Program booklet »L'elisir d'amore«

GAETANO DONIZETTI

LʼELISIR DʼAMORE

CONTENTS

P.

4

SYNOPSIS P.

8

LACRYMA CHRISTI VERSUS BORDEAUX STEFAN MUSIL P.

12

THE EXTENDED CABALETTA ALBERTO ZEDDA P.

16

A BRILLIANT LAST-MINUTE SUBSTITUTE ANDREAS LÁNG P.

20

DO ADINA AND NEMORINO STAY TOGETHER? BETTINA STEINER

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23

BUONAFEDE VITALI – THE GOOD CHARLATAN GRETE DE FRANCESCO P.

32

DESERT ISLANDS EDUARD HANSLICK P.

34

THE MAN AND HIS HUMAN SIDE DIANA KIENAST TALKS WITH OLIVER LÁNG ABOUT OTTO SCHENK P.

38

IMPRINT

GAETANO DONIZETTI

L’ELISIR D’AMORE MELODRAMMA GIOCOSO in two acts Libretto FELICE ROMANI

ORCHESTRA

2 flutes / 1 piccolo 2 oboes / 2 clarinets 2 bassoons / 2 horns 2 trumpets / 3 trombones timpani / 1 harp violin I / violin II viola / cello double bass basso continuo 1 cornet / 3 trumpets 2 horns / 2 trombones percussion

STAGE MUSIC

AUTOGRAPH

Score of Act 1: Library of San Pietro a Majella, Naples

Score of Act 2: Museo Donizettiano, Bergamo Transposition of „Una furtiva lagrima“ to G minor National Library, Paris WORLD PREMIÈRE 12 MAY 1832 Teatro della Canobbiana, Milan FIRST PERFORMANCE 7 JULY 1876 Court Opera House DURATION

2 H 30 MIN

INCL. 1 INTERMISSION

L’ E L I S I R D ’A M OR E

SYNOPSIS ACT 1 Adina, a tenant farmer in a rather remote village, is young, rich – and well-read. She is greatly admired by Nemorino, a penni­ less worker. Adina reads the country folk a moving version of the story of Tristan and Isolde, which she, however, finds ra­ther amusing: Tristan, whom Isolde does not love, obtains a love potion from a miracle-monger. The magic potion enables him to win Isolde’s heart. Adina is glad that such potions no longer exist. Nemorino – who deeply loves her, although she does not accept him – listens attentively to the story.

Sergeant Belcore and his soldiers march into the village and take up quarters there. Belcore behaves chivalrously towards Adina, but at the same time asks for her love. However, the capricious Adina is not to be so easily won.

Nemorino finds an opportunity to reaffirm how dearly he loves Adina. She, however, rebuffs him, saying that she wishes to remain free and untied.

The arrival of Dulcamara causes considerable excitement. He announces that he is a wonder doctor of great repute who has a remedy for every conceivable ailment. The country folk are taken in by his glib patter. Finally, Nemorino asks the charlatan whether he also has a love potion. Dulcamara immediately takes advantage of the situation and sells the grateful Nemorino the coveted potion for all the money he has. Dulcamara takes the precaution of saying that the potion will only take effect after 24 hours; what he has sold the unsuspecting Nemorino is in fact nothing more than a bottle of Bordeaux wine. Nemorino immediately drinks some of it, and notices a remarkable improve­ment in his mood. He pretends to be impartial to Adina: let her now court him! Adina is not happy with this sudden change of heart either. She wants to find out whether Nemorino’s feeling for her have actually grown cold, and at once declares her intention of marrying Belcore, and of doing so that very day, as the sergeant will have to move on next morning. Nemorino, at first confident of success thanks to his magic potion, is now completely flabbergasted. This was not the effect he had expected from the love potion. If only he can win just one more day...

Previous pages: SCENE

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SYNOPSIS

ACT 2 In the meantime, preparations for the wedding are in full swing. Dulcamara plays an improvised Venetian love scene with Adina. The notary appears with the marriage contract, but Adina says she will sign it later.

Nemorino asks Dulcamara for a second bottle of the magic elixir.

This can naturally be arranged – if Nemorino can pay for it. The latter, however, does not have a single penny left to his name. In his despair he lets Belcore enlist him as a soldier, and immediately buys the second bottle with the bounty which he receives.

The supposed love potion takes effect unexpectedly rapidly: Nemorino is at once surrounded by a crowd of girls. He is not particularly surprised at this, as he has already done full justice to his elixir. However, he is completely unaware of the real reason for this sudden display of affection. Giannetta has divulged some news that until now has been a closely kept secret: Nemorino’s wealthy uncle has died, leaving Nemorino his sole heir.

Nemorino takes great delight in the company of the girls. He ignores Adina completely, which arouses her jealousy. From Dulcamara she learns why Nemorino has signed up. The charlatan now offers her the love potion. However, she refuses it, as she knows a better means of winning Nemorino, of whom she is very fond after all: her own eyes.

Nemorino believes he has seen a secret tear in Adina’s eyes.

Does she love him after all? After his beautiful romance, his suspicions are confirmed by Adina herself: she confesses her love for him, and gives him back his enlistment papers. She has paid the bounty back to Belcore and bought Nemorino free. Belcore finds his bride in the arms of another man. Although he is disappointed, he accepts the situation with good humour; after all, there will always be plenty of girls for a soldier like him!

Dulcamara takes advantage of the situation. He boasts that it is thanks to his magic potion that Nemorino has not only found love, but also inherited a fortune.

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Following page:

ROLANDO VILLAZÓN as NEMORINO

KS ANNA NETREBKO as ADINA

FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY

I WOULD BE VERY HAPPY IF I HAD COMPOSED L’ELISIR D’AMORE!

ST EFA N M USIL

LACRYMA CHRISTI VERSUS BORDEAUX “How sweetly harmonious and in the main consistently dramatic these melo­ dies are, these scenes! A natural symmetry peculiar to Italian music alone is combined with a delightful freshness and a lightness one might almost call brilliant. In L’elisir d’amore, a clever contrast is drawn between pastoral and mili­ tary elements, and again between these and their common hilarious foil, the old charlatan!” This was how the stern music critic Eduard Hanslick characterized Gaetano Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore in 1897 – confirming “a good measure of immortality for a light, jovial opera” for the 65-year-old piece. L’elisir has remained immortal to this day. Fate was not as kind to the opera’s immediate forerunner.

Le Philtre, or The Magic Potion is the title of the two-act opera premièred at the Académie Royale de Musique – i.e. at Paris’s Salle Le Peletier opera house – on 20 June 1831. Eugène Scribe had written the libretto, Daniel-François Esprit Auber had composed the music.

The storyline is very familiar: country boy falls in love with a young landowner, his love is not returned, he is conned by a charlatan into buying wine as a love potion. When he runs out of money and cannot buy more, for 20 écus he signs up for the army with his rival, the vain, pompous sergeant. Naturally the story

has a happy ending. The landowner falls in love with the country boy, who eventually becomes a rich man thanks to an inheritance, buys back his freedom from the army, the sergeant moves on with his soldiers, the charlatan enjoys the adulation of the people for his apparent success. The new opera was well received by Paris audiences, and by 1862 a total of 243 performances had been given there. Today, Le Philtre is mentioned at most in connection with Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore.

