariably extended to assert that the character causes the disease–because it has not expressed itself. Passion moves inward, striking and blighting the deepest cellular recesses.” Our three consumptive opera heroines all suffer from repressed passion: Violetta has been living the gay life of a courtesan and denying her potential to love deeply and truly; Mimì has been alone without an outlet for her affectionate nature; Antonia has been separated from her lover and forbidden to sing.

TB was romanticized in men in the 1800s too, particularly among poets. Shelley and Keats both suffered from it, and Lord Byron mentioned that he “should like to die from consumption.” But because it was more acceptable for men to express their passion than for women to do so (and because so many famous artists suffered from TB), the disease in men became associated with creative genius and artistic expression. This may explain the absence of male tuberculosis victims in opera.

A pale genius who dies young is a sad figure, but not sufficiently dramatic to furnish material for an opera (or, in the case of all three of these examples, a melodramatic novel on which an

I am sure modern opera fans know that tuberculosis (TB) can and does afflict members of all genders, but they could be forgiven for thinking it was a uniquely female disease. Mimì (La Bohème), Violetta (La Traviata), and Antonia (Les contes d’Hoffmann) all suffer and die from consumption (as TB was called), but I can’t think of a single male opera character with it. There are two reasons for this genderspecific portrayal of illness: the romanticization of the physical symptoms of TB and the metaphorical significance attributed to the disease.

Many of the physical symptoms of tuberculosis are extreme versions of the characteristics considered attractive in women in the literature of the 1800s. Fainting spells, poor appetite and weight loss, and pale but flushed skin are all common signs of the disease. A nineteenth-century doctor described his consumptive patient as having “a clean fair skin, bright eyes, white teeth, delicate rosy complexion, sanguine temperament, great sensibility, thick lips…” (quoted in McMurry’s And I? I am in consumption: The tuberculosis patient, 1780–1930). The symptoms are described not neutrally, but as positive aesthetic features—note the use of adjectives (“clean,” “fair,” “bright,” “delicate,” “rosy,” “great”). In a time when frailty was considered attractive in women, consumption was a widespread disease that exaggerated the usual physical manifestations of frailty. To have TB was to be more beautiful.

Consumption did not merely heighten physical beauty; it was also seen as indicative of the patient’s emotions and intellect. Until 1882, the cause of TB (a bacterium) was unknown, and the mysterious disease was often attributed to the personality of its sufferers. TB

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opera is later based). The repression of a woman’s passionate love and the tragic illness that inevitably accompanies that repression is a much more promising subject. Of course, the aesthetic aspects of TB also contribute to its gender-specific presence in opera: although paleness and dangerous slenderness have occasionally been considered positive male traits, they were more consistently prized in women. In addition, frail prima donnas play on the stereotypical male need to care for the helpless female—by taking her away from her destructive lifestyle (Alfredo/Violetta), warming her cold hands (Rodolfo/Mimì), or making her promise not to sing (Hoffmann/Antonia).

Tuberculosis is actually more common in men than in women, but because of its physical effects and attributed metaphorical

significance, in opera it is exclusively a women’s disease. This is hardly the most sinister form of sexism in opera plots. As Carolyn Abbate and Roger Parker point out in A History of Opera, consumptive heroines are nothing compared to the “long line of singing women who in the final act are strangled, crushed, shot, stabbed and put in sacks, drowned, poisoned or cast into a vat of boiling oil.” If opera is, as Catherine Clément famously claimed, “the undoing of women,” tuberculosis is a relatively peaceful way for them to be undone. But even if it happens to divas more frequently, operatic men also get violently poisoned, shot, and stabbed. The romanticized, metaphor-laden portrayal of tuberculosis in opera is particular to women.

Ilana Walder-Biesanz is an engineer, actress, and mezzo-soprano who adores philosophy, opera, theater, literature, historical fashions, and vintage dance. She can most frequently be found singing in the hallways of Olin College, where she is a senior Systems Engineering major and the president of the school's theater and opera organizations.

After graduation and a relaxing summer of working for Microsoft, she will pursue a graduate degree in European Literature at the University of Cambridge on a GatesCambridge fellowship. She tweets about opera (and occasionally other topics) as @ilana_wb.

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Così fan Tutte:

Infidelity and Deception Kimberly Feltkamp Deception and disguise were nearly essential elements in classical comedy, going back at least to Shakespeare, and are prominently featured in all three of the Mozart-Da Ponte operas. However, they take on a central role in Così fan Tutte, transforming from a mere dramatic ploy into a theme that drives and enriches the entire opera. Ferrando, Guglielmo, Don Alfonso and the maid, Despina, instigate this deception, bringing about the naturally convoluted effects of such actions.

Things are not always as they seem in this opera buffa. Even the interplay between music and libretto is ambiguous, since Mozart’s efforts often do not match the flippancy of Da Ponte’s text. As Brian Trowell explains, “…[the opera] emerges as an uneasy and unsettlingly mixed artistic experience, in which some of the truest and tenderest music Mozart ever wrote coexists with such dangerously empty pieces as the allegro of ‘Come scoglio’” 1 This discrepancy factors most prominently into his portrayal of the women. Fiordiligi and Dorabella each take a journey, coming out in the end a bit different than they went in at the beginning. Infidelity and deception serve as catalysts for these changes.

Fiordiligi Fiordiligi aspires to be the noble seria character like her predecessors Donna Anna and the Countess, but she never quite achieves it. The exaggerations of this opera buffa prevent her from reaching that plateau of nobility where the previous two characters reside. She does have her moments of seriousness, but they come where one would not expect them. These unexpected turns can be attributed completely to Mozart.

