I Puritani: Why we killed Arturo

By Magda Romanska, Ph.D., BLO Dramaturg

In BLO’s version of I Puritani, a vengeful Riccardo kills Arturo during the last scene as the two happy lovers, Elvira and Arturo, finally reconnect after many trials and tribulations. Arturo dies in Elvira’s arms, and we can only anticipate that the final blow of his death will ultimately unravel her fragile and already strained psyche. The plot of I Puritani meanders back and forth, with the lovers reconnecting four times, making the climactic moment somewhat subdued by our implicit expectation of yet another impediment to the course of their love. The happy ending brought by the unexpected and convenient amnesty of all prisoners, including Arturo, is announced by the sudden arrival of a missive.

The classical Aristotelian model of dramatic structure eschewed such deus ex machina plot devices, considering them to be the subterfuges of lesser dramatists who are unable to provide us with a structurally satisfying and cathartic denouement. During the Romantic era of I Puritani, however, the Aristotelian model gave way to melodramatic plots with multiple climaxes, cliffhangers, and reconciliations. In that way, Romantic plot models, whether in opera or in melodrama, very much paralleled our modern soap-opera plot devices (think of Friends’ Ross and Rachel’s gloriously absurd stop-and-go courtship developing over the span of ten years).

Whether with happy or tragic endings, Romanticism focused on heightened emotions, weaving-in tales of love and redemption through the intricate landscapes of the characters’ dramatically enhanced inner emotions. Throughout the centuries, opera directors responded in various ways to I Puritani’s elaborate melodramatic plot and deus ex machina happy ending. Many, like BLO, chose to kill Arturo at the end, which, in light of everything else that happens in the story, is as psychologically consistent as letting him live. Can we really imagine Elvira and Arturo’s happy marriage?

The two most recent productions in which Riccardo kills Arturo at the end were a 2003 production directed by John Dew that premiered at the Vienna Staatsoper, and Francisco Negrin’s 2009 version of I Puritani directed for the Netherlands Opera. Negrin viewed the libretto as "silly and not making much sense," and chose to frame the ending as a figment of Elvira’s distressed imagination. At the end, we are left to wonder whether the amnesty really happened or whether Elvira merely imagined it. In John Dew’s version, Riccardo falls to his knees after killing Arturo, tragically realizing what he has just done. Although his rival is dead now, Riccardo too is a broken man: revenge has led him nowhere (as suggested in previous scenes).

For opera to remain a living, breathing genre of dramatic art, the living, contemporary directors must experiment with it as much as their counterparts have done in the past. If they wouldn’t try different approaches and visions, they would deprive us of the most salient pleasure of opera going experience: deconstructing the various delicious ins and outs of their decisions.

An Interview with One of BLO’s Favorite Opera Mommies, Sarah Coburn

Sarah Coburn with Katie Rose (left) and Ruby (right)

Sarah Coburn stars as Elvira in Boston Lyric Opera’s production of Bellini’s I Puritani, through May 11. Sarah is also a wife and a mother of two. In between rehearsing, performing, and traveling, Sarah makes time to watch and sing along with Disney’s Frozen alongside her two daughters, Katie Rose (4) and Ruby (almost 2), and sometimes interviews with the Boston Globe while they giggle and play nearby.

BLO: How do you balance your thriving career and continued artistic pursuit with being a young mom?
SC: Young mom? Thanks! I am still overwhelmed by the challenges that come with trying to be a wife, mom, homemaker, opera singer, expert traveler and employer. It is tricky to keep it all balanced. Actually, it is impossible. I think our generation of working moms is going crazy trying to be and have it all. We technically can have it all, but I think we risk sacrificing our joy in the process.

BLO: Your most memorable moment of the two worlds colliding (mommy and artist)?
SC: My big “having it all” moment- literally running back and forth between rehearsals and my apartment in Los Angeles, while I was rehearsing for TWO operas and nursing a 10-week-old. I remember thinking, “Am I crazy?” while jogging home on the overpass.

Los Angeles Opera's Tamerlano

BLO: What was it like to perform while pregnant?
SC: Singing while pregnant was great for me…in the later months. The pressure of the baby gave me a nice cushion of support for singing. There were some drawbacks as well- breathlessness and constant visits to the restroom. When I was six months pregnant with Katie Rose, I was singing Gilda and Portland Opera didn’t have a restroom stage left. So, they rented a port-a-potty for me and set it up stage left. How is that for the diva treatment?

Florida Grand Opera's The Barber of Seville

BLO: Have Ruby and Katie Rose seen you perform on stage?
SC: My oldest, Katie Rose, has seen a few performances, and loves to come backstage. She is still a bit young to understand that when Mom is feeling sad or upset on stage, that I am really going to be ok. She doesn’t like it when other characters are mean to her mom! Last week, my husband brought her into the wings for the very end of the performance. When I saw her little face during the bows, I melted. At that point, I am usually recounting to myself all of the things that went badly during the performance and how I don’t really deserve an ovation. When I saw her, all I felt was joy and gratitude.

BLO: Do you think they might follow in your footsteps with a career in opera?
SC: I don’t know. We shall see. I don’t care what they end up doing; I just want them to have joy and to know how much they are loved.

Boston Lyric Opera's The Barber of Seville

I Puritani Interview with Mary Ann Smart

BLO Dramaturg, Magda Romanska talks to Mary Ann Smart, Professor of Music at the University of California, Berkeley about I Puritani.  Professor Smart is the author of the book, Mimomania: Music and Gesture in Nineteenth-Century Opera, the editor of the critical edition of Donizetti’s last opera, Dom Sébastien, and of the articles on Bellini and Donizetti for the revised Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians.  She has published articles on the lives and public images of nineteenth-century female singers, and on the ways madness is depicted in opera.  In 2007, Smart was awarded the Dent Medal by the Royal Musical Association and the International Musicological Society.  Her book Waiting for Verdi: Opera and Political Opinion in Italy, 1815-1848 will be published next year.

MR: There is more than one version of the I Puritani libretto. Can you tell us a bit about the differences between various versions?

MAS: The "definitive" text of I Puritani, as musicologists would usually define it, is not that much in doubt.  We know what was performed in Paris in January of 1835 when Bellini was present and supervising the performance.  Where things become complicated is the fact that, even before the Paris première, Bellini had begun work on an adapted version of the score for Maria Malibran to sing at the Teatro San Carlo in Naples.  These performances did not take place and Malibran never actually sang the role, because delivery of the score to Naples was delayed by a cholera epidemic and Malibran died soon after.  But Bellini's autograph of the "Malibran version" survives, and it shows that he introduced several changes. 

