THE SEA MONSTER ON STAGE: CREATING SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN OPERA, 1637–1781

By

SARAH ANN BUSHEY

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2015

1

© 2015 Sarah A. Bushey

2

To my parents, sister, family, and friends who have not discouraged my fascination with the supernatural and all things horrifying

3 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank my parents and family for all their support over the years and for my extended education. I thank the small circle of graduate friends including other musicology colleagues as well as the composition crowd, for working on a doctoral degree is a longer, darker road without friends for support. Katie Reed and Morgan Rich are among the most wonderful friends I could ever imagine having during this process.

Thank you as well to Michael Vincent, who read several conference papers and other examples of my work and gave wonderful feedback. Thanks to Mary Hunter, who listened to ideas in the early stages of this project, and also to Clive McClelland, who graciously shared some of his unpublished work with me. My fabulous committee gave me invaluable insight and mentoring, and so I thank Jennifer Thomas, Mary Watt and

Mitchell Estrin. Finally, this document and the research it contains would not have been possible without my advisor, Margaret Butler, whose tireless efforts, feedback and moral support were ever constant. Finally, a large portion of thanks goes to the Society for

Eighteenth-Century Music, whose members have supported my research over the years and given useful feedback; special thanks to Janet Page.

4 TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

LIST OF FIGURES ...... 7

LIST OF EXAMPLES ...... 8

LIST OF OBJECTS ...... 9

ABSTRACT ...... 10

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION, THE “OMBRA” STYLE, MUSICAL EXOTICISM AND SUPERNATURAL EXOTICISM ...... 12

Musical Exoticism ...... 17 Contemporaneous Theorists ...... 22 “Supernatural” Exoticism ...... 25

2 OPERATIC CONVENTIONS AND THE SEA MONSTER ...... 36

Seventeenth-Century Conventions ...... 36 Eighteenth-Century Italian Opera Seria Conventions ...... 39 Visual Spectacle: Maritime Scenes and Machines in Opera and its Predecessors ...... 44

3 THE SEA MONSTER IN SIX SETTINGS OF THE ANDROMEDA MYTH ...... 55

Marliani/Monteverdi/(?)’s Andromeda (1620) ...... 57 Ferrari/Manelli’s Andromeda for Venice (1637): Machine and Scene Types ...... 59 The Sea Monster in Andromeda (1637) ...... 61 Pierre Corneille’s Andromède (1650) ...... 63 Revival of Corneille’s Andromède (1682)...... 66 The Sea Monster in Andromède ...... 67 Lully/Quinault’s Persée (1682): Monsters and Heroes as Political Propaganda ..... 70 A Contemporary Production of Persée (2004) and its Sea Monster ...... 76 Eighteenth-Century Andromedas ...... 79 Cigna-Santi’s Andromeda for Turin (1755) ...... 80 Bertati/Zingarelli’s Andromeda for Venice (1796) ...... 82 Conclusions ...... 84

5 4 PRESENCE AND ABSENCE: THE SEA MONSTER IN HIPPOLYTE ET ARICIE (1733), IPPOLITO ED ARICIA (1759), AND DARDANUS (1739) ...... 95

Pellegrin and Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie ...... 98 The Monster(s) in Hippolyte et Aricie ...... 101 The Music of the Monster ...... 102 Tommaso Traetta and Carlo Frugoni’s Ippolito ed Aricia (1759) ...... 108 Missing the Monster ...... 113 Rameau and Le Bruère’s Dardanus (1739) ...... 115 The Sea Monster and its Music in Dardanus ...... 118 Conclusions ...... 121

5 SUPERNATURAL SCENE TYPES IN CAMPRA/DANCHET’S IDOMÉNÉE (1712) AND MOZART/VARESCO’S IDOMENEO (1781) ...... 124

Campra and Danchet’s Idoménée ...... 124 Campra’s Style: An Overview ...... 126 Scene Types: Tempête, Ombre, and Oracle in Campra’s Idoménée ...... 128 Mozart and Varesco’s Idomeneo ...... 133 Oracle and Ombre Scenes ...... 137 Tempête Scenes in Idomeneo ...... 140 Conclusions ...... 143

6 THE MEANING OF THE MONSTER ...... 145

Horror vs. Terror and the Role of Monsters ...... 145 The Monster as Divinity ...... 151 Another Kind of Monster: Rameau’s “Monstrous” Opera ...... 154 Conclusions: Ombra and Supernatural Exoticism ...... 157

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 162

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 170

6 LIST OF FIGURES

Figure page

1-1 Musical Features Accompanying the Sea Monster ...... 30

1-2 McClelland’s continuum of “ombra” and “terrible” styles ...... 31

1-3 Stylistic features within Western music that are often employed (especially in combination) to suggest an exotic locale or culture [adapted from Locke, Ralph...... 31

1-4 Some characteristics attributed to flat major and minor keys ...... 35

2-1 Catherine de’ Medici’s water fête from the Festival at Bayonne in 1565, Valois Tapestry, 1580-81 ...... 52