This was exactly the subject matter that Donizetti and his librettist Felice Romani chose when commissioned to write a new opera for the Teatro della Canobbiana in Milan in a very short timeframe. Donizetti’s teacher in Bergamo, the opera and church music composer Simon Mayr, who was originally from Mensdorf bei Ingolstadt, also looked to operas that had been successful in Paris as material for many of his operas.

Romani was probably also alerted to Scribe’s libretto by Henri-Bernard Dabadie, the singer who performed the role of Belcore. Dabadie was one of the performers in the première of the original French opera in Paris. In the role of Sergeant Joli-Cœur, he proposes to the young landowner Térézine. However, in the end she opts for the country boy

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LACRYMA CHRISTI VERSUS BORDEAUX

Guillaume, after he samples the love potion of Docteur Fontanarose, a “charlatan”. In Scribe’s libretto, the miracle potion is a “Lacryma Christi”, the famous wine from the slopes of Vesuvius. This all takes place in Paris in full view of the washerwoman Jeannette, the soldiers from Joli-Coeur’s company, and the residents of the village whose location is not precisely defined: in the Mauléon region, on the banks of the River Adou, in Basque country.

For his libretto, Eugène Scribe used as his source material Il filtro by a certain Silvio Malaperta, which Stendhal turned into a short story that was pu­ blished in the Revue de Paris in 1830.

When Le Philtre was premièred, Auber and Scribe were already well esta­ blished as a successful duo. The extremely fruitful collaboration between the two of them began with Leicester, ou le château de Kenilworth in 1823. They subsequently established themselves as the leading team at the Opéra comique, for example with Fra Diavolo premièred in 1830. They also wrote the very first grand opéra with their revolutionary work La Muette de Portici in 1828. Le Philtre holds a special status amongst all these operas and is not easy to categorize. The two-act opera is throughcomposed, includes recitatives, with relatively little action; the plot is simple, and the opera is a comic opera rather than a typical French opéra comique.

And yet the piece also has characteristics of the latter form.

When Hanslick talks about the skilful blend of the pastoral with the military, he is giving us a broad hint. Precisely this combination is an important convention in French opéra comique, thanks to Scribe, who more or less created a prototype for this genre with Le

Philtre. And this was not the last time that he would use this combination of elements in an opera libretto. We find a very similar constellation in Adolphe Adam’s successful Le Chalet of 1834. Here too, a pretentious soldier blunders into a rustic idyll, jeopardizing the happy love affair of a local couple, and here, too, the country boy whose love is apparently unrequited signs up for the army in des­ pair. For this one-act opéra comique, which in this case takes place in an alpine cabin in the Swiss mountains, Scribe turned to Goethe’s Singspiel Jery and Bäteli from 1780. Donizetti also drew on this Scribe libretto, adapting Le Chalet for his dramma giocoso Betly, which appeared in 1836.

The recitatives in Le Philtre are short, so the main focus is clearly on the musical numbers. These are primarily arias and ensembles, with very few couplets.

The pastoral atmosphere is a decisive element from the start, as well as more relaxed and arioso-like tempi.

Auber wrote the role of Guillaume for the singer Adolphe Nourrit; it was therefore tailor-made for one of the great tenors of the 1820s and 1830s.

Rossini also respected Nourrit highly and amongst others created the title role in Le comte Ory and Arnold in his Gui­llaume Tell for him. Nourrit was also the hero in other new grand opéras, sang in the world première of Auber’s La Muette de Portici, was the first Robert in Meyerbeer’s Robert le Diable, created Raoul in Les Huguénots, and was Eléazar when Halévy’s La Juive was first performed.

Nourrit was therefore also the top star in the world première of Le Philtre. The magazine La Revue des Deux Mondes confirmed that the artiste was a huge success, and that he was extremely ca-

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ST EFA N M USIL

pable not only as a singer, but also as a comedian. However, the reviews of the day reported politely, but with little enthusiasm, that there was too little about the opera that was new: “Delightful features, graceful, light music, destined for success… Auber’s score is teeming with lovely motifs: it is a bouquet of fresh, bright flowers, although the overture and Tristan’s romance seem to lack somewhat in temperament.” The new work was translated into German, English, Danish and Russian. However, Le Philtre was not able to hold its ground in theatres beyond the 19th century.

How different has been the story of L’elisir, which is one of the most popular operas in the repertoire to this day. Romani stuck closely to his source material in his adaptation of the piece. In the rapidly written libretto, he defined the form of the piece, the cast of cha­racters – albeit now with Italian names – and the highlights of the plot. Only the character of the washerwoman Jeannette as Giannetta was significantly cut by Romani, and this time the quack doctor sells Bordeaux as the magic potion instead of Lacryma Christi. At all events, the two Italians extremely skilfully added a new, more profound dimension to the opera. The characters – above all the central characters of Nemorino and Adina – are drawn in much greater detail and with more nuances. Donizetti dispensed with an overture, but whereas Auber wrote a short arioso for Guillaume to idolize Térézine at the beginning of the opera, in Romani/Donizetti’s version the cavatina “Quanto è bella” is inserted near the beginning, which immediately fully reveals Nemorino’s yearning affection.

After the entrance of Jolie-Cœur and his proposal of marriage, Térézine sings

of her coquettish disposition in an aria.

In L’elisir, on the other hand, Nemorino’s yearning and Adina’s rejection are consolidated in a major duet. In Donizetti, the next magnificent duet follows with “Voglio dire... lo stupendo elisir che desta amore…”, this time between Nemorino and Dulcamara. Auber uses only a reci­tative to convey this passage, but then gives Guillaume his first and only aria with “Philtre divin! Liqueur enchan­t eresse”. When Guillaume learns that Térézine has said yes to her sergeant, Scribe allows him no more than a short exclamation of disappointment. By contrast, Romani pulls out all the stops at this point: in a poignant emotional outburst, “Adina credimi”, Nemorino begs his Adina to postpone the wedding for just one day.

The most striking differences from the Paris version can be seen in the finale: both the duet between Adina and Dulcamara and Nemorino’s lamentation “Una furtiva lagrima” were added

by Romani and Donizetti.

While Le Philtre was charmingly delightful, wanting to satisfy audiences and contemporary tastes, Romani and Donizetti took a more original approach to the work. It was not just that Romani cleverly Italianized his French model, defining the characters more fully, allowing more room for their development and therefore making them more life-like than those in the French opera.

In his “melodramma in due atti” Donizetti also created a light-hearted opera that differed markedly from the farces he had previously composed. In L’elisir nothing is over the edge or grotesque, the characters are taken seriously with their changing emotions, portrayed carefully, lovingly and vibrantly. Donizetti colours all this in lavishly, with an

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LACRYMA CHRISTI VERSUS BORDEAUX

abundance of pleasing melodies. He looked less to Gioachino Rossini and his purring buffa operas for his model.

Rather, he looked through romantic glasses further back, to the Italian opera buffa tradition at the end of the 18th century, developed by Mozart and above all Paisiello and Cimarosa, as well as Simon Mayr, Donizetti’s teacher from Bergamo.

This tradition owed much to Carlo Goldoni’s reform of the theatre, when the poet brought new life to a discipline that had stiffened under the moulds of the commedia dell’arte.