MR: Can you tell us about some of these changes?

MAS: The less significant of these changes, which shouldn't affect our perception of Bellini's intentions for the opera, include the transposition down a third of Elvira's music, to suit Malibran's range, the re-organization of the opera into two acts instead of three, and the elimination of the duet for Giorgio and Riccardo at the end of Act 2 ("Suoni la Tromba") which was cut in anticipation of Neapolitan censorship.   More interesting are the variations of the final scene: in the Malibran version, Bellini re-assigns the main line in the final duet cantabile ("Credeasi Misera") to Elvira instead of Arturo, and concludes with a new cabaletta for Elvira conceived for Malibran ("Ah Sento, O Mio Bell'angelo").   Many listeners feel that the finale works better with the cabaletta, but we have no documentation clarifying whether Bellini made this change simply to showcase Malibran and to flatter her with a new piece conceived especially for her, or whether he also sensed some weakness in the finale.  In the absence of such indications, I would take the original Paris ending as "definitive"-- although this philological judgment (of course!) need not be binding on performers.

MR:  I Puritani is considered structurally challenging. What do you think are the most difficult aspects of the dramatic structure?

MAS: The libretto (and hence also the score) do have an unusual structure.  Here are some of the main idiosyncrasies:

·         The three mad scenes, one in each act, are difficult to pull off without loss of momentum, although each one has a distinct musical, dramatic, and formal profile.

·         The reasons that Elvira and Arturo cannot marry are less clearly articulated than in many contemporary operas, relying on slightly obscure political allegiances rather than a clear paternal blocking figure.

·         The third act is strangely dominated by the movements of soldiers on and off the stage, punctuating and interrupting the private drama.

·         There's more chorus than usual, and the choruses are often dreamy and atmospheric;

·         there's a huge amount of offstage music--beginning from the off-stage chorus in the very first scene, through the offstage beginning of Elvira's "Son Vergin Vezzosa" and of her Act 2 mad scene, and the romanza she sings as a signal to Arturo early in Act 3.  This has the effect of making the drama seem ghostly and ephemeral in an interesting and innovative way, but one that may strike spectators as pale or undefined.

·         Each of the three acts has an unusual shape, not quite following the usual build through solo numbers, ensembles, and dramatic climaxes.  

MR: Bellini’s letters indicate that he blamed his librettist, Carlo Pepoli for some of these challenges…

MAS: These features are usually laid at the door of the librettist Carlo Pepoli, who was a political exile and Bolognese nobleman who was making his first stab at libretto writing with I Puritani.  (He later wrote a couple more.)  Pepoli's lack of experience is undeniable, but it's very doubtful that the opera's unusual structure is actually the result of accident or librettist failure.  For one thing, Bellini was on the spot in Paris setting the terms as the libretto took shape, and we know that he exerted a strong hand about certain aspects of the planning.  For another, across his career Bellini himself had an unusual attitude to operatic drama and pacing, always being far more interested in the cadences and echoes of individual poetic lines than any other composers of the time and, consequently, less concerned with medium- or large-scale dramatic pacing and tension.  You can see many of the same features in his opera La Straniera (La Scala, 1829), based on a libretto by the excellent and experienced Felice Romani.  And where I Puritani is criticized for shadowy form, La Straniera was at the time recognized as breaking new ground in romantic opera.

MR: I Puritani exhibits many characteristics of the Romantic drama. Can you tell us in which way the opera was characteristic for its era?

MAS: The opera has several obvious features in common with the more frequently performed Lucia di Lammermoor, especially the mad scenes for soprano that feature musical reminiscences of past happiness and hallucinated weddings.  This and the focus on a few passionate individuals caught up in, and victimized by, an impersonal machinery of state and civil war, are the features that would usually be identified as "romantic" in this opera.  But I think there's much more to it: the ghostliness and predominance of off-stage singing that I described above places I Puritani in dialogue with a group of French plays, ballets, and fiction from the 1820s and 1830s, and establishes its romantic pedigree in a more interesting and more specific way.  

MR: What are some of the major themes that you think still speak to modern audiences?

MAS: This is the hardest question for me, as I don't really think of 19th-century opera as realist or as having much direct relevance to contemporary life or experience.  (For what it's worth I don't think these operas were heard this way when they were first performed, either; people enjoyed the play of structures, contrasts, virtuosity, and vocal vulnerability, rather than worrying about or identifying with the characters.)  When forced to think in these terms, I notice that Elvira is interestingly indeterminate--certainly not voiceless, but much more buffeted by the forces around her (including her uncle, the nominal authority figure) than is Lucia di Lammermoor in similar circumstances.  There's less clear conflict and opposition between Elvira and the authorities that surround her, and at the end of Act I she comes only gradually to a realization of her situation.  In some ways this seems more real and more interesting than Lucia's sudden move from outright defiance (at the beginning of Act 2) to madness and death in Act III.  Elvira is always feeling her way, musically, and perhaps it gets her further than Lucia's relative clarity of thought.  

Finally, although the military and political background of the Civil War is not very clearly articulated in the libretto, the music somewhat makes up for this with all the off-stage marches in the last act.  I'd be interested in seeing modern productions that made more of this dimension of the plot, perhaps capitalizing on or drawing out the first-hand experience of armed conflict that librettist Carlo Pepoli had in 1831 and also (less directly) the over revolutionary sympathies of several members of the original cast and original audience.  Both Giulia Grisi and Luigi Lablache contributed money to the revolutionary cause of Giuseppe Mazzini, and became good friends of his in London soon after 1835.

The Romantic Trope of a Madwoman

by Magda Romanska, Ph.D., Boston Lyric Opera Dramaturg

The portrayal of Elvira in I Puritani follows the trope of the madwoman, which dominated the nineteenth-century European discourse on gender. Trapped in a man’s world, Victorian women often escaped into madness, which was viewed as the only permissible way for them to speak the truth and to solve the tensions and pressures of their untenable position. Within the sphere of art, drama and literature, crazed and suicidal heroines (Ophelia, Elaine, the Lady of Shalott) dominated the late-nineteenth-century artistic and literary scene.

The obligatory mad scene had its origins in a Renaissance theatrical convention of representing “mad women as erotomaniacs. This is based on masculine assumption that women are more inclined to go mad since they are closer to the irrational by nature, and that young women’s madness is, more often than not, caused by sexual frustration of unrequited love” (Hamana, 1995).