Fiordiligi and her sister, Dorabella, make their first musical entrance in a pretty duet, “Ah guarda, sorella” (No. 4), where they describe their lovers’ many advantages and implore Love to take revenge should they ever abandon them. However, the intimacy of the scene is superficial; the two sisters immediately compete. Rather than encouraging one another or sharing each another’s enthusiasm, each merely boasts about her individual lover. When Fiordiligi sings a line, Dorabella responds by attempting to out-do her sister. For example, Fiordiligi’s first seventeen-measure statement is balanced by Dorabella’s seventeen-measure response, but Dorabella’s section has more syncopation and excited staccato in the strings. She ends in the dominant key of E Major, reaching a bit lower in her vocal flourish than her sister did (Example 3.1). Dorabella’s section raises the bar for Fiordiligi’s next entrance, and despite her best efforts, Fiordiligi maintains dominance by reaching, in her turn, both higher and lower. The cooperative, affectionate mood of the Letter Duet between the Countess and Susanna in Le Nozze di Figaro (”Sull’aria” No. 20) is absent here. “Ah guarda, sorella” is a typical teenage-girl rivalry, enhanced by the fact that Fiordiligi and Dorabella are siblings.

1

Cairns, Mozart and His Operas, 182.

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Example 3.1 Così fan Tutte, No. 4, Fiordiligi, “Ah, look sister; what a beautiful mouth, such a noble face,” Dorabella, "Take a look and see; what fire in his eyes and what courage in his heart," mm. 14-50 This competition continues throughout the entire opera, although the sisters work together at certain moments. In the recitative before Fiordiligi’s first aria, “Come scoglio” (No. 14), Dorabella turns to her sister and asks, “Sister, what should we do?” (“Sorella che facciamo?” mm. 43-44). At that point, Fiordiligi turns to the Albanians (who, unbeknownst to her, are actually Ferrando and Guglielmo in disguise) and lets out her defiant aria. “Come scoglio” is one of many seria parodies in the opera. All the elements of opera seria here are out of proportion to the dramatic context, thus projecting the effect of Fiordiligi attempting to play a serious character rather than actually being one. An example of such exaggerations is the excessive number of large leaps in Fiordiligi’s music, especially in this aria. In m. 10, she descends a thirteenth, from the high G to the low B and in m. 48, she leaps a tenth, to name only two of the numerous leaps that exceed an octave. There is also an excessive amount of coloratura. The passage in m. 50-51 is especially erratic with its strange rhythmic patterns, large leaps, and wide range (Example 3.2). Both the large leaps and the coloratura are reminiscent of Donna Elvira’s music in the first act of Don Giovanni. In the Act I Quartet (Non ti fidar, No. 9), her extreme -8-

range and coloratura seem out of place in the dramatic context, creating a similar comic effect (Example 3.3).

Fiordiligi’s aria in general covers a wide range: it goes down to a low A and reaches up to a high C. This aria is extreme in every way and could, in another context, display great grief or perhaps madness.

Here, it is simply laughable. Where such extremes perfectly capture Donna Anna's intense emotional state, Fiordiligi only looks silly attempting to employ them. In the end, context is everything.

Example 3.2 Così fan Tutte, No. 14, Fiordiligi, “affection,” mm. 49-52

Example 3.3 Don Giovanni, No. 9, Donna Elvira, “it tells me a hundred things about the traitor that I did not know,” mm. 44-49 Mozart and Da Ponte employ this style of exaggerated opera seria music and language throughout the opera. However, Fiordiligi does express a few moments of serious, unexaggerated emotion, most notably in her second aria, “Per pietà, ben mio” (No. 25), which arrives late in the second act. Once again, we hear large leaps and coloratura, but this time these elements are not parodies. Fiordiligi has transformed into a woman with deep feelings and her second aria encapsulates true distress and passion. As Brown-Montesano believes, “The context is serious enough to dull what [Mary] Hunter refers to as the ‘double edge’ of faux-seria referentiality.” 2 Despite the serious nature of the aria, there still remains the lingering hint of irony. The conspicuous horns, which awkwardly interject themselves between Fiordiligi’s phrases, could have one of a variety of functions within the aria. Brown-Montesano suggests that they are the sign of cuckolding, an association common in eighteenth century music. This technique is heard in Figaro’s “Aprite un po’ quegl’occhi” (Le nozze di Figaro, No. 26). However, in that instance, the horn is separate from the voice, commenting on instead of accompanying Figaro. The horns are sometimes separate from Fiordiligi in her aria, but at other times they overlap her line and the two work together (Example 2

Brown-Montesano, Understanding the Women of Mozart’s Operas, 244.

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3.4, Example 3.5). This would suggest that the horns play a different role than the usual signal for cuckolding. They could be echoing military horn calls, which would be an allusion to Guglielmo, who is supposedly on the battlefield. The military calls could also foreshadow Fiordiligi's decision immediately after the aria to go to the battlefield herself.

Example 3.4 Così fan Tutte, No. 25, Fiordiligi, “oh God, will always hear,” mm. 7-9

Example 3.5 Così fan Tutte, No. 25, Fiordiligi, “for pity's sake, my dear, please forgive me,” mm. 21-23 Fiordiligi starts out as a silly girl, but later in the opera she develops a greater depth of sincerity which the libretto alone cannot account for; Mozart delineates this change through his music.

Dorabella Like her sister, Dorabella also changes, but her transformation is different. Dorabella begins like Fiordiligi: shallow and naïve, only more so. From the start, Dorabella serves as a beta to Fiordiligi’s alpha. However, by the second act, she has moved even farther away from her sister and become a very different person. This change can be heard in the progression between her two arias.

Dorabella’s Act I aria, “Smanie implacabili” (No. 11) is over-wrought and ridiculous, much like Fiordiligi’s “Come scoglio.” As Brown-Montesano points out, “Mozart treats the seria language ironically; it is simply too heavy for the circumstances and immaturely executed.” 3 She sticks to the imperative created by society, and enforced by her sister, to be chaste and faithful. Her ridiculous display in this aria is merely her delusional response to the “Albanians’” offer of affection.