The stock characters of the commedia still flicker through slightly in L’elisir: the awkward, rustic Truffaldino, the cunning, but still charming Colombina,

the Dottore, an uninhibited chatterbox and seemingly erudite scoundrel, or the Capitano, the coward who boasts of his bravery. In the final analysis it is also thanks to Goldoni that all these stock characters had new life breathed into them. He personalized them, made them not just comical, but also serious, and added a mix of social standing.

In their L’elisir d’amore Donizetti and Romani combine all these elements to perfection, inimitably and using the means of their day. The choice of Bordeaux for their love potion certainly paid off for both of them: multi-faceted, rich in nuances, intense but still palatable, and keeps exceptionally well!

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ALBERTO ZEDDA

THE EXTENDED CABALETTA NOTES ON A CRITICAL EDUCATION OF L’ELISIR D’AMORE The autograph of L’elisir d’amore poses interesting questions. This is the only original manuscript of an opera I know of whose parts are stored in different places – the first act in a library in Naples, the second in the Donizetti Museum in Bergamo. The manuscript of the second act has had various pages removed of the final part of the Adina-Nemorino duet, which follows “Una furtiva lagrima”. Given the strict regulations which ensured the reten­ tion and conservation of autographs as an elementary form of copyright, and the reverence in which original manus­ cripts of the great composers were held at the time, Donizetti himself is the only person in a position to take the score from Milan (where the opera had its world première on 12 May, 1832 in the Teatro della Canobbiana) and mutilate it in this way. Even if the missing pages corresponded generally to the cut which has become traditional, it is inconceivable that any conductor other than the composer himself would have gone so far as to remove them. The possibility of theft can also be ruled out, as a manic collector would not have sought out these pages, but other much more famous and relevant ones. We accordingly have to look for the motivations that would have led Donizetti to make such an extensive cut in such a drastic way.

In a performance of L’elisir d’amore the main problem is actually what form the last part of the second act should take. There are inconsistencies and problems in performing the AdinaNemorino duet mentioned earlier, and it has always suffered cuts. Directly after the delightful women’s chorus explaining how Nemorino has unexpectedly become rich, the only ensemble in the second act is usually cut, in which Adina considers giving up her contrary game and admitting her love.

This ensemble contains one of the most remarkable reinsertions in the critical edition. In the final allegro the women’s chorus is followed by a men’s chorus which is not present in the sources. Donizetti wrote the chorus part in a small score which contains no information that could aid its purpose.

De­s­pite this lack and several inexplicable structural deviations from the original score, it seems to me to be beyond all doubt that the discovery is attributable to the men’s chorus whose presence is entirely in line with the events on stage. The women invite Nemorino to dance, and in the following celebration it is natural for the young men from the village to join in.

When the celebration is at an end and the euphoria of the Bordeaux love potion has passed, Nemorino returns to the scene with the clarifying meeting

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THE EXTENDED CABALETTA

with Adino, and fearfully sings one of the most moving declarations of love in “Una furtiva lagrima”. Donizetti provided an optional transposition of this famous aria in G minor, which is in the National Library in Paris in the original manuscript. This manuscript is enormously significant, because besides the original version it offers a separate stave with cadences and variations, also in the composer’s handwriting, which prove irrefutably that even in his most mature years (the revision dates from autumn 1843, as shown below) Donizetti used the means of the purest bel canto style. Here he implicitly emphasized the call to vary arias and cabalettas in the “da capo”, just as Rossini and other uncontested masters of the bel canto had required.

Adino arrives and gives Nemorino back the enlistment certificate that she has redeemed from Belcore, so that her beloved does not have to leave. Her aria “Prendi, per me sei libero” is tender and loving, even if the emotion seems restrained by its formulaic style. At the end of the aria there is a striking dramaturgic inconsistency. Asked to declare her intentions, Adina declares she wanted to go away and had nothing else to say.However, it seems unbelievable that after the extensive declarations of love in the previous scene the young woman would run the risk again of losing her beloved. In fact, Nemorino now reasserts his decision to join the army.

When Adina finally reveals her feelings after too many hesitations, this is not given the appropriate expression, and the cabaletta that is supposed to show her joy is locked in arid and difficult coloratura exercises of little interest.

However, the moment is decisive, and cannot be brushed aside without par-

ticular emphasis. For the performers, there are two approaches: including the dubious cabaletta, or resorting to the usual cut with the sudden parting of Belcore and Dulcamara, which unnaturally suppresses the reaction of the main characters to the revelations of love. I have always wondered what Donizetti as the conductor (who Rossini praised so much) did with problems like these. Today, we know that he also faced these questions, and answered them. We know that there is a fragment in his handwriting in the National Li­ bra­r y in Paris, four closely written pages of score in landscape format.

This is an aria which starts with Adina’s words, “Prendi, per me sei libero” and continues with a cabaletta of which only the beginning and the end are included. When I saw these pages, I thought they were an optional revision, meeting specific wishes in line with normal practice and I noted in the margin “New aria for L’elisir d’amore, not sung (a page in the middle is missing)”. When I reached the heart of the critical edition showing all the authentic material of the opera in question, the problem of how to classify this fragment forced me to think about new solutions. I tried to continue the fragmented composition in my head, following the process laid down in the cabaletta, and I compared the imagined composition with the fragments and drafts curated in the National Library.

Then I discovered the original continuation among several pages catalogued as “unknown fragments of Italian operas”. Closer examination of the two fragments banished all doubts: the paper, ink and handwriting all matched.

The cabaletta was complete, and the reconstruction led to other unexpected

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THE EXTENDED CABALETTA

surprises: it was not only an aria and cabaletta, but a complete scene, reaching from Adina’s cantabile “Prendi, per me sei libero” to Belcore’s entry.

Adina’s aria appear in a completely different musical form. Although the words of the text are retained, the melody expresses genuine sympathy, and the structure acquires a broad scale, with demanding and expressive decorations towards the end. After the aria the illogical dispute between the two young people is gone. Nemorino continues immediately with the attractive phrase “Poiche non sono amato voglio morir soldato”, which continues as in the first version up to Adina’s words “Ah! fú con te verace, se presti fede al cor”. Ins­tead of continuing the confusing argument which leads to the cabaletta in the first version Nemorino sings of his happiness in a few passionate bars, while Adina prepares for a charming and fresh cabaletta which is strewn with delights in bel canto style, and gives the lead soprano the opportunity to match the success or “Una furtiva lagri­­ma”. The central section which leads to the repetition of the cabaletta gives Nemorino the opportunity to express his joy.

The Paris manuscript shows clearly that Donizetti wanted the composition of this scene to be regarded as a new version and not an alternative to the first version. After Adina’s aria, which returns to the bars of the original, he

actually notes that the instrumentation of the piece can be found in the “old score”. This means that Donizetti had the autograph of the second act with him, and he refers the copyist on this to the retained bars, which he defines as the “old score” in clear contrast to the “new” one. This explains why the autograph of the second act is no longer with the first. When he left Naples, he took it with him with the intention of reworking the section which had proved unsatisfactory in practice. This also explains the sorry damage to the original score. Content with the success of the new scene, Donizetti wanted to make it final, which is why he removed the simple cabaletta from further use.

The fact that Adina’s aria “Prendi, per me sei libero” is retained in its first version shows that Donizetti was not convinced that the new one would always supplant the original one.

The recovered revision falls in Donizetti’s last creative period, as there are French expressions in the manuscript which the master only used after his experience in Paris. A fortunate circumstance enabled me to determine the date more exactly. The National Library in Paris also contains a manuscript copy of the score of L’elisir d’amore, show­ing annotations in Donizetti’s own hand. In the margin of the page before “Una furtiva lagrima” there is the note “Written in… in autumn 1843”.