Shakespeare’s Ophelia, particularly, was seen as the epitome of female madness. In the clinical context, Ophelia came to represent a peculiar female malady; a psychological predisposition, based on one’s femininity, toward madness and suicide. In 1833, George Farren considered Shakespeare’s description of mad Ophelia to be an ideal example of a clinical case of female insanity: “It is impossible to conceive of anything more perfect than the picture of disease given by Shakespeare in this scene of Ophelia’s. Every medical professor who is familiar with cases of insanity will freely acknowledge its truth.” For Farren, Shakespeare’s description of Ophelia’s insanity has a clinical quality.

Eventually, the interaction between clinical, literary, dramatic, and visual discourse became conflated, blurring the lines of causality: it was becoming less and less clear whether Shakespeare merely presented “the picture of [ feminine] disease” or whether he created the disease. Elaine Showalter (1985) suggests that “illustrations of Ophelia, notably a series of pictures produced by Delacroix between 1830 and 1850, inspired by Harriet Smithson’s portrayal, played a major role in the theoretical construction of female insanity”. Showalter continues: “Ophelia became the prototype not only of the deranged woman in Victorian literature and art but also of the young female asylum patient”.

Soon doctors began to diagnose some of their female mental patients with “Ophelia.” In 1859 Dr. Charles Bucknill, then president of the Medico-Psychological Association, wrote: “Ophelia is the very type of a class of cases by no means uncommon. Every mental physician of moderately extensive experience must have seen many Ophelias. It is a copy from nature, after the fashion of the Pre-Raphaelites” (Showalter, “Representing Ophelia”).

Actresses of that time, such as Ellen Tracy or Harriet Smithson, visited mental hospitals in order to study young mentally disturbed girls to prepare for their roles as Ophelia. In 1879, commissioned to do a portrait of Tracy’s mad Ophelia, the painter and printmaker Anna Lead Merritt visited Bedlam Hospital in search of a “real model” (Kiefer 2001: 18). But the most dramatic insertion of Ophelia into the clinical discourse was a series of photographs taken by Dr. Hugh Welsh Diamond (1809–86), a superintendent of female patients at the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum in Springfield and a member of the Photographic Society of London. Beginning in 1851, Diamond took a series of photographs of young women to illustrate various cases of female insanity, while stylizing his patient to resemble Shakespeare’s heroine. For Diamond, Ophelia was an ideal madwoman. Shakespeare’s story provided the cause of madness and helped Diamond to write a psychiatric diagnosis and the story behind it (abandoned, traumatized, deflowered, and so forth).

The practice of diagnosing girls with Ophelia syndrome was widespread, and it also influenced Jean-Martin Charcot (1825–93) and his psychiatric research on female insanity. Lehman (1996) points out that “Dr. Charcot’s patients [like Diamond’s] were also coached for the cameras, and sometimes instructed to perform Shakespearian heroines while under hypnosis.” Freud was a student at Charcot’s clinic for four months in 1885 and 1886, and considered Charcot his greatest professional inspiration. To what degree were Freud’s own theories on femininity, female hysteria, and female masochism modeled on the image of Ophelia? Conflating the social and the medical, Freud medicalized femininity, creating an image of the feminine as intrinsically affected by the faults of her sex, and thus as prone to madness and hysteria.

Wanting to be as ethereally “sublime” as Ophelia and other popular madwomen, women of all walks of life began fashioning themselves as insane. As one of Paris’ first superstars, glorified specifically on account of her “heart-rending and graceful, simple and sublime” portrayal of mad Ophelia, Smithson “became the model for a Parisian fashion: a coiffure “à la Miss Smithson” was introduced, a coiffure “‘à la folle,’ consisting of a ‘black veil with wisps of straw tastefully interwoven’ in the hair,” reported Corsaire magazine on October 11, 1827 (Raby 1982). Loose hair on a woman was at that time a conventional theatrical sign for madness, and Smithson’s mad hairstyle was reportedly copied widely by the Parisian beau monde.

FURTHER READING:

Farren, G. (1833). Essay on the Varieties in Mania, Exhibited by the Characters of Hamlet, Ophelia, Lear and Edgar. London: Dean and Munday.

Hamana, E. (1995). Whose Body Is It, Anyway?—A Re-Reading of Ophelia. In Yoshiko Uéno (Ed.), Hamlet and Japan (pp. 143–154). New York: AMS Press.

Kiefer, C. (2001). The Myth and Madness of Ophelia. The Myth and Madness of Ophelia (pp. 11–39). Amherst: Mead Art Museum.

Kromm, J. E. (1994). “The Feminization of Madness in Visual Representation.” Feminist Studies, 20(3), pp. 507–535. See also Chesler, P. (1972). Women and Madness. New York: Four Walls Eight Windows.

Lehman, A. (1996). Theatricality, Madness and Mesmerism: Nineteenth-century Female Performers. (Doctoral Dissertation, Indiana University, 1990). Dissertation Abstracts International

Raby, P. (1982). ‘Fair Ophelia’: A Life of Harriet Smithon Berlioz. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Showalter, E. (1985). The Female Malady: Women, Madness and English Culture 1830–1980. New York: Pantheon Books.

Showalter, E. (1985). Representing Ophelia: Women, Madness, and the Responsibilities of Feminist Criticism. In Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman (Eds.), Shakespeare and the Question of Theory (pp. 77–94). London: Methuen.

Steele, V. (1985). Fashion and Eroticism: Ideals of Feminine Beauty From the Victorian Era to the Jazz Age. New York : Oxford University Press.

Winslow, F. (1854). Recent Trials in Lunacy. Journal of Psychological Medicine and Mental Pathology, 7.

BLO's Interpretation of I Puritani

Set Model of BLO's I Puritani, Set Design by John Conklin

by Magda Romanska, Ph.D., Boston Lyric Opera Dramaturg

BLO's version of I Puritani preserves the original historical context, but – following Bellini’s own intent – we focus on the psychological truth of the characters rather than the historical details. History here serves only as a device to tell a larger story of men and women, painting the contrast between the two ruling elements, male and female, and the destruction that follows when they’re off-balance and one comes to dominate the other.