“Smanie implacabili” perfectly illustrates the particular self-deception from which both sisters suffer. In this aria, Dorabella truly believes everything she is saying, but she is deceiving herself. This self-deception creates the strange dichotomy between the music and the words, causing the extreme seria elements, just as in Fiordiligi’s “Come scoglio.” However, self-deception does not survive to the end of the opera.

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Brown-Montesano, Understanding the Women in Mozart’s Operas, 228.

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Seduced by Despina’s views, Dorabella eventually wavers in her resolve to resist the men. The evidence is heard in the Act II duet, “Prenderò quel brunettino” (No. 20) and the consequences develop in her duet with Guglielmo, “Il core vi dono” (No. 23) and her following aria, “È amore un ladroncello” (No. 28). In “Prenderò quell brunettino,” Dorabella convinces her sister, and not incidentally herself, to play along with the suitors’ advances. Just as Fiordiligi led the way in their first duet together (“Ah guarda, sorella”), here Dorabella leads, moving away from her beta position. Brown-Montesano points out that Fiordiligi’s participation here in the second duet is a bit “forced.” 4 Most of her music is not overly creative but merely an echo of Dorabella. Dorabella’s flighty, impulsive nature is obvious in this duet, as is Fiordiligi’s tentativeness, illustrated by her overall reluctance to insert her own unique music. The tension between the sisters in this duet marks the beginning of their divergent character arcs. This is their last duet.

What begins as mere fun in the duet quickly becomes much more serious in the middle of the second Act, culminating in Dorabella’s duet with her sister’s fiancée (“Il core vi dono”). This duet nearly explodes with sensuality. In the recitative before the duet, Guglielmo attempts to seduce Dorabella with words, but she easily counters him. Even his first line of the duet is not overly compelling (especially when compared to Don Giovanni’s opening line in “La ci darem”). Dorabella’s response begins to unleash the true potential of the melody, embellishing it with a sort of breathlessness and expanding the range to encompass an octave. Guglielmo’s success comes when he physically touches Dorabella (“Se teco non l’hai perchè batte qui?” “If you don’t have [your heart] then what is beating there?” mm. 16-20). It is his body, not his words, that begins to crumble Dorabella’s resistance. The duet grows more and more sensual until Dorabella finally gives in, allowing Guglielmo to replace Ferrando’s locket with his own. The first seduction has occurred, marking a crucial turning point in the emotional arc of the opera.

This seduction is the first clue that Dorabella is no longer deceiving herself. The music rings with sincerity for both characters, but especially for Dorabella. She truly feels these things for the Albanian and all self-deception, for her, has fallen away. She has entered a new state: pathos. It is debatable whether pathos might be yet another level of deception, but it nevertheless exists here in this duet.

The music has lost all its previous woodenness and instead seems sincere. Dorabella now sings her true feelings, even if they may be short-lived. A similar phenomenon occurs for Guglielmo. Even though he is in disguise and, essentially, “deceiving” Dorabella, his music is not put on. He is truly seductive and the emotions seem real. This duet bears a striking resemblance to the seduction duet from Don Giovanni, “La cì darem la mano” (No. 7). In that duet, Don Giovanni may be lying about wanting to marry Zerlina, but he honestly desires her and that desire comes through in the music. The music is truthful: it reflects Don Giovanni’s feelings without any deception. Similarly, the music of “Il core vi dono” correctly depicts Guglielmo’s momentary attraction to Dorabella. Where there should be the most basic level of deception —of one character lying to another—, the music rings sincere.

Herein lies the strangest quality of Così fan Tutte: Mozart’s music uncovers a truth where Da Ponte’s libretto seems to be creating a deception.

After Dorabella gives in to Guglielmo, she sings her second aria, which is, ironically, similar to her first aria in theme but opposite in musical style. In her first aria, Dorabella mimics the language and sentiments of fictional novels of her time. In “È amore un ladroncello,” Dorabella spews Despina’s philosophy. Just as she used (or, rather, misused) the music of high tragedy in her first aria, here she 4

Ibid., 234.

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adopts Despina’s lower buffa style. As Dent points out, Dorabella’s music “naturally resembles Despina’s to some extent, but has a warmth of feeling and an aristocratic distinction that is quite foreign to the backstairs mind of the lady’s-maid.” 5 In both instances, Dorabella’s execution is a bit off from what it should be: she cannot replicate the seria style because she is not a seria character, yet she cannot completely get away from her upper-class roots when she is singing in Despina’s style. Just like Donna Elvira in Don Giovanni, Dorabella is a mezzo carattere, which causes her to vacillate between the seria of her sister and the buffa of her maid.

Despina Even though Despina is a female character, and therefore warrants discussion, she is the only woman in the Mozart-Da Ponte operas who does not have a defined character arc. From the beginning of the opera to the end, Despina remains the worldly, jaded, and self-sufficient maid. She serves the plot and the comedy, but she does not contribute to the emotional tapestry of the opera.

That Despina is the buffa lower-class servant is obvious in her first aria, “In uomini, in soldati” (No. 12). The 6/8 meter evokes the style of peasant music and her fluttering melody mimics the flippancy that she urges her mistresses to adopt. She is not deceiving the girls because she truly believes what she is telling them. She has a very low opinion of men in general. She tells Fiordiligi and Dorabella that one is just like the other because they are all worthless ("uno val l'altro, perché nessun val nulla," recitative before No. 12).

Her second aria is almost indistinguishable from the first. There is no progression of character or emotion, as there is between Fiordiligi’s and Dorabella’s sets of arias. One could arguably switch the order of the two arias and it would not affect the opera at all. Despina is the epitome of a stock buffa character. The two sisters are left to fend for themselves, unprotected by even one of their own gender.