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BENJAMIN BERNHEIM as NEMORINO

ANDREAS LÁNG

A BRILLIANT LAST-MINUTE SUBSTITUTE When Donizetti wrote his L’elisir d’amore in 1832 (and had it premièred), his name was already highly regarded in the world of music, although he was far from having reached the peak of his fame. Then just 35 years old, he had already composed masterpieces such as Anna Bolena, still popular today, famous singers were performing his music, Donizetti could look back on sweeping popular successes, had the option of work­ ing with the best librettists of his day, and was on the payroll of the best impresarios; he was doing well in the business and enjoying excellent financial security.

In the private sphere too, the tireless composer’s life was very tolerable. And even though in 1829, the second year of his marriage, his first child was born prematurely and miscarried, dying an excruciating death after just a few days, the terrible blows of fate that were to strike him in quick succession later on had not yet begun.

His beloved wife, Virginia, was still by his side, he corresponded regularly with this parents, or at least with his father, and the terrible consequences of syphilis, which he had contracted at some point, would only become apparent later.

In short, by and large 1832 was a pleasant and happy year for Donizetti. His virtually inexhaustible creativity was a constant source of new melodies and themes and led to several works being added to his oeuvre again this year. In addition to L’elisir d’amore he wrote two other operas, a hymn for the wedding of Ferdinand II of Naples, a cantata and a sinfonia. The fact that he had to do battle with the censors in connection with the world première of his opera Ugo, Conte di Parigi at La Scala Milan (13 March 1832) exasperated Donizetti, as did an anonymous defamatory letter full of “good advice”, but such events were simply part of the lot of a 19th century composer.

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A BRILLIAN T LAST-MIN U TE SUBSTIT U TE

Without question, Donizetti enjoyed his greatest and most lasting success with L’elisir d’amore – even though due to the circumstances of its composition it was expected to be anything but successful. The administration of the Milan Teatro della Canobbiana turned to Donizetti, who was known to be a fast worker, desperate for a new opera because another composer had defaulted on a contract at the last minute and could not deliver the expected new stage work. Since the piece was needed in just a few weeks, the admi­ nistration even offered Donizetti a compromise: to save time, he could revise one of his older scores such that it would not immediately be recognized by the audience.

Apparently Donizetti rejected this proposal with the indignant words: “Is someone trying to make fun of me? I do not make a habit of patching together my own operas.”

In fact, together with Felice Romani, a distinguished librettist but one who tended to work slowly, he very quickly created a new two-act opera giocosa, L’elisir d’amore – the literature generally claims “within two weeks”. And unlike many other operas that are popular today, the piece had no problems gaining traction.

From the 12 May 1832 première on, L’elisir was a hit with audiences. Very soon it was being performed at countless opera houses in and outside Italy, and it was performed in a variety of languages even during Donizetti’s lifetime (incl. German, Spanish, Russian, English, French, Hungarian, Finnish, Polish). Fur­ thermore, the work is not part of the body of operas that first had to be dug out and rediscovered in the 20th century, but has enjoyed an unbroken performance history.

Interestingly, it was only at the Wiener Staatsoper that it took time for L’elisir to establish its permanent place in the season. Between 1876 and 1980 the opera was performed only 36 times. It was not until the première of the current production by Otto Schenk in 1980 that L’elisir d’amore won the place due to it at the opera house on the Ring and that it has held ever since.

(However, at that time, i.e. on 24 April 1980 it was not a new production at all, but the revival of a seven-year old festival production from the Theater an der Wien.)

And now scarcely a season passes when L’elisir is not seen on this stage.

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BETTINA STEINER

DO ADINA AND NEMORINO STAY TOGETHER?

Previous pages:

KS JUAN DIEGO FLÓREZ as NEMORINO

PRETTY YENDE as ADINA

Oh, poor Nemorino, so frequently humiliated. The charlatan Dulcamara calls him a “dumb simpleton” and takes his last coin from him. A ninny, a baboon, as his rival Belcore insultingly calls him with impunity – and Adina, worshipped by both of them, listens to all this and has little sympathy for him. Even the washerwoman Giannetta, who will later take a fancy to Nemorino (for dubious reasons, by the way), pours scorn on him: “Well, look at the dandy / the poor overconfident idiot!”

How does the poor, good-natured peasant, who is not exactly collecting alpha male points here, end up winning the beautiful but rich and haughty leaseholder? Well, it can’t be because of the love potion, that much is indisputable. Is it his new self-assurance that suddenly makes Nemorino so irresistible? Did Dulcamara – intentionally out of human kindness, or by chance out of avarice – sell him a self-fulfilling prophecy?

That would be a modern interpretation that would find the approval of some psychologists. Another possibility: it is nothing more than a matter of filthy lucre, even if its effect is indirect. The fact that Nemorino has inherited a large sum of money ensures that for the time being he is of interest to the peasant girls. “Now no girl will dare reject him / And the one he chooses can consider herself lucky!” they sing. And the washerwoman Giannetta; who was previously so waspish and called him a dandy, now sees in him a “dear, dapper young man” who knows how to behave well.

And Adina? She is above suspicion in this regard since unlike the peasants, harvesters and washerwomen at this point she does not yet know about the unexpected wealth of her admirer. But she does notice that Nemorino is no longer being taunted but suddenly seems

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DO ADINA AND NEMORINO STAY TOGETHER?

to be popular. You don’t even need to give good old jealousy a nudge – just the fact that a man is in the company of a woman makes him desirable to others, as experiments have shown. Motto: If someone else is interested in him, there must be a reason. It is called the “girlfriend effect”, and Donizetti was evidently already familiar with it.

But one might also take a more jaded view. There could be a third reason, a profane one. It is in fact the love potion, because it is a Bordeaux, and with 13 per cent alcohol it can loosen the tongue of anyone not accustomed to it and give him the bravado needed to conquer the heart of the proud Adina.

But what happens when the intoxication wears off? What happens when the curtain has come down, when the singers have taken off their make-up and put away their props? Will the two of them be happy, despite their bumpy start? A great deal of research has been carried out into which relation ships last and which do not. And it is certainly not about status (after all, after the death of his uncle Nemorino has caught him up on that count). Similar background does not play a role. Similar education likewise. And if we take Adina, who is immersed in the story of Tristan and Isolde, and compare her to the gullible Nemorino, who allows every slick junk dealer to cheat him: Oh dear, that doesn’t look so good, and he knows it himself. “She is educated and well-read / And I am a poor dense creature / I can’t do any of that”, Nemorino sighs. How fortunate that they are both Catholic.

According to current research Catholicism is an advantage, if the only factor we are considering is how long the relationship lasts.

Oh, research! Where is the romanticism? Where is Donizetti?

Where is the experience that shows us that the strangest relationships last, and it is precisely the couples who were always one heart and one soul who go their separate ways? What did a colleague say who has some experience in matters of love and has observed even more: “The difference between couples who separate and couples who do not is the fact that in the one case they separate and in the other they do not.”

Adina and Nemorino stay together. The reason: It is a story.

Credibility is a good thing. Beauty is better.