2-2 Water fête, Argonautica, held on the Arno river in November of 1608 by Matthias Greuter ...... 53

2-3 “Goddesses on the River,” Balthasar Moncornet after Remigio Cantagallina (1600-1668) ...... 54

3-1 Engraving by Chaveau: Andromède, Act III: Perseus rescues Andromeda from the sea monster ...... 86

3-2 Illustration from libretto to Persée, Perseus rescues Andromeda from the sea monster ...... 87

3-3 Libretto to Andromède, Act III, scene iii ...... 93

3-4 Sea monster (dragon) fighting Perseus, Jeremy Nasmith in the 2000 Opera Atelier Production of Persée ...... 94

7 LIST OF EXAMPLES

Example page

3-1 Chorus, “Le monstre est mort,” Persée Act IV, scene vii ...... 88

8 LIST OF OBJECTS

Object page

4-1 Orchestral score, Hippolyte et Aricie, Act 4 scene 3 ...... 104

4-2 Orchestral score, Dardanus, Act 4 scene 3 ...... 119

5-1 Orchestral score, Idoménée, Act 2 scene 1 ...... 129

5-2 Orchestral score, Idomeneo, Act 3 scene 10, No. 28 (Oracle scene) ...... 139

9 Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

THE SEA MONSTER ON STAGE: CREATING SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN OPERA, 1637–1781

By

Sarah Ann Bushey

May 2015

Chair: Margaret Butler Major: Music

The topic of the supernatural in seventeenth-century music is a popular one, and it comes as no surprise, considering the importance of “le merveilleux” or “the marvelous” to the genre of opera in particular during that time. The supernatural in eighteenth-century opera, however, is a subject that has yet to receive the scholarly attention it merits. This dissertation is an addition to the growing body of literature on the relatively neglected topic of the supernatural in eighteenth-century opera with its focus on the image of the sea monster: its musical characteristics, its visual features, and the meanings it conveyed to contemporary audiences. In some cases, it explores how the monsters on stage were constructed, the materials of which they were composed, and how they were operated. On a broad level, it demonstrates that the sea monster’s appearance in seventeenth century operatic predecessors was largely due to the taste for visual spectacles and extravagant displays on stage. Additionally, the monster’s presence in French productions based upon the myth of Andromeda is often interpreted allegorically as a threat to a monarch’s power. Operatic incarnations of the same myth

(and other myths that include sea monsters) from the eighteenth century provide a

10 window through which I have been able to examine operatic conventions and their

transformation across multiple genres in works from both French and Italian traditions.

The reduced role of the chorus that frequently accompanied the monster’s presence

and the absence of the monster physically on stage in several eighteenth-century

productions reflect the changing function of theatrical entertainment within the public

sphere in both French and Italian cultures. The musical representation of the monster is

significantly more advanced in eighteenth-century productions rather than those from the previous century, where visual spectacle was considered more important.

Understanding how composers and librettists sought to communicate to their audiences is an undercurrent of this project, and this document overall explores how operatic works in one culture impact and inform those in another.

11 CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION, THE “OMBRA” STYLE, MUSICAL EXOTICISM AND SUPERNATURAL EXOTICISM

This dissertation is an addition to the growing body of literature on the relatively neglected topic of the supernatural in opera with its focus on the image of the sea monster: its musical characteristics, its visual features, and the meanings it conveyed to contemporary audiences. The organization of this study is primarily chronological.

Chapter 2 traces the origins of sea creatures and monsters on stage and how they fit in with the conventions of other theatrical genres incorporating music: Italian intermedi from the late sixteenth century, French tragédie en machines from the seventeenth century, and other spectacular entertainments sponsored by sovereigns and wealthy patrons. Chapter 3 presents an examination of the sea monster’s visual appearance in five different settings on the classical myth of Andromeda and Perseus with particular emphasis on Corneille’s Andromède (1650) and Lully’s Persée (1682). One interpretation of the meaning of the monster in these productions considers the allegorical link between the hero Perseus and Louis XIV. In the case of Corneille’s

Andromède (1650) and Lully’s Persée (1682), I argue that the sea monster literally represents a threat to Andromeda and her people, while also allegorically representing a threat to the French monarchy, or in other words, a foreign “Other.” In this context, the monster is recognized as a necessary opponent that must be conquered and destroyed in a public display in order to demonstrate the hero’s (i.e. the King’s) performance of power to his witnessing subjects (theatrical spectators). The monster’s less-than- terrifying and rather comical portrayal in a recently recorded live performance (Opera

Atelier, 2004), raises the question of how its possible appearance to contemporary audiences might have affected the communication of the intended message. The

12 information this document provides on production practices could also be applied to

modern-day productions of these works.