Despina involves herself in the men's plan, but she only participates in the lowest form of deception: farce. She puts on the disguise of the doctor and the notary, changing her voice accordingly. These moments are the most shallow parts of the opera. Despina seems to lack the depth to reach even the level of self-deception and therefore she cannot contribute anything meaningful to the opera on an emotional level.

Even though Così fan Tutte is based on an elaborate deception involving many ridiculous disguises, there exists another layer of deception that proves to be much more complicated. At the start of the opera, both sisters deceive themselves, but as the plot unravels the sisters become much more real. In the end, pathos expressed in Mozart’s music has the power to overcome deception.

Kim Feltkamp is a mezzo-soprano currently pursuing her MM at Bard College in Dawn Upshaw’s Vocal Arts Program. She has been part of the online opera community as OperaRox, providing interactive opera liveshows and contests to educate and unite the opera community. She is also a published writer. You can find her at OperaRox, Kimozart, and her professional website.

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Mozart’s Operas, 203-204.

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Why Don Giovanni is a rapist: A guide to reading the libretto Kevin Ng At a performance of Don Giovanni I recently attended in Baden-Baden, I overheard the following conversation: “I thought that having Don Giovanni try to rape Donna Anna was gratuitous.”

“Absolutely, I agree. I hate these reinterpretations of the text. Why does Don Giovanni need to be portrayed as a rapist?”

Though Donna Anna usually receives top billing among the three ladies, she is also perhaps the least sympathetic character. This means, of course, that she is subject to the most reinterpretation on stage. Despite this, it apparently remains shocking to portray Donna Anna as a rape victim and Don Giovanni as a rapist.

Likely originating from a novella by ETA Hoffmann, it has become standard to portray Donna Anna as being hopelessly in love with Don Giovanni. Hoffmann and numerous directors see Donna Anna as being bored with Don Ottavio, passionate about Don Giovanni, and accusing him of raping her when she realizes that 1) he won’t stay with her, 2) she is partially responsible for her father’s death, and 3) her indiscretions might be revealed. Don Ottavio’s absolute uselessness and Donna Anna’s wish to delay their marriage is often used to support this interpretation.

There’s nothing wrong with this interpretation in itself, despite a few inconsistencies with the text (why does Donna Anna call out for servants? why doesn’t Don Giovanni deny it when Leporello accuses him of ‘sforzar la figlia’?). However, what seems strange is that audiences cannot accept the other interpretation of the character. This becomes particularly odd when considering the large community of opera fans decrying reinterpretations of the plot and calling for slavish devotion to the libretto. Why exactly is it so hard to believe a woman who claims that she’s been raped? Why is it so difficult to accept that Don Giovanni is a rapist, especially having seen him murder a man onstage?

Much of this, I suspect, comes from the desire to see Don Giovanni in a positive light. After all, how could any man resist these weak-willed, impulsive women? Taking the libretto literally, the ability of the three women to eventually resist Don Giovanni serve to make him look inept and impotent; conversely, portraying them as lying infatuated women shows a disturbing rationalization of Don Giovanni’s violent actions.

Kevin is a first-year university student who dreams of a career in the opera world, which is why he is currently studying cell biology and doing chemistry labs. He started blogging at nonpiudifiori.wordpress.com, born out of the need to talk to opera with somebody whose response was more insightful than “wait, you mean like Sarah Brightman?”

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La Donna é Mobile:

Stereotyping of Women Esther Corona Sexism is, by definition, linked to stereotyping and is a term which, even before gender theories emerged and developed, was used to explain discrimination and prejudice against women. It should not be strange then that opera, an art form that developed in highly patriarchal societies, presents so many examples of sexism. Often women were presented akin to helpless children and wards at best, and as chattels and possession in the worst cases. Women are also seen as sources of evil: temptresses and prostitutes.

Women in early opera are portrayed first as distant goddesses or heroines with a tenuous relation to real women in everyday life. These early roles were more often than not sung by men (castrati). In this period, perhaps the epitome of an assertive woman is Poppea in Monteverdi’s L'incoronazione di Poppea. It follows the story of the Roman Courtesan who plots to win the love and throne of the Emperor Nero through any means necessary, including the suicidal death of the philosopher Seneca and the banishment of Ottavia, Nero’s wife. She wins his love and the crown, scoring a victory for evil. Hardly a morality tale for the 17th Century! But certainly a different view of an empowered woman!

W.A. Mozart from his earliest years wrote many wonderful operas, but it would not be until he teamed up with Lorenzo Da Ponte (as librettist) that he would reach the greatest heights; to this day, he is still one of the major opera composers in all history because of these works. Pages and pages have been devoted to the three “Da Ponte” operas: Le Nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni, and Cosí Fan Tutte.

Experts certainly much more qualified than I am have analyzed the many angles of these operas, from the dramatic and philosophic to the musical.

The prevailing ideas about women are surely reflected in Don Giovanni, where they are presented as helpless victims, easily seduced and charmed by men .

Ordinary men fare no much better, Masetto is unable to defend his fiancée, Don Ottavio is unable to avenge his father-in-law’s murder, and Leporello is unable to think and act for himself. However, Don Giovanni finally ends up in hell, but more for his refusal to repent than for his actual acts. He might be condemned for the murder of Donna Anna’s father, but not for the thousands of ravished women all throughout Europe.

Le Nozze di Figaro, according to Paul Robinson, 1 is an opera about reconciliation through reason that reflects the values of the Age of Enlightenment in which it was written.