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BUONAFEDE VITALI – THE GOOD CHARLATAN In the 17th century, people travelled for a new and different reason. No longer driven to travel by restlessness, or the desire to see the world as an adventure, they were motivated to enrich their information, add new knowledge to old. For the first time, travellers became observers. They were no longer the wanderers of the Renaissance seeking to inject their own lives for an indeterminate period into the alien rhythm of a foreign country and breathe with it. Instead, they watched, observed, and carried what they had observed home as newly gained knowledge.

The professional journeying of the charlatan was in contrast to this kind of travel, which only temporarily interrupted the settled life, whereas the existence of the professional charlatan was a rejection of settled life overall. Someone who by their nature was opposed to settled uniformity and all occupations which impose this uniformity could very well feel attracted to the charlatan’s lifestyle, without being a charlatan. This is the case of a doctor who graduated from the medical faculties of three Italian cities, and who was very famous in his time – Buonafede Vitali (1686-1745), who voluntarily and in

KS ERWIN SCHROTT as DULCAMARA

obedience to his own nature’s demands, dropped his academic titles and became a “saltimbanco” (charlatan). Carlo Goldoni, who once met this remarkable man, immediately recog­ nized in him the “ciarlatano d’una specie molto rara” (“very rare variety of charlatan”). Vitali came from Busseto in the Duchy of Parma, Verdi’s homeland.

At the age of 12 he was such an accomplished orator that he was allowed to publicly explore and debate philosophical questions at the University of Parma. While he is said to have been a monk briefly, what is certain is that he was a flag-bearer in his father’s regiment, but went on to study medicine and surgery, without the least intention of following a university career. He reentered military service as a field surgeon, was in the battles of Cassano and Turin, was wounded, and, barely healed, went to Canterbury, where he lived for three years. When a plague broke out in England in 1710, he wrote down his medical observations. In his view, a parasitic worm was the pathogen.

From England, Vitali went to France, Belgium, Holland, Hamburg, Lübeck, Danzig, Stockholm and Petersburg. In Lapland he became manager of a mine,

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but he soon headed south, and we meet him again as director of the Royal Mines in Lisbon.

In 1714 he returned to Italy and in Genoa took the name “l’Anonimo” for the first time, which he kept for the rest of his life. It is noteworthy that Vitali took this name at the moment of his return home. It is as if the many foreign countries he had seen and the many varied lives he had lived led him to doubt that a human being can be captured and defined by a name. He wanted to be nameless, not tied by any name to the life he had led and left in his homeland.

He also wanted to remain nameless, in direct contrast to the many impressive names which the great charlatans – the Count of St. Germain, for example – have adopted. The adventurers wanted to cower behind their names as if they were glittering fortresses, as they always felt themselves to be in the shadow of the gallows.

Vitali didn’t see a gallows in his future, he simply felt constantly transformed by his travels, deleted, to arise in a new form and be deleted again. The problem of fate, that gives people form and takes it from them again, seems to have revealed itself to the shaken man in all its depths, so that he felt a name was more than a human being can bear and be responsible for.

The returnee appeared in the squares as a charlatan, and declared his willingness to answer spontaneously any question he was asked, regardless of the subject. He appealed to the attention of the public as an orator and a man of knowledge and experience – from the start, not as an expert and a doctor.

This was meant as a protest against the learned doctors, his actual professional colleagues at the universities. Anonimo

visited the baths at Acqui, wrote about their curative effects, and then went on via Livorno and Civitavecchia to Rome, where he was commissioned by Pope Clemens XI to treat Faustina, the daughter of a famous painter and the wife of the poet Zappi, which he did with great success. The attention this cure attracted gave him the reputation in Italy of being a great doctor. Naples welcomed him, and his fame reached the point that even 50 years later a li­ bret­to to a Paisiello opera, L’idolo cinese, glorified an itinerant healer as “il nuovo Anonimo”.

But a nature like Vitali’s was thirst­ ing for experience, not fame. He soon left Naples, travelled through many Italian cities and healed Pope Innocent XIII, who had mistrusted all other doctors. Soon Italy was too small for him, and he went to Lisbon, returning to Palermo. There he was elected lecturer in chemistry, physics and philosophy by the Senate in 1723, and appointed director of the city laboratories. To be allowed to lecture in Sicily, he had to pass the doctoral exam at the University of Catania, after having graduated as “doctor medicinae” in Parma in 1717 and Bologna in 1719. Although all the clerical and secular officials in Palermo tried to keep him there – the cardinal was greatly attached to him – he moved on from the city, enforcing an earlier departure date against the wishes of the Senate.

As a result, he escaped the terrible earthquake which hit Palermo a short time after his departure. In the north, in Schio (Trent) he emerged again as a mine director, in 1730 he is in Florence, where the college of medical doctors awarded him the title “maestro di Sapienza”. He travelled again through the

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cities of Italy, only staying for an extended period in Milan. His time in Italy is documented in a letter published in book form in which Vitali defends the life of the charlatan, and it was also in Milan that he met Goldoni. Although Anonimo called himself a “saltimbanco” in his letters and through his being, and never tired of attacking university professors and doctors, he was regarded by his contemporaries as an important doctor who was summoned by the nobles and great men of the world.

Goldoni reports of his arrival in Verona in 1743 that he was greeted with celebrations like Aesculapius in Greece.

During an epidemic in Verona he achieved cures, and the city nominated him “protomedicus” (chief physician) in gratitude. His fame prompted the King of Prussia to appoint him to the young University of Halle, with a salary of 5,000 guilders, but Anonimo died on 2 October 1745, before he could answer the summons. “Quel mio genio di viaggiator!” (“What a genius for travel I have!”) Vitali once exclaimed, and it is indeed the genius of travel that leads him through the world. Neither the drive to earn nor the pressure to flee moti­ vates the “continuo peregrinatur”, it turns out the in this charlatan all the things are true that the others only fake or are forced to. Even more, he chose the life of the charlatan in protest against the symptoms of the time that he regarded as charlatanry in the sense of our definition.

It is surprising and particularly attractive to see how in Anonimo’s interpretation the very manifestations which we have seen as specifically charlatanistic appear as honest protest. ­ This philosopher and comic poet, actor and passionate lover of the theatre was

a brilliant speaker, but a very moderate author. It is almost moving to see how awkward, how unpolished the sentences are which present the most original and astonishing insights. And there is always a laugh between the lines. Ano­ nimo had humour, he was never disturbed like Bragadino by the mumb­ ling and muttering of the people. The letter he published in Milan is entitled “Lettera in difesa della Professione del Saltimbanco” and defends the vocation of charlatan to a noble patron (believed to be Scipione Maffei). From the first lines it is apparent that the patron values Anonimo and has asked him to give up this degrading vocation, which is incompatible with his honour. Vitali immediately replies rebelliously: honour, he argues, is a point of view, a subjective opinion and nothing more, which people award to those who currently please them, and has nothing at all to do with the merit of someone who is genuinely and truly honest.

He admits that there are a lot of rabble among the charlatans, but this is the case in any occupation, and is far from dishonouring these. He sees the flaw in medical science in its rejection of empiricism. He distinguishes between empirical medicine and the reprehensible risk of experiment, and presents it as the only true medicine, because “this is the art of the charlatan, who shows publicly what they can do”, arguing that no honest trade avoids the public, “and since the art of medicine is the most important, it seems obligatory to practise it in the public eye”. This striving to play with open cards is the exact opposite of trying for secrecy which characterizes all other charlatans. The drive for openness, the desire for contact with people has something theatrical in Vitali, the

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BUONAFEDE VITALI – THE GOOD CHARLATAN

theatre lover, because if the square had rather fewer people on a given day, he claimed he was unable to treat anyone.

