\"Io non comprendo la musica di Gluck\": A Production of Alceste in Naples, 1785

“Io non comprendo la musica di Gluck”: A Production of Alceste in Naples, 1785 John A. Rice The score of Alceste, wrote Gluck in his famous preface, was the result of his efforts to find “a beautiful simplicity; and I have avoided making a show of difficulty in favor of clarity.” The preface may have given Italian impresarios and music directors the erroneous impression that Alceste, from a purely musical point of view, would be easy to perform and that the music and its conductor—the maestro di cappella—were of secondary importance. Gluck himself would have been horrified at this attitude. He wrote of musical simplicity, but his music was anything but simple to perform. He demanded and got long periods of intensive rehearsals before the premieres of many of his operas. But Gluck was far away, in retirement in Vienna, when Alceste was presented in Naples in 1785, in a production that suffered from an impresario who seems to have taken reformist rhetoric more seriously than the opera’s musical challenges. The production featured lavish sets, numerous dancers, choristers, and extras, and vocal soloists carefully coached in expressive gestures and clear declamation of the text. Yet the production failed because—according to Norbert Hadrava, an amateur musician who attended a rehearsal and the first performance—the musical execution was weak. Hadrava, an Austrian diplomat in Naples, was proud of what he thought of as “German music” and eager to promote it among Neapolitan music-lovers. He is most famous today for having arranged for Haydn to write music for King Ferdinand of Naples to play on his lira organizzata, a kind of hurdy-gurdy. Hadrava’s other efforts to promote German music resulted in the purchase by a Neapolitan nobleman of a vis-à-vis harpsichord-piano by Johann Andreas Stein, and in concerts that included performances of Haydn’s Stabat Mater, Georg Benda’s melodramma Ariadne, and programmatic symphonies by Dittersdorf.1 Hadrava reported on his musical activities in letters, now preserved in the Austrian National Library, to another musical amateur, Johann Paul Schulthesius. He wrote of music perceptively and entertainingly, but we must be careful in evaluating his reports, to which he brought strong anti-Italian prejudices, a personality that today we might call “paranoid,” and a tendency to turn musical disagreements into moral—even religious—struggles in which he alone was on the right side. Another problem with Hadrava’s judgments about opera is that he tended to ignore the genre’s visual and dramatic elements; he wrote little about what he saw on stage. For him the success or failure of an opera was strictly a matter of the music and its performance. Despite these limitations, Hadrava’s letters, published by Giuliana Gialdroni in the original German

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John A. Rice, “Stein’s ‘Favorite Instrument’: A Vis-à-vis Piano-Harpsichord in Naples,” Journal of the American Musical Instrument Society 21 (1995), 30–64; “New Light on Dittersdorf’s Ovid Symphonies,” Studi musicali 24 (2000), 453–98, https://www.academia.edu/7030751/New_Light_on_Dittersdorfs_Ovid_Symphonies

 

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and in Italian translation, constitute a valuable record of Neapolian musical life in the 1780s.2 On 29 October 1785, two weeks after the Neapolitan premiere of Alceste, Hadrava reported that the opera had failed, and he wrote a detailed account of what he thought had gone wrong. In doing so, he left us a rare glimpse—colored by his own distinctive personality—of an operatic rehearsal and a performance in one of the smaller theaters of Naples.3 Here is an English translation of Hadrava’s account.

On the 16th of this month the opera Alceste by the Chevalier Gluck was performed in the small theater known as the Teatro al Fondo di Separazione, which is under the control of the local theatrical administraiton. This excellent masterpiece has been performed all over Europe to all imaginable applause; but in the famous capital city of Naples, the former residence of music, it did not please. In scenery, costumes, and the number of supernumeraries, dancers, and so forth, no expense was spared, but the execution of the music was given no consideration at all, in spite of the city’s best musicians being involved. I told the principal director of the theater, Chev. Lucchesi ( who is also known among the nobility as a musical expert, amateur, and composer of a few songs), that he should not undertake the performance of such a work here, for the execution of the music by soloists, chorus, and orchestra (a combination not to be found here) would make too many extraordinary demands. But he promised he would solve every problem with the help of the other directors and would be able to reach his goal. After about fourteen rehearsals, I was invited by one of the noble directors to the second-to-last rehearsal before the performance of the opera, and he asked for my opinion. This rehearsal was an extraordinary scene for me. I found on the stage so many directors (or rather actors, each of whom played his own part). The famous poet Calzabigi, with his spyglass, was occupied only with observing the poses and gestures of the prima donna Marchetti, and arranging her white, round arms. Paisiello sat calmly with other people, seeking, among the distinguished listeners, support and social connections for his next opera, and so he was completely unconcerned: without getting involved he washed his hands, like Pilate. Lucchesi was full of enthusiasm: he clapped his hands and stamped his feet and screamed at the top of his lungs the chorus’s first words. I listened to                                                                                                                 2

Giuliana Gialdroni, “La musica a Napoli alla fine del XVIII secolo nelle lettere di Norbert Hadrava,” Fonti musicali italiane I (1996), 75–143. 3 Hadrava’s report on Alceste is quoted (in Italian translation and slightly abridged) in Maria Irene Maffei, “Alcuni osservazioni su Cook o sia Gl’inglesi in Othaiti,” Ranieri Calzabigi tra Vienna e Napoli, ed. Federico Marri and Francesco Paolo Russo (Lucca: LIM 1997), 209-25 (217–19), and (with extensive commentary) in Lucio Tufano, “La ‘riforma’ a Napoli: Materiali per un capitolo di storia della ricezione,” in Gluck-Studien 5 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2009), 103–44: https://www.academia.edu/4838596/La_riforma_a_Napoli_materiali_per_un_capitolo_di_storia_ della_ricezione