It is an opera about gender and power. Gender and class are at the core of the libretto and are also expressed through astounding musical ideas. We now meet intelligent and witty women, unwilling to submit or condone feudal practices such as the right of the first night. The main adult male characters, however, retain their sexist ideas. In a jealous rage, Figaro describes women as: Colombe maligne Malignant doves Maestre d’ inganni Mistresses of deceit Amiche d’affani, etc Friends of concerns….

1

Robinson P. (1985) Opera and Ideas. Cornell University Press. Ithaca, New York

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men and are capable of acting upon these desires.

As a counterpoint, the maid, Despina, tells her mistresses that they should never expect faithfulness from men and soldiers. Through Despina, Da Ponte and a very playful Mozart describe how men are all the same:

The Count Alamaviva thinks no better of his wife, forever suspicious of the possibility that she may be unfaithful, while at the same he considers it absolutely natural and acceptable to seduce other women. The opera ends with the aforementioned reconciliation of all lovers in music that also conveys the reconciliation of musical tensions.

The opera in Mozart’s “Da Ponte trilogy” that on the surface could be considered the most misogynous is certainly Cosí Fan Tutte.

The title gives us a hint of the plot: “Women all do it.” Don Alfonso, who has a very poor opinion of women, tries to convince Ferrando and Guglielmo that their fiancées, Dorabella and Fiordiligi, are not the faithful creatures that they claim, but that they will be unfaithful given the slightest chance. In order to prove his theory, Don Alfonso devices a scheme where the two officers will go off to war only to come back disguised as “Albanians” to woo each other’s fiancées. After a series of comic and dramatic incidents, and with the help of the sisters’ maid, they break the girls’ reluctance and the girls agree to marry their disguised fiancées. At that moment, Don Alfonso reveals the entire affair and Ferrando and Guglielmo are enraged. The sisters realize that they have been duped by Don Alfonso.

The latter admits his deception even though through it, he has “undeceived the lovers.” He asks that they all should forgive each other and be united. And truly…the lovers are once again united, although we never know who with whom. After all, love is a thief, a serpent.

In this convoluted plot, the cynical Don Alfonso constantly points out the flaws of women, reminding us of Hamlet: “Frailty, thy name is woman.” From his very first aria, Don Alfonso compares the constancy of women to the phoenix: a creature that everybody swears exists, but nobody has ever seen. In my opinion, under these cynical words what he is saying is that women have the same desires as

All of them Are made of the same stuff; The quivering leaves, The inconstant breezes Have more stability Than men.

Crocodile tears, Lying looks, Deceiving words, False endearments Are the basis Of their tricks.

In us they only prize Their own pleasure; Then they despise us, Deny us affection, And from such tyrants There's no mercy to be had. 2 It is interesting to note that, breaking with the conventions of class, it is a servant who is able to voice words which would have been totally unacceptable coming from the aristocratic girls.

Finally, it is not that Cosí Fan Tutte is an artistic statement of women´s liberation in that time. This was not even achieved by the French Revolution— a long time would pass before women would really claim their voices.

However, in this opera they are given splendid music to sing, they are more nuanced characters than the male characters, and 2

Translation from Opera Folio http://www.operafolio.com/libretto.asp?n=Cosi_fan_tut te&language=UK

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blossom into a reclaimed sexuality. And, as mentioned before, the opera ends with a very modern tone of uncertainty.

Women images in later operas fared no better. Catherine Clement in her classic Opera, or the Undoing of Women 3 precisely explores the subject of her book’s title through a continuum of deaths, stating that ''All the women in opera die a death prepared for them by a slow plot, woven by furtive, fleeting heros, up to their glorious moment: a sung death.'' So the 19th Century opera is full of magnificent deaths, from Tosca to Carmen. It seems that opera, with few exceptions, cannot end but in death or the downfall of the main female character. Usually this is a soprano who will sing the most moving and emotional music until the very end.

Sweeping into the 20th Century, I find what I really believe to be a very sexist opera is Die Frau ohne Schatten by Richard Strauss. I will not go into the complex story, written by the same Hugo von Hofmannsthal who collaborated with Strauss on many other operas which were much less demeaning toward women. However, in Die Frau ohne Schatten, the Empress has been drawn from a spiritual-sacred realm to marry her husband, the Emperor, when he captured her in the guise of a gazelle. However, she is not human, because she does not cast a shadow. Why does she not cast a shadow? Because she is unable, or unwilling, to bear children. She must find a shadow within a limited time to become fully human or she will be returned to her father and the Emperor will be turned to stone.

Here, we find one of the harmful forms of prejudice. This prevails even today in many places in the world where women are only valued by their fertility and where young

women cannot choose whether or not to bear children. In short, they are asked: When will you become a real woman and have a child?

The Empress finally acquires a shadow, buying it from a poor Dyer’s wife who does not want children either even though the Dyer does desire offspring. At the end, she realizes that her own happiness cannot depend on stealing somebody else’s humanity and she renounces her new shadow only to be rewarded by her father. He grants her a shadow, bringing the Emperor back to life and reuniting the estranged Dyer and his wife. It’s a fairy tale ending: they lived happily ever after and surely…had many, many children. All throughout the opera there is the presence of a chorus of unborn children.

It is impossible to go through all the operas, composers, and styles. Wagnerian women certainly deserve a separate analysis, as well as many modern day heroines.

However, one can wish that the day will come when women are portrayed in opera from a different perspective, and not only by male, but also by female composers. I look forward to a time when being a woman will mean much more than just being a mother, when all women are fully empowered to make any and all life choices, professional and personal, when they can exercise their reproductive and sexual rights, and when new operas are created to reflect a more gender-equitable society.

Fortunately, all the old operas will remain as mirrors of their societies speaking about women in sexist texts while singing some of the most glorious music ever written.

Esther is a Mexican psychologist who has been working internationally in the field of sexual health, sexuality education, and gender for almost 50 years. She has been deeply influenced by music, especially opera, as an active listener and as a friend and lover of musicians!