Like an actor, he needed the link with the public. But this is not the only reason for Vitali’s preference for the rostrum. Like his whole being, his whole behaviour must be a constant challenge, a protest against the human caste that he not only despised but hated, the caste of the ivory tower, the university professors he could not rail against too much. He accuses them in speech and in writing that they lose themselves in endless disputes instead of rolling up their sleeves and helping, that they barricade themselves in their lecture rooms like fortresses to avoid encountering reality, which could reveal their errors to them. Here, one type of human being is in open conflict with the others, and Vitali would never have thought of applying retrospectively to the academic institutions he attacks for validation of his means.

“The professors,” he says, “who attach too much importance to their comfort and who avoid the effort of travel, who have experienced a change of neither climate nor air, and who have no idea how different customs can be in the world, what sad encounters do, and how you feel on the unsuccessful days when the crowd are pointing their fingers at you”. And as he accuses the professors of a lack of experience of life, he could accuse them in their academic world of letting experience become the handmaid of theory, when theory is actually there to assist experience. He, as such a moving orator that contemporary reports say he had the gift “of painting things with his words and making them touchable (palpabile)” criticizes KS SIR BRYN TERFEL

as DULCAMARA

nothing so much as the wordy disputes of the professors.

In his values, presence of mind comes first, and this requires closeness to life. He despises those who mount the stage – where he means both the literal stage and the metaphorical stage of fame – with the help of others, effort­ lessly carried. “It is so pleasant,” he cries, “to advance yourself without the help of others, and the charlatan has to do that at every turn.” This is the exact opposite of the charlatanistic habit of a ways calling on others, simple patients or the high and mighty to bear witness, and use their validation to ascend the roster of fame. No reports speak of any statements or testimonials which Vitali might have produced to advance his status.

Contemporary biographies claim that there is no portrait of Anonimo, and it would seem very much like the nameless one not to have had any pictures made of him. He is described as of medium height, broad, impressive in appearance, with a lively colouring and leonine features. An engraving which has been discovered confirms the description, but appears so conventional that there is a weak appearance of goodness, but hardly any trace of humour and personal qualities. The features of Anonimo are shown in a much livelier fashion in the enchanting picture that Carlo Goldoni paints of him in his memoires. The story of Vitali’s life as told by Goldoni is that he had a towering ambition to put the whole breadth of his knowledge to work (“aveva un’ambizione sfrenata di far valere l’estesa delle sue cognizioni”), which is why he decided to give up his honourable position (as university professor) and mount the rostrum to address the public.

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It is very easy to believe that Vitali had this ambition, but the reason is that he not only criticized his professional colleagues but personally felt unsatisfied in his profession. The lecture room was too narrow for him, the scale of his impact too small. Goldoni tells us how the charlatan brilliantly answered the most difficult questions from any field of knowledge and the most abstract problems (“le materie più astratte”) from his booth. Goldoni highly praises Vitali’s medicines. He reports on Anonimo’s stay in Milan as follows. “Anonimo had the pleasure in Milan of seeing the square where he showed himself full of people, on foot and in carriages; how­ ever, as there were few educated persons among his audience, he had to offer displays which would attract the ignorant masses.

As a result, the new Hippocrates distributed his cures and practised his rhetoric surrounded by four masks from Italian comedy. Buonafede Vitali was himself a lover of comedy, and maintained at his own expense a full troupe of comedians who performed a comedy in three acts, after they had helped their master collect money, which was thrown to him in knotted handkerchiefs, which they threw back filled with medications. They played with great generosity by the light of many white wax candles.

I wanted to get to know Anonimo, not only because of his extraordinary qualities but because of his troupe. One day I sought him out, with the excuse of wanting to buy one of his cures. He asked me what disease I suffer from or believe I suffer from, and very quickly realized from my answers that I had only been brought to him by curiosity.

He had a cup of good chocolate brought

to me and told me that this was the best medicine in my condition. I found this attention extraordinarily gracious (“… la galanteria graziosissima”); when I had talked to him for some time, I was convinced that he is as likeable in private life as he is knowledgeable in his public appearances.”

Goldoni, who was still young and unknown, and was looking for a troupe willing to perform a comedy of his, found Vitali, who had written a comedy himself, to be an engaged sponsor. Ano­ nimo’s troupe included outstanding improvisers, and Goldoni wrote a comedy for them, the Gondoliers of Venice.

A highly original charlatan, Giuseppe Colombani, waged public war on fraud and lies, and had worked for 24 years on St. Mark’s square in Venice as a toothdrawer. Like Vitali, he was from Parma (born 1670) and started out on a military career as a mercenary. He travelled through Italy and on to Spain, became unusually skilful in playing trumpet, flute, oboe and guitar, and had learned castanet dances. He was also a brilliant flag thrower and foil fencer. In Malta he caught the attention of a Persian miracle worker who promised him his daughter Angelika for his wife if he would use his arts to attract customers for the Persian, who sold antidotes to snake venom and claimed to possess the philosopher’s stone.

Colombani went with the Persian, but when he asked Angelika once whe­ ther her father could make gold, she revealed that it was all a swindle. On this, Colombani withdrew from the marriage contract and fought for the rest of his life against fraudulent charlatans. In a book he wrote against the secrecy of the charlatans, called “Open treasury from which anyone can gain virtue,

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BUONAFEDE VITALI – THE GOOD CHARLATAN

health and riches” (Venice, 1724) he created the character Monsù Guascon, who – as was usual among the charlatans – claimed to be able to perform any operation painlessly, and more in the same vein. The “onorato Cavadenti”, the righteous toothdrawer, in other words the author himself, replied, explaining that there are teeth which do not hurt when drawn, and others which cannot be drawn without pain.

In the exchanges “Alfier Lombardo”, as Colom­bani was called, displayed a lot of expertise.

His picture includes the words “Quod Tibi fieri non vis Alteri ne feceris” (“If you don’t want anyone to do it to you, don’t do it to others”), definitely a laudable motto for a dentist. It is not surprising that his professional colleagues on St Mark’s square, where he ga­ thered his patients with a minuet performed on the drum, were up in arms against him. These included men who worked on horseback, and if a tooth broke while being drawn claimed the horse was at fault, because it had shaken at the wrong moment. They must have found it very unpleasant when Colombani explained to Monsù Guascon that the relatives of the injured patients were entitled to hold the toothdrawer guilty, and not the adverse circumstances. This Venetian dentist was a fellow spirit of Anonimo’s although without achieving his stature.

Vitali was a genius who went with the charlatans because he loved their rambling life, this life on market places which took him excitingly close to many unknown people, in the middle of living reality. It is notable of the symbolic nature of names that the word “vitality” resonated in Anonimo’s real name, as if responding to his true na-

ture. Anonimo was attracted by the roaming life, he saw the charlatan’s homelessness as something self-chosen and great. But many charlatans found homelessness specifically to be a bitter fate. Bragadino’s and Thurneysser’s homesickness was a very genuine emotion. It was his constant protest against the blindness to life of the professors which drew Vitali to go voluntarily with the charlatans, who could do no more than “scoff at reason and the sciences”.