 

 

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all this with composure, without letting my dissatisfaction be noticed as I sat in the fourth director’s box. The music director, who sat at the keyboard, was unconcerned about ensemble, tempo, and expression. He played only his basso continuo, without paying attention to anything else. The overture ends with piano-forte-fortissimo; but the orchestra played piano-pianissimo-smorzando. In the aria “Non vi chiedo” the composer requires an accompaniment of pizzicato strings. But the violins played the whole accompaniment of this aria with the bows sul ponticello, which produces an unpleasant hissing tone. Since I was in a box very close to the orchestra I noticed all this very clearly. If dolce was written the double basses played pizzicato: exactly the opposite, and plain wrong. Wherever tremolo occurred in an accompanied recitative, they sustained the notes as tenuto. When the first number of the ballet began, I could not keep from criticizing the very slow tempo of this piece. But I was told in response that it was too late to change it, for the dancers had rehearsed their steps at that tempo. The chorus in act 1, “Dilegua il nero” was the most successful; the aria “Ombre, larve” was also very acceptably performed. As the first act came to an end, I was asked by the director at my side in the box what I thought of it. I answered that I would not have thought that the first act should turn out so well, since the orchestra was playing without the slightest leadership and each musician was playing his instrument as he saw fit, and was impudently employing mannerisms so as to be heard individually. Then I asked why the tenor Rovedini and the prima donna sang their unaccompanied recitative with such languid expansiveness as to be almost nauseating. I was told that Millico, the famous singer, had coached them, and the choral singers as well, to pronounce the words so emphatically (thus we have the fifth director of Alceste). But, I answered, it was unbearable to hear the first word of the tenor after the overture, for he stretched out “Popoli” (which is a dactyl and in the music is pronounced, according to the nature of the word, with three notes) for three seconds long (“Po–––poli”), and so forth. During this conversation the second act began. The first aria, “Parto ma senti,” was sung very poorly by the seconda donna, and its tempo dragged very noticeably. I prepared myself, and hoped at least to hear the climactic aria of the second act performed well and with true spirit. The preceding recitative, which contains various tempos, was unrecognizable. The place where the chalumeau makes a wonderful effect was completely wasted. In place of this instrument they used an oboe and a bassoon, which have absolutely nothing in common with chalumeaus and were consequently unsuitable. The aria “Chi mi parla? Che sento . . . tremo . . . gelo,” which Gluck set to music with so much art and truth that when it is properly performed it causes every listener to tremble: this excellent aria was completely botched. I could not conceal my dismay. When the director asked the reason for my agitation, I answered freely that to destroy such a masterpiece is a sin. The alla breve meter (which was clearly indicated in all the parts) was changed to 4/4 time, and the violins, still dragging, failed to play the accompaniment of this aria with complete ease. Now, best friend, you can imagine how I suffered to hear this wonderful aria so badly performed. But most extraordinary—and what brought shame on all the directors present—was that the various chromatic chords in this splendid aria (which the copyist changed through negligence and through misplacement of an accidental or of several

 

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notes) were played with every possible mistake. Now I had patience no longer to hear the rest. I took my leave of the director and quietly went away. Two days after the rehearsal the opera was performed. I chose a place near the orchestra and flattered myself that the performance would at least correct the most egregious mistakes. But everything was performed the same way as I had heard in the rehearsal, and still more mistakes had found their way in. In spite of that, the first act pleased the audience and was applauded loudly, for the last chorus of the first act turned out well and the passage “Fugiamo, fugiamo” made an especially fine effect. The second act, in contrast, displeased everyone and so did the rest. The choruses in the second act were very badly sung, and in the ballet, where Allegro is called for they played Andante, and so forth. There was neither shade nor light, and everything was performed in a tempo that dragged, without spirit or feeling. Every listener was tired and dissatisfied. The second act ended without the slightest applause of the audience. I left my place in the parterre, and as I went out I saw Paisiello. I asked him loudly: “Come vi piace questa musica?” He answered me: “Io non comprendo la musica di Gluck.” At that I said to him: “Se non l’avete inteso negli altri luoghi, mai la capirete con questa cattiva esecuzione.” He then tried to come to the orchestra’s defence, saying that the best musicians took part in the performance, and the music displeased the audience. I answered: “Una musica mediocre eseguita bene, piacerà?” He said: “Sì.” “Dunque,” I concluded, “una musica eccellente eseguita sceleratamente deve dispiacere.” At that point I left the great master. Now you see, most worthy friend, the state we are in: men who are capable of distinguishing good from bad dare not express their opinion with complete truth and sincerity, lest they make enemies of the local fiddlers on whom the good or bad reception of the opera initially depends. Now more experts think that Alceste was not written for this country’s taste. This pretext is completely false, for those arbiters refuse, to their shame, to admit to the very poor performance of the music and to the disorderly direction, with so many important participants who concern themselves only with superficiality, and who either fail to grasp the most important thing or are incapable of doing so.