3

Clement C. (1979) Opera or the the undoing of women .Translated by Betsy Wing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press

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Come Scoglio A drama giocoso in three acts* K. A. Feltkamp

About the Author Kim Feltkamp is a mezzo-soprano currently pursuing her MM at Bard College in Dawn Upshaw’s Vocal Arts Program. She has been part of the online opera community as OperaRox, providing interactive opera liveshows and contests to educate and unite the opera community. She is also a published writer. You can find her at OperaRox, Kimozart, and her professional website.

Note from the Author I wrote this story to depict, as closely as possible, the people and events in Mozart’s life when he was at the height of his compositional success. The people in this novella all really lived and had personalities close to the characters portrayed here. This is a work of fiction, but the goal was to remain as close to history as possible. I took the time to read countless letters, journal entries, autobiographies, and the like, not only to capture the true essence of the people in the story, but also to get all the facts and dates straight. Many of the things said or alluded to by the characters are directly from these sources. The one exception to this is the narrator, Louise Villeneuve. History tells us what and where she sang, but not who she was. Therefore, I have taken some license in regard to the narrator and her connection to the composer, especially in ways which strengthen the plot. In short, everything relating to Ms. Villeneuve is completely from my imagination. I have made educated guesses from what others said about her, which is very little, and from the music that Mozart wrote for her, which tells us a bit more. Therefore, this story is a conglomerate of sorts, as all fiction tends to be, but there is a great deal of truth in it. I hope you enjoy the ride and learn a little of who Mozart truly was and what he experienced as a composer and a man. *continued series. Previous chapters can be found in earlier issues of Opera21.

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January 21, 1790 My Act II duet with Pietro came to a grinding halt for the third time. The principal second violinist was flat again. Mozart had had it.

“Damnation!” he shouted from his place at the harpsichord. “Please give me a real F! This duet is supposed to be seductive, not painful. We open in 5 days. Let’s get this right.”

If the violinist apologized, I didn’t hear him.

“Let’s start it from the top again,” Mozart said. Pietro and I went back to our starting positions and Pietro began.

His warm baritone voice filled the Burgtheater as he sang Guglielmo’s opening lines. The strings throbbed gently like a heartbeat beneath him. I answered him with my own music. The duet progressed as he sang, “Se teco non l’hai, perché batte qui?” If you’ve given away your heart, what is beating there?

He reached out and put his hand over my heart. I responded with a question of my own, putting my hand over his heart. I thought: Dorabella is so easily swayed; all she needs is one touch.

And thus the duet continued, escalating until I, Dorabella, allowed Guglielmo to take off my locket and replace it with his own. Then, the most intense part of the duet: Guglielmo asks what I think of my new locket. The violins have these tripping upward-scalar lines that stop prematurely. We sing and then they do it again, breaking off our words.

“Oh cambio felice di cori e d’affetti! Che nuovi diletti, che dolce penar!” Oh happy exchange of hearts and affections! What new delights, what sweet pain!

The words are rather hackneyed, but the music is strangely moving. I can’t help but feel that there are deep sexual connotations in those violin runs and the overall sparse accompaniment.

We’d rehearsed this scene plenty of times, but this time was different. As the scene continued, it got a bit too intense for me. Maybe it was because this was the first rehearsal with the orchestra or maybe it was just my feelings on this particular day—I’m not sure. Either way, my heart was beating fast and I wondered if Pietro could feel it. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea…

Apparently he did. Before I knew it, the duet was over but instead of exiting like we were supposed to, Pietro grabbed me and kissed me. When he started to use his tongue, I pushed him away.

I did my best to make it look playful. I used every remaining scrap of acting ability to smile and frolic offstage with him.

Without a word, I rushed to the safety of my dressing room and tried not to get sick.

I was composed by the time I went back onstage for ‘E amore un ladroncello,’ my second aria.

As I sang the opening recitative, I happened to look over at Mozart at the harpsichord. He had the strangest look on his face and he seemed overly concentrated on the music in front of him. His eyebrows were tight, wrinkling his entire forehead.

The scene and aria went well enough. I barely thought as I sang it. I felt numb. After I exited, I stood backstage and watched the next scene. It was one of my favorite parts of the opera. The music was deliciously gorgeous and simultaneously chilling. It always made me a little uncomfortable and I couldn’t figure out why.

I listened to the duet, reveling in Vincenzo’s lovely tenor voice. Fiordiligi started to call to God for help. Ferrando pressed, seducing her with the sheer beauty of his music. But, I realized, he didn’t have to do anything. She was doomed the moment he stepped into the scene.

Then, finally, Fiordiligi sang those fatal words: - 18 -

“Fa di me quel che ti par.” Do with me what you want.

Those are probably the most powerful words a woman could say. And here they were, reluctant and naked in the Burgtheater house. A chill ran down my spine and I turned away, staring into the blackness of the backstage as they sang the final section of the duet.

The most disturbing thing about that scene was not that Fiordiligi fell. The worst part was that she fell harder than Dorabella because she gave away her heart. Dorabella was frivolous and her love was frivolous; she gave it away without two thoughts. But Fiordiligi cared. She gave her love away carefully. All of her heart and soul were in the decision. When Fiordiligi gave herself to Ferrando, she was surrendering so much more than Dorabella had. And the fact that even she could be seduced sent fear through me. The hair on my neck and arms stood on end.

Maybe that’s the moral of Cosi: no matter how good our intentions are and no matter how solid our morals are, at the end of the day we can all be seduced.

The rehearsal stopped when La Ferrarese randomly threw up her hands and shouted, “I cannot work like this!”

Everyone froze, turning to stare at her. She glared at Mozart, saying, “How am I supposed to get my note from that? Are you a harpsichordist or a monkey?”