Through the use of an abstract and metaphorical set and costumes, we emphasize Elvira’s isolation in the male-dominated, military world, portraying her slow descent into madness, and blurring the lines between reality and hallucination. The women in our production, like the men, are nondescript; dressed  in identical costumes, they become mirror images – echoes – of Elvira’s own mental condition. She becomes the everywoman of her epoch, and her madness becomes an expression of stifled emotions constrained by the masculine framework from which she cannot escape. Her only escape, so it seems to her, is to fall in love with someone from the other side.

I Puritani Production History

by Magda Romanska, Ph.D., Boston Lyric Opera Dramaturg

Vincenzo Bellini (1801–1835) is known for three major operas: La Sonnambula (1831), Norma (1831), and I Puritani (The Puritans, 1835). I Puritani was Bellini’s last, and it was composed between 1834 and 1835 specifi cally for the Théâtre-Italien in Paris. During the time he was writing the opera, Bellini was close to Rossini, whose presence in the operatic life of Paris loomed large. Although there was a subtle animosity between them, Bellini is said to have valued Rossini’s advice; likewise, Rossini came to appreciate the younger composer’s talent.

The libretto for I Puritani was written by Count Carlo Pepoli, and it was based on a historical drama, Têtes Rondes et Cavaliers (1833, The Roundheads and the Cavaliers), written by Jacques-Arsene Polycarpe François Ancelot, and Joseph-Xavier Boniface, and set during the English Civil War (1641-49). Led by Oliver Cromwell, the Roundheads (also known as Parliamentarians) were the Puritan supporters of the English Parliament. Their opposition, the Cavaliers, were the Royalist supporters of King Charles I. In 1649 Charles I was executed, and from 1649 to 1653 the Parliamentarians ruled England. In I Puritani, the English Civil War provides the historical context, but it is nondescript. It serves as a dramatic vehicle for the story of the star-crossed lovers Elvira and Arturo as told via music, and it could be replaced with any other military conflict.

This was the first time Bellini had changed his librettist, replacing the experienced Felice Romani with Pepoli. Bellini ended up very pleased with the final results, but about Pepoli, he wrote: “He’s better than anyone else, but he is no Romani.”

When the opera premiered, under the direction of Domenico Ferri, it was an instant hit, and the four principal singers — Giulia Grisi (Elvira), Giovanni Battista Rubini (Arturo), Antonio Tamburini (Riccardo), and Luigi Lablache (Giorgio) — were so well-matched that, to this day, they are known as the “Puritani Quartet.” On the very first night, “there was an explosion of enthusiasm” which left Bellini “shaking and at times stunned.” Writing about the success of I Puritani in a letter to Santocanale, Rossini noted: “The composer and the singers were called on the stage twice, and I must tell you that such demonstrations are rare in Paris, and only happen if they are truly deserved. My prophesies are fulfilled, even to the extent that they are beyond what I had hoped for ...” Queen Marie-Amélie, to whom Bellini dedicated the score, had graced the second performance. Soon after, Bellini was invited by the Queen and King Louis Philippe to the royal palace, and the King made him a Cavalier of the Legion of Honour.

There were so many demands for encores, particularly for the duet “Suoni la tromba,” that Bellini was asked to make a number of cuts to ensure that the opera did not run past the 11:00 p.m. curtain time (set by police orders). Elvira’s ‘mad scene,’ for example, was moved to its current place, since originally it fell flat after the wild enthusiasm that “Suoni la tromba” evoked. Eventually, Bellini agreed to make an alternative version of I Puritani, with Elvira sung by a mezzosoprano, and Riccardo a tenor. As a result, there is no final authoritative text of the opera, and the text is open to interpretation. I Puritani was said to be Queen Victoria’s favorite opera, and indeed it was a quintessential Victorian opera of the Romantic period, with its obligatory “madwoman” scene, its Romantic love story, and its exaltation of traditional values.

Students Share their Reactions to Rigoletto

Every season Boston Lyric Opera invites high school and college students to view the final dress rehearsals of Shubert stage productions free of charge. The dress rehearsal program gives many students the chance to experience opera for the first time, as well as cultivate their appreciation of opera throughout their educational careers. In exchange for dress rehearsal passes, BLO asks students for their feedback on the performance. Students had an overwhelmingly positive reaction to Boston Lyric Opera’s most recent production of Verdi’s gripping drama, Rigoletto. Here is what they had to say:

“Every year this is one of the things that I am most excited about in Italian class.”

–Medford High School student

“The Boston Lyric Opera’s performance of the opera Rigoletto was sublime.”

–Whitman Middle School student

“In past years I went to see The Barber of Seville and Macbeth for similar trips. I can honestly say that Rigoletto was my favorite opera I’ve seen so far… I was surprised by how much I understood of the opera without the English translation.”

–Medford High School student

“The costumes were great, the set was amazing, the orchestra was on point, and the singing was moving. Thank you for a great performance to brighten up my week!”

– Medford High School student

“The music and singing gave me goosebumps.”

-Whitman Middle School student

“From start to finish, the opera’s protagonist, Rigoletto, carried the production with captivating power and expression of voice, gesture, and passion.”

–Medford High School student

“I can truthfully say, that this trip to the opera, was perfect.”

–Whitman Middle School student

We would like to thank all the teachers who have brought their students to the opera and students for their insightful responses. We hope to see you again at future BLO educational events.  To learn more about opportunities to introduce young people to opera and educational resources, visit blo.org/learn.

The History of the Court Jester by Magda Romanska

“Who Is Not a Fool?”—Horace, Satires

The court jester is a universal character. He can be found in ancient Rome and in China, in Renaissance Europe and in czarist Russia, at the courts of the Middle East and in classical Sanskrit plays of ancient India. Although there were a few known female jesters, historical studies show that the majority of jesters were men. The most famous female court jesters were Astaude du Puy, who worked for Queen Henrietta Maria (1609–1669), wife of Charles I of France, and La Jardinière, who worked for the queen dowager, Catherine de Médicis. Throughout history, the best jesters would acquire legendary reputations, becoming celebrated for their sharp tongues and quick wit. Their role was more than pure amusement; they were the original “truth tellers,” whose job was to mock typical human vices of vanity, venality, snobbery, petulance, laziness, carpetbaggery, and fatuity. The court jesters aimed their humor at the usual targets: religion and the hypocrisy of its authority figures; pompous and self-serving scholars and grandiloquent artists; knavish and sycophantic court officials; and indolent, mercurial, or incompetent rulers. In Europe, the court jester would be called fool, buffoon, clown, jongleur, jogleor, joculator, stultor, scurra, fou, histrio, morion, among many other names. He was an essential fixture of the royal courts and master castles.

