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Pagliacci
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| The 1870s were uncomfortable years for the Italian opera industry.
Verdi, the grand old man of the nation's musical heritage, had completed Aida in 1871, and appeared set for retirement.
The magnificent Egyptian spectacular seemed for most to be an insuperable climax to the great man's career, and as the years began to pass it was rumoured he was at last spent.
The hunt for an heir was on, and after the solitary success of Boïto's revised Mefistofele in 1875, and Ponchielli's La Gioconda in 1876, there was little else.
It was feared that the glorious tradition of Italian opera had at last been brought to its knees by the tide of Teutonic wizardry issuing from the pen of Richard Wagner.
Of course, the wily old maestro was saving his best until last, and in 1887, after sixteen years of silence, he emerged from retirement with his masterpiece, Otello, to be followed in 1893 with the sensational Falstaff.
There was, nevertheless, a call for fresh operatic talent, and it is significant to note that the search was led and largely sponsored by the heads of the two major publishing houses, Giulio Ricordi and Edoardo Sonzogno, whose future fortunes depended upon copyright partnerships with Verdi's as yet undiscovered successors. Their policies were shrewd, and their machinations did indeed bear fruit. Ricordi struck gold with the young Puccini, whose 1893 Manon Lescaut established him once and for all as a worthy crown prince; meanwhile Sonzogno secured relations with three other young men, each of whom was to be propelled to international fame on reputations earned through single works: Umberto Giordano, Ruggero Leoncavallo, and Pietro Mascagni. Giordano's principal creation was Andrea Chénier, completed in 1896 thanks to a small annual stipend granted the composer by Sonzogno. The publishing mogul was by this stage on a winning streak, having a few years earlier scored incomparable successes with two short operas, the first, Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, in 1890, followed shortly by another, Leoncavallo's Pagliacci, in 1892. The two have been paired as a double-bill ever since the latter work's second performance in 1893, providing a complimentary musical and theatrical statement that has stood the test of time. The natural palatability of the two operas in conjunction, and the subsequent enormous popularity they have enjoyed as a union, has served to defeat all attempts to separate them. Mascagni composed his one-act masterpiece at the age of twenty-six, while employed by the municipal council of Cerignola (a dreary provincial backwater in the south) as the town's official music teacher and 'maestro.' Born in 1863, the son of a Tuscan baker, the composer had arrived in Cerignola in 1887, intent on securing a regular income after having meandered the country for three years as conductor of a ramshackle operetta group. His formal studies at the Milan conservatory, under the tutorship of Ponchielli, had ended prematurely, perhaps even explosively, back in 1884. The young Pietro considered himself temperamentally unsuited to the strictures and pressures of an academic environment; and it was not long before the same boredom began to undermine the stability of his position in Cerignola. An opportunity to escape the banality of his post seemed to present itself in the form of a competition, sponsored by the publisher Sonzogno, for the composition of a new one-act opera. It was the second competition of its kind, and quite aside from copyright royalties, it promised three composer finalists full-scale productions of their prize-winning works at Rome's Costanzi theatre. The first Sonzogno competition had been held in 1883, and is chiefly remembered for its failure to recognise the entry submitted by Puccini, who at that time was a friend and colleague of Mascagni at the Milan conservatory. It was Puccini, nevertheless, who encouraged Mascagni in 1888 to abandon the gruelling labour of the full-length Guglielmo Ratcliff with which he was occupied in between teaching duties, and concentrate his efforts on a one-act work. The result was a collaboration between Mascagni and his friend, the aspiring poet Giovanni Targioni-Tozzetti, on an operatic project specifically designed for the competition. They finally decided to base their drama on a stage-play (itself derived from a book) by Giovanni Verga, entitled Cavalleria Rusticana - an effective, highly charged romance of passion, honour and revenge, set against the backcloth of an untamed rural Sicily. Pressure to meet the deadline brought into play a second librettist, Guido Menasci, and the threesome worked tirelessly to complete the work by the given submission date. It is worthwhile noting that another competitor, the youngest, in fact, was the nineteen-year-old Umberto Giordano, at this stage still a student. His entry, Marina, stirred the interest of judges and publisher alike, but was not considered worthy of the final. Cavalleria, however, succeeded beyond all expectation, and elevated its composer overnight to a position of national preeminence, at the hub of Italy's musical elite. There can be little doubt that the opera's instant success was achieved not only through the coupling of an inspired score to an exemplary libretto, but also by the participation of first class artists. The husband and wife team of Gemma Bellincioni and Roberto Stagno provided the opera with an outstanding Santuzza and Turiddu, both singers