Everyone held their breath. I clenched my fists to hold in my anger.

Signor da Ponte came to the rescue. He was up on the stage before anything could happen.

“Calma,” he said, stroking her arm. “Now, what is the matter?”

She pointed a thick finger at Signora Bussani. The smaller woman simply stood there looking rather innocent in her maid’s outfit.

“She made me miss my entrance,” La Ferrarese said, her voice booming.

“I have done nothing, you twit,” Signora Bussani said, her Austrian accent especially heavy.

“You’re always making me look bad,” the prima donna continued. “I don’t know why I must work with such incompetent singers.”

Signor Bussani came to his wife’s side, snarling at La Ferrarese.

“How dare you!” he hissed.

“Incompetent!” Signora Bussani huffed. “Incompetent indeed! If anyone—“ “Ladies,” da Ponte said, raising his hands. “Please. Let us continue with the rehearsal. We’ll go back to the beginning of the number. Shall we?” He looked over at Mozart for support.

The composer was standing at the harpsichord, clutching the instrument so tightly that I thought he’d break it. Or start a fist fight. The intensity of emotion in his eyes frightened me. Signor da Ponte must have seen this too because he stepped off the stage without another word.

La Ferrarese waved condescendingly at Mozart, saying, “Go ahead.”

Mozart hesitated and I thought he’d leave or say something or do something rash. But he didn’t.

He stood rigidly for a moment more, then sat at the harpsichord and banged out the opening of the recitative.

I slowly let my fists relax but the anger still burned in me.

La Ferrarese got her entrance and the rehearsal continued.

And thus a disaster was avoided.

I was walking offstage after the final sextet when someone in the house called my name. I - 19 -

turned and saw Mozart waving me over. He was standing with an elderly gentleman in the house.

Curious, I obeyed his bidding and stepped down from the stage.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Mozart said.

I shook hands with the man, my hand getting lost in the largeness of his. He was about 60, handsome, and well-dressed.

“Louise Villeneuve,” I said.

“Joseph Haydn,” he said. I was surprised.

“Sir,” I said, “I have long enjoyed your music.”

“Glad to hear someone has,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “In that wasteland they call Eszterhaza I rarely get to hear so genuine a compliment. The Prince only lets me out for a few months every year. You’re lucky to live in the center of the musical universe all year round.”

“I consider it a privilege,” I said.

Herr Haydn laughed and said to Mozart, “You’ve found a singer who doesn’t speak in back-handed compliments. A rare find indeed.”

“She is,” Mozart said. “She’s the only sane one in the entire cast. Her and the tenor. Who would have thought that the tenor would be the normal one?”

“You have one hell of a cast to deal with,” Herr Haydn agreed. “I could feel the tension from out here. I give you both a lot of credit.”

Mozart just shook his head. Residual anger radiated off him like heat off the street in summer.

“It’s a good opera,” Herr Haydn continued. “Well worth the effort. I’m glad Mozart deemed me worthy of an invitation. My only regret is that Kapellmeister Salieri is not here. Surely Mozart and I could have concocted some mischief to play on the fellow. I’m in the mood for a bit of fun.”

“As am I,” Mozart said, “especially after today’s rehearsal. A bit of fun would do us all some good.”

“We shall have it,” Herr Haydn said. “I would go out tonight, but I’ve already made promises.”

He winked suggestively. “I shall see you tomorrow?”

Mozart nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

Herr Haydn smiled broadly and pointed at me, saying to Mozart, “Keep this one. She’s quite a find. Believe me, I would know.”

Mozart said nothing.

Herr Haydn bowed and bid us goodnight. On his way out of the theater, he met up with a young woman who had been sitting in the house. When she stood, I saw that she wore an elaborate red dress and a fancy hat. Herr Haydn gave her his arm and they went off together.

I had just finished changing out of my costume, the music from the finale playing in my head, when Vincenzo knocked on my dressing room door. I knew it was him by his signature knock. He always tapped the same rhythm. I opened the door and he came in, closing the door behind him. I sat at my dressing table and he took a seat opposite me. I checked my makeup and he watched.

“How do you feel about rehearsal today?” he asked.

“It went well,” I answered but my voice sounded noncommittal even to me.

“Let’s be honest,” he said, “Pietro’s an ass.”

I didn’t say anything in return.

“Let me tell you, Mozart’s having quite a fit right now,” he said. “I passed by Pietro’s dressing - 20 -

room on my way here and I heard him yelling. For such a small body, he sure makes a big sound. He was using some rather colorful language. The shortened version of it is: ‘don’t abuse my singers.’ Those were his words exactly. Apparently you’re one of his now.”

I smiled at this but Vincenzo did not. He seemed subdued. I was about to ask him about it when there was another knock on the door.

“Come in,” I called.

Mozart walked in, obviously flustered. His left hand shook a little and, as usual, his hair was coming loose from its ribbon. He looked around, as though lost, but then his gaze found me. He walked straight to me, taking my hands.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said.

“What are you apologizing for?” I asked.

“I don’t know what came over Signor Benucci. It must have been the music. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for…”

I laughed and his sentence trailed off into nothing. The two men watched me with curiosity.

“It is not so much as you two are making it out to be,” I said. “Am I dead? Am I ill? I will survive.” I smiled but neither of them smiled back. The atmosphere in the room was strange, heavy.

“It was a break in conduct,” Vincenzo said.

“But we are actors,” I said and then wondered why I was defending Pietro.

“But there are boundaries,” Vincenzo replied. “There are always boundaries.”

Mozart suddenly let go of my hands. I’d forgotten that he was holding them.

“All of that aside,” Mozart said, “I wanted to let you know that you sang brilliantly.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he said, giving a small bow before leaving. Vincenzo stood and closed the door.