The typical medieval or Renaissance jester was an outsider shunned by society for one reason or another. His marginal position put him outside the social framework, but his alienation only sharpened his insight into human nature. Jesters came from a range of backgrounds, from nonconformist university dropouts to excommunicated monks. In Russia, for example, jesters “were generally selected from among the older and uglier of the serf-servants, and the older the fool or she-fool was, the droller they were supposed and expected to be. The fool had the right to sit at table with his master, and say whatever came into his head” (Otto, 1–2). Giving offense to the king, lèse-majesté, has been a grave crime throughout history, and it was severely punished, including with death. Court jesters, however, often were granted “comic dispensation,” a “Freedom from all Constraint.” They could say anything about anyone, including the king. The jester kept the master in check, giving him an honest assessment of his decisions, character, and actions. Sometimes jesters and their masters developed a strong bond and became very protective of each other. Complimenting the fool was seen as complimenting the master. In 1047, a jester named Gollet warned his master, Duke William of Normandy, of a plot. He did so in rhyme, while pounding on the duke’s door.  King Charles V of France buried his two jesters in lavish monuments to pay homage to their wisdom and wit (Doran, 291). Shakespeare’s most iconic scene is that of Hamlet holding the skull of Yorick, his beloved childhood jester, while lamenting his untimely death: “Alas, Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

The jester was often represented as the only wise man of the company. Like Feste in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, he frequently spoke in improvised rhymes and sophisticated riddles, ensuring that the true meaning of his words remained obscure and beyond the understanding of common folk. The revered Polish jester Stańczyk (1480–1560), for example, was considered the most politically astute man of his era, able to predict the unfavorable turn of Polish history. Employed by three kings, Alexander, Sigmund the Old, and Sigmund Augustus, Stańczyk is known as a highly intelligent political philosopher who often spoke truth to power. In the most famous portrait of Stańczyk, by Jan Matejko, the jester, his head hanging low, is the only person at the court concerned about the news of Russians capturing the city of Smolensk in 1514. In Polish literature, Stańczyk is often perceived as the symbolic conscience of the nation. For the jester, however, no matter how exceptional and talented he was, the price of the freedom to say anything was social exclusion. The jester could never be promoted and could never fully participate in the social life of the court. He remained on the margins, an astute observer and biting commenter on social conventions and human follies. Likewise, a court jester was a slave who could never break free of his job; only the royal word could release him.

Many of the jesters were disabled: hunchbacks like Rigoletto, dwarfs, or otherwise handicapped. Since they were ostracized by society, the disabled marginal position offered them an unparalleled vantage point from which to peer into its faults and the necessary detachment from life’s passions, a vital quality in a brilliant jester. In medieval and Renaissance Europe dwarf jesters were so popular that the practice of artificially stunting children became common to keep up with demand. According to documents from 1670, dwarfs could be artificially made by “anointing babies’ spines with the grease of bats, moles, and dormice.” Other prescriptions advised various medicaments such as “the aptly named dwarf elder, knotgrass, and daisy juice and roots mixed with milk to stunt growth” (Otto, 29). Often children were kidnapped and turned into “artificial dwarfs” to be sold as court jesters. In Italy and Spain the practice was so widespread that the kidnappers had their own term, comprachicos, “child-buyers.” In Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1600), Lysander talks about it: “Get you gone, you dwarf; / You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made; / You bead, you accorn!” The Hindu book of dramaturgy, Natyasastra, advises that the best court jesters should be both dwarfs and hunchbacked. The desire to keep dwarfs and other “freaks” at the courts was almost universally viewed as a way to contain their magical capacity for evil, “an instinctive fear and distaste developing into the need both to control and appease. It did not stem from a recognition of their humanity” (Whitehead). It was believed that the touch of a dwarf could cure and fend off illness. Likewise, “the stinging wit of the jester belongs to the same family of beliefs: his bitter medicine could purge ill humour, his sharp points could draw out bad blood” (Whitehead).

Although the majority of court jesters were picked for their intelligence and quick wit, some who were developmentally challenged, with Down syndrome or autism, were used for amusement, as their antics were considered a great source of entertainment. Since they could not control their impulses they were considered truth-tellers, contributing to the later perception of madness as a source of truth. In Madness and Civilization (1988), the French philosopher Michel Foucault notes that madness was historically thought to “bring to light the real problem, which can then be truly resolved” (33). Standing outside of the ethical and hierarchical order of the court, the mentally challenged jesters represented a purging of social consciousness. They were given leeway to point out the follies of the social and political structures. Representing the mad as truth-bearers was also part of theatrical convention, as Guilfoyle (1980) notes: “Characters who go mad in renaissance drama frequently speak more truth, and deeper truth than when sane” (6). Disabled court jesters served an important function: “to correct over-evaluation, [and to call] for a revaluation of values” (Feibleman, 421–32).

 

RIGOLETTO: TRIBOULET, QUASIMODO, AND KING LEAR

Like many other historical court jesters, Verdi’s Rigoletto is hunchbacked. Since his job is to mock everyone at the court for the amusement of the Duke, he is not well liked by the courtiers. The figure of Rigoletto is based on the real-life jester Triboulet (1479–1536), who suffered from microcephaly, a neurodevelopmental disorder, and who served kings Louis XII and Francis I of France. He was deformed in appearance: “His bowed back, his short and twisted legs, his long and hanging arms, amused the ladies, who contemplated him as if he had been a monkey or a paroquet” (Doran, 305). According to legend, Triboulet was not well liked at court, and he was often physically abused. When he complained to King Francis I of a nobleman who had threatened to beat him to death, the king replied, “If he does, I will hang him a quarter of an hour afterward.” “Ah, Sir!”—responded Triboulet—“couldn’t you contrive to hang him a quarter of an hour previously?” When he was about to be beaten by a group of pages for insulting them, Triboulet also responded in rhyme. It didn’t save him, though, and eventually he was beaten. He recovered soon enough to become one of France’s most celebrated jesters.