well-respected in their day not only for vocal skill but their compelling presence as actors. The prize was his, and although the Costanzi was only half filled for the first performance, on 17th May 1890, there was an entourage of prestigious individuals present, including Queen Margherita and Rome's most influencial journalists. Mascagni was offered an enticing contract by Sonzogno, and at a time of deep social unrest in Italy, with several factions crying out for radical political change, he was hailed by many as the composer for the new era. It would be an over-simplification to claim that Cavalleria inspired a new vogue in operatic taste at the end of the nineteenth century, as is so often maintained. The movement represented by the so-called 'young school,' grouped loosely under the banner of verismo, took a distinct step away from the niceties of the bel canto operatic tradition (with its emphasis on virtuoso pyrotechnics over and above the need for dramatic plausibility), but it was to a large extent defined more by a shift in vocal style rather than theatrical subject-matter. True verismo, which demanded an uncompromising 'veracity' of character and situation, a raw confrontation of man and emotion at the basest level, was a literary movement which swept Europe largely due to the influence of Zola; and Giovanni Verga's original stage play, upon which Mascagni's opera is based, most definitely belongs to that genre. But Mascagni's musical setting encompasses unmistakably traditional elements which set it apart from true verismo, such as Turiddu's drinking song and an indulgence in long, lyrical melodies which are shaped purely and simply to flatter the voice (derivative of Verdi, and ultimately Bellini). Mascagni's chorus of Sicilian peasants, moreover, is not far removed from its idealised counterpart in Verdi's Luisa Miller, nor is it distinct in its shallow concept of rusticity from the rabble of Donizetti's Elisir, or the simple, sturdy patriots of Rossini's Guillaume Tell. In addition, Cavalleria's early interpreters were singers renowned for their command of bel canto and all the delicate vocal shading and ornamentation which so characterised it; for example Fernando De Lucia, Emma Calvé and Nellie Melba. And yet, as the new vocal style of period took shape, led by artists such as Caruso, Ruffo and Farrar, with its preference for stronger delivery and a heart-swelling integration of expressive sound with dramatic message, the music of Mascagni and his contemporaries became disassociated with the refinements that had so characterised Italian opera in the past. The interpretative emphasis was shifted in favour of a close union of voice and action, of music and drama. This stylistic movement, which had begun at least fifteen years before, with Bizet's David Webster wrote that verismo upheld "the theory that in art and literature the ugly and the vulgar have their place on the grounds of truth and aesthetic value."Cavalleria and its partner, Pagliacci, have as their core the most naked and recognisable of human motivations: lust, revenge, fear and hate. Both works are characterised throughout by a tight suppression of these emotions, which leads to both operas ending with a climactic explosion, a loss of rational control, and an inevitable resolution through violence. Moreover, it is a primitive, earthy violence which is portrayed, punctuated with screams and short, sharp yells, far removed from the lyrically languorous death-throws of bel canto heroes. If this is all that is required to classify an opera as verismo, then these two works must be seen as classics of the genre. And yet there is an element of inevitable tragedy present, especially surrounding the figure of Turiddu, who plainly sees it as his destiny to perish, and which elevates Webster's "ugly and vulgar" into the realm of sublime musical statement. The differences between this treatment and that of traditional opera, in this light appear cosmetic. The most appropriate application of the term verismo, in relation to Mascagni and Leoncavallo, is that it differentiates their work (and that of their contemporaries) from the era dominated by Verdi. The de-deification of the operatic protagonist, the stripping of the lead tenor's noble ancestry, and his replacement with a figure from low life, is incidental and cannot be seen as indicative of a strong shift of operatic perspective or values, as the later creations of Puccini (Des Grieux, Cavaradossi, Calaf and Dick Johnson) were to demonstrate. They are every inch traditional heroes, albeit in a new guise. It would be a mistake, however, to underestimate the literary sophistication with which Leoncavallo sought to imbue his 'real life' plot in Pagliacci. The story itself is based on a true incident, apparently from the composer's own childhood memories. A jealous husband, called Alessandro, murdered his wife's lover and appeared unrepentant at the ensuing court-case where he was tried and sentenced to a term in prison by Leoncavallo's father, a police magistrate, in 1865. Onto this straightforward 'slice-of-life' incident, the composer has grafted his own libretto, a complex interplay of reality and illusion, appearances and deceit, horror lurking beneath the mask of comedy, so that the audience is both arrested by the potent explication of events on stage, and participating in the implication of the fundamental agony as it unravels. To achieve this dynamic tension, Leoncavallo employs the age-old tool of a 'play within the play,' identifying the players both in and out of their