“Louise,” he said softly, shaking his head.

“What?” I asked.

Vincenzo took his seat again, his body sinking against it. He looked about the dressing room as though stalling for time to collect his thoughts. I waited quietly until he finally looked at me.

“Louise, I’m saying this as a friend. Be careful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Mozart,” he said, his voice sterner than I’d ever heard it. “It’s obvious that he’s taken a liking to you. Just don’t let it go too far. Don’t let yourself get pulled into a situation that you don’t want to be in.”

“We’re friends,” I said. “Just like you and I are friends.”

Vincenzo shook his head.

“I’m a man. I know about this sort of thing.”

“You can’t just judge his motives like that.”

“Don’t get upset,” he said. “I’m just trying to look out for you. Somebody has to.”

“Mozart is a good man,” I said. “I know that.”

“I’m not saying that he isn’t,” Vincenzo said. “Nevertheless, he’s a man and no one is perfect.

His problem is that he feels things too deeply. Maybe that’s why his music is so good. But this can also work against him. I’ve heard stories.”

“Stories?”

“Stories about him falling in love with pupils and singers. I’ve always dismissed these stories - 21 -

because he doesn’t seem like the type who’d be unfaithful. Teresa told me that people tried to pressure him into taking Constanze as his mistress before they were married.”

“He did say that it took a long time for them to get married,” I confirmed.

“Teresa said that he refused to do what everyone else did. If he had taken Constanze as a mistress, he wouldn’t have felt any scorn from his peers. Like I said, they were encouraging him to take Constanze. You see da Ponte and La Ferrarese. She’s a married woman but that doesn’t stop them and no one says anything about it. But Mozart waited for Constanze. That fact alone confirmed my thoughts about him. He is a good man with strong principles, but maybe that’s not enough. Everyone is capable of a fall.”

I shook my head.

“Not Mozart,” I said. “He’s different.”

“He is different, I’ll admit that. But he’s still human. Don’t ask for the impossible.”

I felt anger coming over me and I attempted to remain calm. My emotions had been tried enough today. I didn’t want to lose my temper now.

“I understand what you’re trying to say,” I said, “and I appreciate it, but you’re wrong. Like you said, he feels things more intensely. Relationships with him are different than they are with other people. Besides, Mozart and I are connected by music and that’s a strong bond. Maybe it makes us closer than normal people would be under the same circumstances. No matter the reason, it doesn’t make our relationship wrong.” I smiled at him. “You’re a good friend, Vincenzo, and I’m grateful that you care about me, but I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

Vincenzo nodded but he didn’t smile back at me.

“If you ever need someone, I’m always here,” he said. “Teresa and I are always here for you.”

“Thank you.”

My head was filled with thoughts as I headed for the exit. On my way out, I passed the stage door and heard harpsichord music. Curious, I stepped into the backstage area and peeked out into the house.

It was Mozart and the music was gorgeous. I stepped onto the stage and stood there, leaning against the stage’s frame, watching and listening.

The music flowing from the harpsichord felt like magic, caressing my heart and bringing a profound peace. Something in me started to stir; it caught me off-guard. I leaned further against the wooden support and closed my eyes. A tear escaped and ran down my cheek. The cool feeling on my face surprised me, as though someone else had put it there. What was happening to me?

A few minutes later, the heavenly music ceased and I found myself standing in the silence. I immediately felt its absence and regret filled me. Then the sound of my name filled the void.

“Louise?”

There were the fast steps of feet coming ever closer, then a hand on my arm.

“Louise.”

I opened my eyes and Mozart stood before me, worry in his large eyes. He reached up and touched my face.

“You’re crying. Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I said. I didn’t mean it and he knew it. Something had shifted inside of me and I knew that things would never be the same. But how could I explain this to him?

“At least I don’t need to ask what the problem is,” he said with a small smile. “Here, let me take you home. I already have a carriage waiting.”

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“I couldn’t—” He interrupted me with a hand on my arm.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he said, “because you won’t win.”

I smiled through my tears.

“Are you kidnapping me?” I asked playfully.

“Me kidnap you? Never. That would be illegal. No, this is a scene from my newest opera, The Rescue from the Burgtheater. You’ve been taken captive by an evil impresario who forces you to sing terrible music every night and I’m the noble composer who has come to save you. We’ll escape yet!”

He starting humming a heroic theme and marching in place. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Very well,” I said. He offered me his arm and we left the theater.

As we stepped out into the cold, snowflakes blew gently about us in lazy circles. I noticed our closeness and for the first time, I felt something. The softness of the streetlights cast their golden glow, touching everything. It made the sleeping city even prettier than usual. I was moved to tears yet again, but this time I tried to hide them. In the half-dark, Mozart didn’t see them.

The carriage was waiting as promised. The coachman opened the door and Mozart helped me up before getting in. We sat across from one another in the carriage, our knees knocking as the carriage went along. Our conversation was light as we took the short ride to my place. Mozart’s eyes lit up as he mused on the premiere of Cosi.

“I’m sure the Emperor will be pleased,” he said. “It is just what he likes. And, of course, you’ll be singing. That always pleases him.”

I simply nodded, my heart being pulled in a thousand different directions.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he said.

“What I’ve done is nothing compared to the music that you’ve written,” I said. “Cosi is simply stunning. Every moment of it.”

He smiled at this.

The carriage slowed and stopped.

“We must be here,” he said. He reached across and took my hand, bringing it to his lips.

“Good night. I shall see you at rehearsal.”

“Good night.”

I stepped out of the carriage into the cold night. I opened the front door of the boarding house and the carriage pulled away. I watched it until it turned a corner and I could see it no longer. I stepped inside the house, shutting the door against the cold. I rushed up the stairs to my room and collapsed on my bed, exhausted.

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