Triboulet made his first literary appearance in François Rabelais’s Pantagruelian chronicles. In Victor Hugo’s 1832 play Le Roi s’Amuse (The King Amuses Himself), on which Verdi’s Rigoletto is based, Triboulet is malicious and mean-spirited. He spares no one and is equally cruel to each courtier who comes his way. Rejected by the world, he shows genuine emotions only toward his lone and pure daughter. In writing the play, Hugo included some elements from his famous novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame, published in 1831, modeling his Triboulet on Quasimodo, the title character of the novel. Hugo described Quasimodo as a tortured and abused man who “found around him only hatred.” Eventually, in response to the world’s malice, “he adopted it. He armed himself with the weapons that had wounded him.” Upon reading Hugo’s Le Roi s’Amuse, Verdi wrote in a letter to a friend that the story “is the greatest subject and perhaps the greatest drama of modern times. Triboulet is a creation worthy of Shakespeare!”  He “is one of the greatest creations that the theatre of all countries and all times can boast.” At that time, Verdi considered composing music for Shakespeare’s King Lear, but upon reading Hugo’s play he abandoned the project, believing that the character Triboulet had even greater dramatic potential as a blinded and grieving father. Thus, drawing on all these influences, Verdi’s Rigoletto is a composite of four characters: the real-life Triboulet, the Triboulet from Hugo’s play Le Roi s’Amuse, Quasimodo, and King Lear. Likewise, Rigoletto’s name was initially Triboletto, but eventually it became a blend of two words, “Triboulet” and the French rigoler (to laugh).

 

Recommended Reading:

Brenner, Milton. Opera Offstage: Passion and Politics Behind the Great Operas. New York: Walker and Company, 1996.

Budden, Julian. The Operas of Verdi. Volume I: From Oberto to Rigoletto. Oxford University Press, 1973.

Doran, John. The History of Court Fools. Boston: Francis A. Niccolls, 1858.

Feibleman, James. “The Meaning of Comedy.” The Journal of Philosophy 35, no. 16 (1938): 421–32.

Foucault, Michel. Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Vintage Books, 1988.

Fradon, Dana. The King’s Fool: A Book about Medieval and Renaissance Fools. New York: Dutton Children’s Books, 1993.

Otto, Beatrice K. Fools Are Everywhere: The Court Jester Around the World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001.

Parker, Roger. The New Grove Guide to Verdi and His Operas. Oxford University Press, 2007.

Whitehead, James Beswick. Reflections of Rigoletto. 2001.

Censorship and Subversion: the Verdi and Piave Rigoletto

Kevin Galiè, Ben Gebo Photography

 

On February 13, Boston Lyric Opera partnered with the French Cultural Center and Dante Alighieri Society of Massachusetts to present Le Roi s’Amuse and Rigoletto: How Hugo and Verdi Shocked the Censors.  Coro Dante conductor, Kevin Galiè presented a lecture on Victor Hugo’s and Verdi’s struggle against censorship in their respective works about the tragic court jester set in the decadent courts of French and Italian royalty, respectively.  French Cultural Center actors Mark Leuning and Suzanne Pergal performed scenes in French from Hugo’s original play Le Roi s’Amuse and BLO Artists Maggie Finnegan, Omar Najmi, and James Myers performed the equivalent scenes and arias from Verdi’s Rigoletto.  The side-by-side scene performances showcased how each interpretation critiqued the governmental powers in question.

Kevin Galiè joins In the Wings to share more about Verdi and Piave’s subversion of Austrian censors before the premiere of Rigoletto.  For more production history on Rigoletto, click here.

 

When Rigoletto premiered in 1851, Italy was only nine short years away from its Risorgimento – its great civil war of unification – which ironically happened at the same time as the American Civil War (1860-65). In the censorship of Rigoletto, it’s possible that Verdi and Piave were only driven to put in even more esoteric and subtle references and incitements to the current state of the peoples of the Italian peninsula.  There was no “country” at the time – Italy was a series of kingdoms, including the Vatican papal states that were all of central Italy.

Verdi had many censors, including the French, the Austrians, the Italians, and the Pope.  Verdi, in turn censored his librettist, Francesco Maria Piave, always asking for fewer words.  Victor Hugo – who wrote the play Le Roi s’Amuse, upon which Rigoletto was based – was looking to ridicule with farce and mockery.  Hugo’s King is modeled after Francis the First (c. 1520), but France’s king in 1832, when Le Roi s’Amuse was premiered, was Louis-Phillippe, and his administration took direct offense.  Famously, Le Roi s’Amuse was suppressed in 1832, two years after the 1830 French Charter of Abolition of Censorship, which stated: “The French have the right to publish; censorship must never be re-established.”  Piave and Verdi were looking to ridicule with cutting tragedy and no-holds-barred obscenity and obscene inference.  Their Duke is modeled after Vincenzo Gonzaga (1562-1612), the Duke of Mantua.
The Austrian censor De Gorzkowski in December of 1850 referred to Piave’s libretto as “a repugnant immorality and obscene triviality.”  In his article “Due facce di Rigoletto,” Michele Girardi names six points of agreement for the censors, described as “Catolicissimi.”

·         The action of the drama must be transported from the French court to an independent ducal of Bourgogne, Normandy, or a small Italian principality in the Farnese court.

·         The original character types of Hugo may be conserved, changing the names according to the situation of the time period.

·         The scene must be avoided in which Francis I, king of France, (in Rigoletto, the Duke of Bourgogne) declares resolutely to profit from the key to Gilda’s room.  Another scene must be substituted, conserving decency without diminishing the interest of the drama.

·         At the lovers’ meeting in the tavern, the Duke arrives because of a trick, not intentionally.  The hunchback Triboulet is renamed Rigoletto, and the opera is renamed Rigoletto.

·         At the appearance of the sack containing the daughter of Rigoletto, Verdi is allowed to make whatever modifications necessary.

·         With the above modifications, Verdi doesn’t need to open the opera before February 28 or March 1 (a tight window before Ash Wednesday, 1851).

Piave and Verdi were censored, but it backfired. By a deft rewriting of allusion, inference, and metaphor, they created an opera that the Italian native-speakers would “get” (a message that the Risorgimento was coming and here are the reasons), but that would go right over the heads of the occupying “German-speakers.”

I can’t presume to know what exactly was in Verdi’s and Piave’s minds when they had to deal with the censors and telling this story, but being both a musician and an Italian speaker, living there four months a year has given me a chance to crawl inside the Verdian-Italian mentality, albeit 150 years later, and to understand the very subtle shades of meaning I believe lie in this redacted, changed, partially butchered version of Piave’s original. In short, I believe the Hugo play was a straight-out farce criticizing the King of France, while in their version Piave and Verdi were forced to make lemonade when given the lemons of censorship. There are many fantastically key moments in this opera that are only fleetingly alluded to, or that happen only by deduction or inference.