roles, while deliberately entwining the two. The confusing dichotomy is suddenly laid bare at the climax, when Canio bursts out of his 'Pagliaccio' persona, takes on the shape of raw man, and commits the double murder which brings the work to its shattering conclusion. If we are to search for a single operatic element that might give definition to the somewhat broad term verismo, it might well be found in this compelling dissolution of the barriers between audience and drama. Pagliacci was without doubt conceived and structured in the full knowledge (if not in outright imitation) of Mascagni's sensational one-act coup. Leoncavallo had endured a frustrating decade of musical anonymity since completing his studies of Italian literature at Bologna university. Although occupied with the composition a turgid operatic project set in the Italian Renaissance, I Medici, he found little opportunity for concrete work other than as a café pianist. His fortunes were transformed when he was befriended by the distinguished French baritone, Victor Maurel, soon to become a household name in Italy as the creator of Verdi's Iago and Falstaff. Maurel introduced the composer to Verdi's publisher, Giulio Ricordi, who, though impressed with the libretto of I Medici, rejected the music outright. [When it was eventually staged, on the strengths of Pagliacci, critics and public found I Medici pretentious, over-ambitious and heavily dependent on northern European models.] After the enormous success of Cavalleria, in 1890, Leoncavallo turned his attention to the composition of a one-act work, and in five months produced the finished libretto and score of Pagliacci. The fact that the opera was subsequently published in two acts came about merely as a result of the natural break brought on by the applause at the end of Canio's aria ('Vesti la giubba'); indeed, what is today the prelude to Act Two, was originally conceived as an Intermezzo along the same lines as its counterpart in Cavalleria. The opera complete, the impatient composer chose to ignore Ricordi altogether, and took it instead directly to Sonzogno, patron of Mascagni's work. It was bought instantly, the publisher having been profoundly impressed with the libretto, and a performance was arranged at the Teatro del Verme of Milan. Maurel volunteered his services to create the role of Tonio, and he was supported by Adelina Stehle (the first Nannetta in Falstaff) and the tenor Fiorello Giraud (a famous Siegfried of La Scala, in later years). The opera was performed on 21st May 1892, under the baton of a promising young conductor, recently elevated from his job as an orchestral cellist - Arturo Toscanini. Leoncavallo could not have asked for a better team of musicians to launch his work; and, but for a moment of chaos when a stage-shy donkey nearly fell into the pit, Pagliacci was an immediate public success. One of the most striking ingredients of the score, and certainly one which has made it both a favourite and a nightmare for lyric-spinto baritones ever since, is the inclusion of Tonio's Prologue, which opens the drama. Not only is one immediately and effectively introduced to the opera's underlying premise (that the clown beneath the costume is a man like any other), but one is treated to an exposition of outstanding baritone repertoire, complete as a show-piece in itself, that is likely to test the artistry and accomplishment of all who first utter that intrusive challenge, 'Si può?' Maurel apparently requested Leoncavallo to compose it, and it has since become a classic vehicle for the baritone with a strong upper register. Many renowned baritones (and some tenors, such as Tauber) have indulged themselves splendidly in this aria, and some gems of operatic history have resulted: Titta Ruffo's pock-marked imbecile, based on a real-life model he encountered on a walk; Battistini, who is said to have switched roles to Silvio as soon as he'd finished Tonio's prologue, so as to get all the best tunes; Tito Gobbi, who wrote of the prologue's awesome (but unwritten) top A flat, that the audience expect it "if one has any pretensions whatsoever to being a baritone of value. Especially is this so if the poor devil is a beginner. Later on - which is just as bad - he must continue to produce it for the sake of honour." Fortunate as Sonzogno may have been to stumble upon two such significant triumphs so quickly in succession, and both of them the work of younger men, he failed in his attempt to discover Verdi's successor. Neither Mascagni nor Leoncavallo were ever to produce another opera with the equivalent inspiration and dramatic impetus of their youthful masterpieces. Mascagni enjoyed fame and honour, saw his other works performed, and matured into an elder statesman of Italy's music establishment; yet this was achieved for the most part on the strength of a single composition. As the creator of Cavalleria Rusticana, he remained precious to the Italian public. His later association with fascism in the years leading up to (and during) the war was to be his undoing, and he died, disillusioned and disgraced, in August 1945. Leoncavallo's latter career was equally undistinguished, although at least two other works enjoyed some small success: Zazà included several popular show-piece arias, and his version of La Bohème has been recently recorded. He died in August 1919, his name known across the globe as the man who gave birth to the drum-beating clown, Canio, forever immortalised by the seminal interpretation of Enrico Caruso. |
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