The artistic impulse in the art of forgery was rooted for him in persona­ lity and lifestyle, Vitali never falsified opinion, knowledge or truth. But he did falsify his own knowledge of the characteristics of the charlatans, by recasting them for himself and his ideals.

“The world is a theatre,” Anonimo wrote, “consisting of mimes and spectators.

Life is played on the stage of the world, and the author of this performance has determined that every character should costume themselves differently...” And – so Anonimo believed – a charlatan should appear as a charlatan. His idea was not masking but unmasking. If he called himself a charlatan, he believed he was admitting it to himself, but he deceived himself about the nature of the charlatan and his own nature.

The charlatan wanted to appear different from the others, Vitali was different. What linked him to the character of the charlatan, one charlatanistic feature of his being, if you like, was the overemphasis of his specialness, which led to a one-sided view of the world and life from the perspective of being different. This explains why the vital protest of this brilliant man did not beat at the doors of the universities and take the form of revolutionary and productive collaboration, but found expression in

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BUONAFEDE VITALI – THE GOOD CHARLATAN

an uncommonly endearing, artistically appealing, strange and basically fruitless existence as a charlatan.

Just as Anonimo falsified his own knowledge of charlatanry, because he transformed it in accordance with his desires, he unknowingly also falsified the verdict that the critical among his

contemporaries had formed of charlatans as a type. He did this because he lived as a charlatan, although he was not one, and he staged his “protest campaigns driven by honesty” with the characteristic aids of the charlatan’s fraudulent art.

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SIGMUND FREUD

I MEAN THE GENERAL TENDENCY OF PEOPLE TO BE GULLIBLE AND BELIEVE IN MIRACLES. FROM THE VERY BEGINNING, WHEN LIFE DRAWS US INTO ITS STRICT DISCIPLINE, RESISTANCE IS BORN IN US AGAINST THE RELENTLESSNESS AND MONOTONY OF THE LAWS OF THOUGHT, AND AGAINST THE REQUIREMENTS OF TESTING REALITY. REASON BECOMES AN ENEMY THAT DENIES US SO MUCH OPPORTUNITY FOR PLEASURE. WE DISCOVER HOW MUCH PLEASURE WE DERIVE FROM AT LEAST TEMPORARILY ESCAPING IT AND INDULGING IN THE TEMPTATIONS OF NONSENSE.

EDUARD HANSLICK

DESERT ISLANDS ON DONIZETTI’S COMIC OPERAS (1897) I have no intention of describing Donizetti’s career, step by step, opera by opera. In the course of twenty-six years, Donizetti wrote sixty-four operas. If only this exhausting intellectual work were all there was to it! In Italy, however, the composer always has to be there on the spot, to study the voices of the singers and to conduct the opera. When old Simon Mayr in Naples (where he was performing the opening cantata for San Carlo) declared that he no longer wanted to travel, that was as good as saying he no longer wanted to compose opera. Several years earlier, the management of La Scala had offered the famous Paisiello 10,000 francs for a new opera. His reply was: 80 was too old to go travelling around, but he would send them his music. His offer was politely declined.

In order to rehearse and conduct a new opera in Rome today, then another in Florence, and a third in Naples or Milan, Donizetti knew that he would have to travel the Italian peninsula from one end to the other – in a stage coach, because there were as yet no railways there. And there would be no resting between all these journeys, work, parties and merrymaking.

Donizetti wanted to enjoy it all and be everywhere.

Such indefatigable work and enjoyment must gradually have undermined his health. L’elisir d’amore, Don Pasquale and La Fille du régiment are in my view the most charming and most perfect works that Donizetti wrote. His better lyric tragedies all contain beautiful moments; however, only the three comic operas are consistent works in which the weaknesses evaporate in the face of the strengths. Without doubt, Doni­zetti’s temperament and talent (like Rossini’s) inclined more strongly towards the jovial and comic than to tragedy.

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DESERT ISLANDS

What explanation can there nevertheless be for such an exceedingly small number of comic operas by Donizetti? First, certainly external circumstances.

Opera buffa had always taken second place in Italy; it did not have the top singers at its disposal and was not paid as well as serious opera. The distinctly longer longevity of Donizetti’s comic works also attests to their greater value as works of art; to this day, the three comic operas stand out like desert islands in the sea of Donizetti’s failed tragedies. L’elisir d’amore, first performed in 1832, is now – 1897 – 65 years old, relatively immortal for a light, humorous opera. In this opera, we encounter simply everything that is idiosyncratic and endearing about Italian music. How sweetly harmo­nious and generally consistently dramatic these melodies are, these scenes! In these pieces, a natural symmetry, particular to Italian music alone, is merged with charming freshness and an ease that might call ingenious. The idyllic element in L’elisir d’amore is very charmingly compared to the military element, and these two in turn to their common delightful foil, the old charlatan! Undeniably the climax of Donizetti’s work, L’elisir d’amore and Don Pasquale together represent the highlight of post-Rossini opera buffa. In L’elisir everything is natural, undemanding, fun-loving. The spiritedness escalates not infrequently into glowing moments, the truth to heartfelt sentiment; even the “normal” – so para­ lyzing in heroic and tragic operas – here seems grace­ ful in its gentle illumination of everyday life. A friend of Felix Mendelssohn’s, Chorley, once told the story in Musical World of how one day in London a group of “learned” composers and music connoisseurs were excoriating L’elisir d’amore in great indignation. Mendelssohn initially sat silently, restlessly shifting in his chair.

Finally, when pressed for his verdict, he said: “I only know, erudite gentlemen, that I would be very happy if I had composed L’elisir d’amore!”

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DIANA KIENAST TALKS WITH OLIVER LÁNG ABOUT OTTO SCHENK

THE MAN AND HIS HUMAN SIDE ol

Otto Schenk created around 30 productions at Wiener Staats­ oper, in all parts of the reper­ toire, from Mozart to Cerha.

You got to know him as an in­ tern, and in the course of your work you’ve experienced, as­ sisted with many of his works, and later revived them as Head of scenic department. Is it possi­ ble to describe in general terms how Otto Schenk worked, what his rehearsal process was like?

Let’s start with the first day of rehearsals. Did he arrive with a finished production book? Did he explain his concept? dk No, he never came with a book.

He had everything in his head. And he never talked about general conceptual considerations, he always went directly to the point. He never had what they call a concept discussion, a first rehearsal where he talked about his ideas. Natu­ rally, he worked in advance with his set and costume designers on the joint ideas – I believe he gave them a free hand – but from the start of the rehearsals it was all about practical implementation.

This was what he most enjoyed, as he freely said. He never took the technical where and how, for example rehearsal plans, seriously – his assistants did that.

ol

So how did a rehearsal look?

Otto Schenk in the centre, his assistants beside him? dk Yes, they sat as close to him as possible, they always had to know exactly where they were in the piece and what came next. They also had to take notes, so that if a scene came up again after some time, they could say what had been done so far. Incidentally, in contrast to many other directors, Otto Schenk didn’t want a director’s desk. He sat, and this has become legendary, on a slightly raised platform, on a director’s chair which was as impressive as possible – at the Staatsoper this was mostly a prop from an older production. ol You said he had everything in his head. That suggests that he was always well prepared. dk His preparation was always excellent. He knew the words, music, sources, literature, simply everything. ol But – for example with L’elisir d’amore – was everything com­ pletely worked out from the start? Or did he develop it mostly in rehearsal? dk He always knew what he wanted. He’s not the type of director who waits to be presented with something and only then develops their thoughts about the piece. So, not a “Let’s see

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THE MAN AND HIS HUMAN SIDE

where this leads”. Even so, nothing was graven in stone, everything was creatively developed in rehearsal. If something was good, he took that, which doesn’t mean that it couldn’t be revised. Even in later revivals of his productions he developed a lot of new things and cut old ideas, on the lines of.