Suzanne Pergal (Blanche) and Mark Leuning (Le Roi)
Maggie Finnegan (Gilda) and Omar Najmi (The Duke)
at the French Cultural Center
Ben Gebo Photography for Boston Lyric Opera

Piave’s libretto wastes no time. Instead of drawing the audience gradually into the action, as does Hugo’s Le Roi s’Amuse, at every turn from beginning to end Piave gets right to the obscene, scathing review of nobility. Verdi does the same, opening the opera by heralding a clean unison C or “do,” on the brass, which is then polluted by the angry and dirty diminished seventh chord. In fact, the first two measures of the opera, musically, are a metaphor for the entire work: a repeated C/”do”—arguably the cleanest, purest note, represented by Gilda, or in my opinion the Italian character, polluted only by the minority of Italians in 1851 who may have stained the nobility.  Then the note is crashed, violated, put into a sack by the diminished seventh chord – the C is in the diminished chord, but at the bottom of the chord – the way Gilda ends up dead in a sack.  And the Italian people end up under the yoke of Austria (with the Vatican in the middle, and the Kingdom of the two Sicilys in the south).  This musical ability to paint the action is not something that can be done in a spoken play; many things that are not said with words in Rigoletto are said with music.

The opera is full of double meanings and outrageously obscene references – almost too much to be mentioned here.  It is impossible to know completely how these phrases fell upon the patriotically inclined Italian in 1851; I think they were just subtle enough for the Austrian bilingual listeners to understand them, but for the Italian listeners to feel them strike their hearts and ring the bell of the coming unification.

Rigoletto: A Conversation with Professor David Rosen from Cornell University (March 2014)

Magda Romanska, BLO Dramaturg and visiting associate professor at Harvard University, talks to Professor David Rosen about Verdi’s Rigoletto. Professor Rosen is a world-renowned musicologist, a leading expert on Verdi, and professor emeritus of Music at Cornell University.  Professor Rosen was responsible for the critical edition of Verdi's Messa da Requiem (published in The Works of Giuseppe Verdi) and the Cambridge Music Handbook on Verdi’s requiem. He also coauthored a volume dedicated to the disposizione scenica of Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera.  Professor Rosen discovered in the Paris Bibliothèque de l’Opéra a passage in Verdi's manuscript score for Don Carlos which had had to be cut in order to ensure that the opera's premiere would finish before midnight. Professor Rosen was one of the first scholars to study the contemporary staging manuals (disposizioni sceniche or livrets de mise en scène) and other sources that help us reconstruct the visual aspects of 19th-century opera.

 

MR: One of the essential themes of Victor Hugo’s Le Roi s’Amuse (The King Amuses Himself), and Verdi’s Rigoletto is the father’s curse. As Victor Hugo’s put it:  “[M. de Saint-Vallier—Monterone in Verdi’s opera], from whom the king has taken his daughter, is jeered at and insulted by Triboulet [Rigoletto].  The father raises his arm and curses Triboulet.  From that [action] the entire play develops.  The real subject of the drama is the curse of M. de Saint-Vallier.”  Can you tell us how the curse functions in Hugo’s play, and in Verdi’s opera? How it is framed by the musical structure of the opera? 

DR: There are two different recurring passages of music associated with the curse: a meditative brooding one, and one expressed in a thunderclap of recognition when the curse strikes home.  The music associated with the meditative version is the first thing heard in the opera: a solo trumpet and trombone intone the rhythm of the phrase “Quel vecchio maledivami” (“That old man cursed me”), leading into a striking harmonic progression.  As in act 2 of the play,  Rigoletto recalls the curse – “that  old man cursed me” – four times in the second tableau of act 1:  before his duet with Sparafucile, twice in the extended recitative monologue that follows, and again at the beginning of the finale that culminates in the abduction of his daughter, Gilda.  These are the last appearances of the meditative curse theme in the opera.

When Rigoletto realizes that the courtiers have abducted not Ceprano’s wife but his own daughter, he tears his hair, then cries, “Ah!...la maledizione!!” (“La malediction!” in the play) to a harshly dissonant cadence in the minor mode, and he faints as the lowest instruments in the orchestra furiously play rapid descending chromatic scales. 

In the theater most curses unfailingly strike their mark, but at the end of act 2 of Verdi’s opera,  Monterone, led off to prison, stops to address a portrait of the Duke: “Since you were cursed by me in vain, no thunderbolt or blade striking your breast, you will live happily yet, O Duke.”  Rigoletto responds, “No, old man, you are wrong... You will have an avenger.”  (The situation comes straight from the play, although in the opera, as with the initial curse in act 1, rather than ending the act the line triggers a concluding operatic “number,” here the cabaletta of the Gilda/Rigoletto duet.)  By undoing our expectations that the curse on the Duke will be fulfilled, Monterone has in effect canceled that curse.  And Rigoletto seems to be confident at this point that Monterone’s curse upon him has already been fulfilled by the abduction and seduction of his daughter; however, as Hugo says in his preface, “[Triboulet’s] punishment does not stop halfway.”

MR: How does the ending of Rigoletto compare to Verdi’s other operas, and how should we read it? 

DR: The end of the opera follows a three-stage procedure that Verdi used in many of his operas.  The initial stage prepares the death scene, either by inflicting the mortal wound or by announcing that the designated victim is dying from poison or – in La Traviata – disease.  The second stage is a slow set piece in which the victim dies, surrounded by grieving friends, relatives, and perhaps even former enemies.  These ensembles are consolatory, and the death agony is hardly ever disturbed by any expression of rancor or gloating.  They are typically in keys with many flats (five in Rigoletto) and are either in the major mode throughout, or, as in the case of Rigoletto, begin in the minor mode but soon move to the major mode.  In the third stage, after the character dies, there is a sudden turn to the minor mode and a fast tempo unfolding the final cadence in a single span.  This often encompasses a further dramatic event, perhaps the death of a second principal character, the tenor (as in Il Corsaro, Luisa Miller, Il Trovatore); or a revelation embodied in a “punch line,”; such as Azucena’s “Egli era tuo fratello!” informing the Count that he has just  executed his own brother in Il Trovatore, or in Rigoletto, of course, “Ah! la maledizione!”