So on the one hand there was the exact preparation and a set direction, which was deeply thought out thanks to his intellect and wide education, and on the other hand there was the very lively and emotional work in the moment.

But generally speaking, how a role was ultimately developed always depended with him on who he was working with.

He enjoyed working with gifted people who enjoyed playing, and they all very much enjoyed working with him. But if the other person wasn’t offering any­ thing, he could get impatient. ol In rehearsal with the singers, did he outline the characters in a preliminary discussion? dk No, he didn’t do that either. It was always, “Let’s get started!” ol I remember a rehearsal of Die Fledermaus in 2011, which see­ med particularly playful, but there were also moments of very crisp intervention. dk The rehearsal atmosphere was always enjoyable. He was a comedian, and he always played this up, to every­ one’s enjoyment. But he could be also be unpleasant, with no holding back.

I remember an anecdote from my time as an intern, when Otto Schenk was directing Die Meistersinger. You have to bear in mind that he felt it important that after the main orchestral rehearsal, if food was involved there was always real food on the stage. They were rehearsing the third act, the festival

meadow, all the soloists, chorus and extras were gathered together, there were pretzels, sausage stands and so on. We came to the “Awake!” chorus, there’s a general rest. A moment of particular tension – which one of the extras, an older man, tall, who was in a very exposed position, used to take a big bite of his sandwich. Otto Schenk froze, then he ran out of the auditorium, you could hear him shouting, raging, weeping as he went, Christoph von Dohnányi stopped the rehearsal, rushed after him to calm him down. You can imagine the rest. The poor Mister Hammer – that was the extra’s name – had no idea what he’d unleashed. But this insensitivity at such a highly emotional moment, that just lacerated Otto Schenk’s patience. ol So there was the sanctity of the theatre that had to be defended? dk Yes. But you have to be careful talking about sanctity, because what Otto Schenk really hates is operatic pathos. The grand gesture. Even in the great emotional love duets he always found the smaller details important, little gestures of embarrassment, or the emergence of trust. He developed even the great moments from human inadequacies, in particular if they involved very intensive emotions which were in any case exaggerated by the music. For him – and many reviewers criticize him for it – it’s always about the human side.

But how else could it be? After all, opera is created by people and interpreted by people for people. ol He’s an actor, does that mean that he demonstrated in rehearsal? dk He demonstrated a lot, some­ times taking things completely over the top. As I said, he’s a comedian, and that made the rehearsal very enjoyable for everyone, if things were going well.

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DIANA KIENAST TALKS ABOUT OTTO SCHENK

At the same time he was incredibly precise and insisted on accuracy. ol In terms of timing or an expression? dk More where an expression, an action, a gesture was involved. Let’s stick to Die Meistersinger. It was very important to him that Hans Sachs in the second act should do his work as a shoemaker properly, not just knocking the leather about a bit, but using the right tools and processes in the right order.

Not for the sake of honesty in the craft, but to show that Sachs is someone who’s a good poet and a good shoe­maker, and does both conscientiously. He doesn’t just pretend. What he does, he does properly, and you have to feel this seriousness, and that’s why it has to be shown. ol Otto Schenk’s love of the chorus is legendary, and they responded to the full. His skill in directing choristers was often praised. dk It’s very simple. He had no fear of the chorus. You have no idea how many directors feel entirely different. Suddenly there’s this crowd of people on the stage, a mob you don’t know. And you have to move them. Otto Schenk saw this differently. For him, this wasn’t a nameless mob, it was a lot of individuals. And he approached everyone individually, and did so with the greatest enthusiasm. That’s why the chorus loved him! Even so, he knew how to blend all these individuals into a homogeneous whole. He was a great mentor for many!

And many could use a bit of this, when it comes to dealing with a chorus. ol Was he an efficient worker? dk Oh, absolutely. And he used every available minute, so it almost never happened that a rehearsal ended earlier than the set time. This also meant that he got by with the time available for rehearsal. He was very much a practical

man of the theatre, not complicated, he knew how things went. You have this number of weeks, and that has to do. ol Was it important to him to find a new perspective on pieces? dk During rehearsal, even with repeated encounters with a piece, he always checked to see if he felt his vision was still valid. That was his approach. If he found a better solution, he naturally took that. He wasn’t concerned with whether this vision was unusual or esta­blished. ol Today, his works are seen as “classic”, but decades ago seve­ ral of his productions were criti­ cized as “modern” by reviewers.

There were protests, for example, when in Don Carlo he showed King Philip in a plain grey cos­ tume, rather than royal robes. dk He didn’t do this to appear “modern”, as you said, because he always started from human beings. However impressive King Philip was in person, in the opera his aria “Ella giammai m’amò!” shows his total vulnerability, he’s entirely human there. You know he’s a king anyway, you don’t need a crown to emphasize that. What’s more important is that a person is singing who feels the loneliness. That’s why when people talk about Otto Schenk’s work the core statement is that he was always concerned about the human beings. ol Who he approached with em­ pathy. dk Yes, with empathy, with a loving but still critical regard. Above all, for all his education, his knowledge and his intellect, he never took a cerebral approach. He much preferred to work with the sensual side of life and the characters, which ultimately distinguished his theatrical œuvre.

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LAWRENCE BROWNLEE as NEMORINO

IMPRINT GAETANO DONIZETTI

L’ELISIR D’AMORE SEASON 2023/24 Publisher WIENER STAATSOPER GMBH, Opernring 2, 1010 Wien Director DR. BOGDAN ROŠČIĆ Music Director PHILIPPE JORDAN Administrative Director DR. PETRA BOHUSLAV General Editors SERGIO MORABITO, ANDREAS LÁNG, OLIVER LÁNG Design & concept EXEX Layout & typesetting MIWA MEUSBURGER Cover picture LAS VEGAS - JULY 29: A VIEW OF A NEON MILKMAN SIGN ON FREMONT STREET ON JULY 29, 2009 IN LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. (PHOTO BY JOAN ADLEN/GETTY IMAGES) Cover concept MARTIN CONRADS, BERLIN All performance photos by MICHAEL PÖHN (p. 2-3, 15, 18-19, 22, 26, 37), AXEL ZEININGER (p. 7), WIENER STAATSOPER GMBH Printed by PRINT ALLIANCE HAV PRODUKTIONS GMBH, BAD VÖSLAU TEXT REFERENCES Grete De Francesco: Buonafede Vitali – der gute Scharlatan, in: Die Macht des Charlatans, Die andere Bibliothek, 2021. The texts by Stefan Musil, Andreas Láng and Bettina Steiner were written for the programme of the Vienna State Opera 2021/22. The text by Alberto Zedda was taken from the première programme of the Vienna State Opera 1980. English translations Andrew Smith. Reproduction only with approval of Wiener Staatsoper GmbH / Dramaturgy. Abbreviations are not marked. Holders of rights who were unavailable regarding retrospect compensation are requested to make contact.

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