In Rigoletto, the ending is connected to the curse; it is its natural resolution, supported by the music.  Both the staging – Rigoletto tears his hair and falls, now on Gilda’s body – and the music – the same harmonic progression and descending chromatic scales in the same scoring as before – clearly link this moment with Rigoletto’s recollection of the curse occasioned by Gilda’s abduction precisely two acts earlier.  Indeed, in Verdi’s sketches the vocal line in the two passages was identical as well (mi – re – do), though in the final version he adjusted the first of the two passages, perhaps to bring it down to a more comfortable range for the baritone.  In the opera, then, the music, text, and staging all collude in representing Gilda’s abduction and, later, her death as parallel fulfillments of the curse.

MR: What is the major difference between Victor Hugo’s treatment of the ending and the curse in his play, and Verdi’s Rigoletto?  What is at stake in their different versions?

DR: In  Hugo’s play, after a doctor has coldly pronounced Blanche dead, Triboulet does not recall the curse but closes the play on the line “J’ai tué mon enfant!  J’ai tué mon enfant!”  [I killed my child!]  If “the real subject of the drama is the curse of M. de Saint-Vallier,” why does Hugo fail to refer to it here? There are psychological, even moral issues at stake here. Rigoletto views the curse as an external, almost random, force, rather like Monterone’s thunderbolt or blade that has struck him because of the curse.  True enough, Verdi and Piave do follow the play in giving Rigoletto the line, “She herself was struck by the arrow of my just revenge [giusta vendetta]” (a line the Roman censors, when the opera was performed there, altered to “stupid revenge” [stolta vendetta] in an attempt to impart some sense of remorse to the character and to characterize “vendetta” negatively).  But Rigoletto never realizes that it is through his own misdeeds that Monterone’s curse takes effect.  Rigoletto himself became the author of his own punishment: his attempt to abduct Ceprano’s wife brought about the abduction of his daughter, his attempt to kill the Duke, her death.  Through a comforting moral blindness Rigoletto is spared that cruel realization that crushes Triboulet at the end of Hugo’s tragedy.  Rigoletto never comes to acknowledge that he himself, not an impersonal force impelled by the curse, is the direct cause of his daughter’s death.  One might criticize the opera for its failure to compel Rigoletto to accept responsibility for the consequences of his actions, for supporting his comfortable view that he is the passive victim of Monterone’s curse.  But another critical move is available: to claim that the opera reveals and diagnoses Rigoletto’s moral blindness, without endorsing it.

Boston Lyric Opera's Version of Rigoletto

by Magda Romanska, Ph.D., Boston Lyric Opera Dramaturg

BLO’s version of Rigoletto returns the opera to its original historical context. The dramatic structure of the story is framed by two necessary conditions: the world in which a ruler has absolute power over life and death, and a world in which the curse of a father is to be believed and feared. Verdi was convinced that for the plot to make sense the Duke must be a lecher with power and without conscience. “The Duke must absolutely be a libertine; without that there can be no justification for Rigoletto's fear of his daughter’s leaving,” Verdi wrote in a letter to a friend. Moving the production from Paris to a smaller city in Italy, Verdi reinforced the idea of a claustrophobic space where no one can escape the fickle will of its ruler. The Duke, although acting without concern or remorse, is never punished, and this lack of poetic justice illuminates the city’s distorted moral code. 

 

Our production captures metaphorically that idea of the city of Mantua, a place enclosed by the dark brick wall that illustrates its hidden, unscrupulous, dark side. Chronologically, the plot moves back and forth between the open, public place of the Duke’s court to the secret spaces of the city's underworld: Rigoletto’s house, where he hides away his daughter, and the tavern where he plots the Duke’s assassination. Likewise, our production uses a divided stage to represent the two opposing realms of Mantua’s society, the public world of the Duke’s omnipotent decadence and the private, hidden realm of intimate affairs, which nonetheless remains in his powerful, omnipresent grip. Above the dark brick wall, we see the model of a city made of white marble. The model is based on a painting by Piero della Francesca (1415–92) of an ideal city, a common theme of the Renaissance era. In the painting everything is spotless, open, and transparent. The model hovers over a dark pit in which the human passions of love, lust, and revenge fuel the workings of the real city. The divided stage also represents the two sides of Rigoletto: the ugly, vicious face he dons at court, and the gentle, loving side he shows to his daughter. The image of Rigoletto’s two faces, grotesque and tender, follows Verdi’s intention: “To me there is something really fine in representing on stage this character outwardly so ugly and ridiculous, inwardly so impassioned and full of love,” Verdi wrote about the jester.

 

The second necessary component of the dramatic structure of Verdi’s opera is the impact and power of the father’s curse on the Duke and Rigoletto. The curse is thrown by a courtier whose daughter was abducted and seduced by the Duke, with Rigoletto goading him on. When defending his play to the censors, Victor Hugo wrote, 

 

This father whose daughter has been taken from him by the king is mocked and insulted by Triboulet. The father raises his arms and curses Triboulet. The whole play evolves from this. The true subject of the drama is the curse of Monsieur de St-Vallier. Now observe; we are in the second act. On whom has this curse fallen? On Triboulet the king’s buffoon? No, on Triboulet the man, who is a father, who has a heart, and a daughter. He has nothing else but his daughter in the whole world.

 

Verdi follows Hugo’s concept, making the father’s curse on Rigoletto the central pillar of the story. The original title of Rigoletto was, in fact, The Curse (La Maledizione), and Verdi believed that the curse is the axis around which the entire dramatic arc of the story revolves. “The whole subject lives in that curse,” he wrote in a letter to his librettist, Francesco Maria Piave, while the two were writing the opera. When under the threat of the censor the text of the opera was reworked, a revision that undermined the power of the curse, Verdi penned an impassioned letter to C.D. Marzari, the president of the Teatro la Fenice, who had ordered the rewrites: “The old man’s curse, so awesome and sublime in the original, here becomes ridiculous because the motive that drives him to curse no longer has the same importance ... Without this curse, what purpose, what meaning does the drama have?” Being himself a father, and remembering the time he spent with his daughter’s mother as the only happiness he has ever known, Rigoletto is horrified when another father on whom he has inflicted unsurpassed misery has cursed him with all his heart. The curse is a turning point for Rigoletto, a moment in which he begins to unravel. Thus, our set represents Rigoletto’s breakdown. The erotic Italian-style painting on the wall depicts Venus and Mars, one of the most sumptuous subjects of Western mythology. In our production, however, the painting is not straightforward; it is broken, fractured—like Rigoletto himself. In order for the curse to remain the turning point of the story, to assert its impact on poor Rigoletto, it has to live in the world in which it is believable and authentic, and such was the original world of Verdi’s powerful opera.