One of the notions this project argues against is the idea that operatic works

need to be assigned to a genre such as “serious” or “comic.” The reality is that many

eighteenth-century operas did not fit into one category, but were representative of mixed

genres. Unfortunately, the word “monstrous” at the time was often applied to works such

as this, being that they were deformed, had too few or too many parts, and they

represented a failure of reason and communication. The term “monstrous” was often

used in contemporary descriptions of Jean-Philippe Rameau’s operas, as they

frequently challenged and thwarted genre conventions.1 This need to classify things is

profoundly human and aids us in understanding the world, yet it also inhibits that

understanding by confining it. In dealing with many different operatic genres, the

research presented here embraces the inherent ambiguities embodied in genre labels

and classifications.

Chapter 4 deals mainly with the monster’s musical accompaniment (or lack

thereof) in two eighteenth-century operas based on Jean Racine’s play, Phèdre:

Rameau and Pellegrin’s Hippolyte et Aricie (1733) and the Italian reworking by Traetta

and Frugoni, Ippolito ed Aricia (1759). The penultimate chapter considers two operas

based on the portion of the Trojan legends concerning Idomeneus, King of Crete in

which the sea monster figures prominently: André Campra and Antoine Danchet’s

Idomenée (1712) and Wolfgang A. Mozart and Giambattista Varesco’s Idomeneo

(1781.) The final chapter, titled “Meaning of the Monster,” provides some interpretations

1 The use of the word “monstrous” in the eighteenth century and its connections to Rameau and his music are further discussed in Chapter 6.

13 of what the monster could have communicated to contemporary audiences and some

conclusions about the research presented in this document.

The sea monster’s appearance (or lack thereof) in the myth’s many incarnations

provides a window through which I examine operatic conventions and their

transformation across multiple genres in works from both French and Italian traditions.

The de-emphasis in the visual spectacle, choruses, dance, and supernatural elements

in productions from the early eighteenth century in contrast to those from the

seventeenth illuminates the changing aesthetic of opera occurring around the turn of the

century. Finally, the re-introduction of these very elements back into Italian opera in the

middle of the eighteenth century exposes the Italian genre of serious opera as a

medium whose “rules” and conventions were constantly fluctuating; this view clashes

with the often expressed negative attitude some modern scholarship of the genre as

largely stagnant and unchanging.2

How was horror portrayed in opera from the seventeenth and eighteenth

centuries? This is a broad question that was the impetus for this study. Although horror

has been portrayed on the stage for centuries, dating back to the ancient Greeks, the

2 See Joseph Kerman, Opera as Drama (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988), 40. Kerman is straightforward about his opinion of all opera between Monteverdi and Gluck, labeling the corresponding chapter, “The Dark Ages.” He expresses a similar view of Italian opera, calling it a “shameless virtuoso display, emasculating classic history into a faint and tedious concert in costume.” Also see Peter Bondanella, The Eternal City: Roman Images in the Modern World (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1987), 108. He writes, “In spite of many efforts by composers and librettists of obvious genius, opera seria never matched the tragedies of sixteenth-century England or seventeenth-century France. One explanation may be found in the genre's nontheatrical conventions. Employing only recitative, arias, and solo ensembles, interior dramatic development was difficult, and thus opera seria became primarily a “display piece for singers.” So long as the music was organized in such a manner that all sentiment or emotion remained limited to the formally organized musical sections (duets, arias), while all action was left to be conveyed in recitative, opera seria remained an essentially static and actionless, though beautiful, lyrical genre. Exhibiting wonderful virtuoso flights by individual performers, it never achieved true tragic proportions and usually remained a somewhat fixed collection of set pieces rather than a convincing, unified dramatic action.”

14 ways in which it has been represented in opera are varied. In the seventeenth century,

horror was presented on the stage primarily through visual means. Horror was one

aspect of le merveilleux, or “the marvelous,” which contributed to and even justified the use of spectacular visual effects on stage, particularly through the use of machinery and dance. The fact that many Italian librettos contain prefaces praising the production and in some cases, describing in detail the mechanical effects happening on the stage suggests that the visual elements of the production were of the utmost importance.

Contemporary commentaries also offer detailed descriptions of visual display.

Scholars of eighteenth-century music have long noted that stylistic features carry different types of meaning. Leonard Ratner, Wye Jamison Allanbook, and others have observed their various functions in shaping musical meaning, showing that these features are “signs” of certain topics for discourse, or topoi.3 Thus, horror (considered

as a kind of topic) was no longer confined to being portrayed through visual means, but

it became aurally recognizable through the use of certain conventional musical devices

(see Figure 1-1). The origin of specific compositional features employed to portray storms, subterranean noises, and infernal scenes has been associated with French composers, notably Jean-Philippe Rameau.4 Subsequently these devices came to be

part of a musical language used in opera throughout Europe later in the eighteenth

century, appearing with the most frequency when French-inspired “reforms” of Italian

opera seria were occurring.

3 See Leonard G. Ratner, Classic Music: Expression, Form, and Style (New York: Schirmer Books, 1980). Also see Wye Jamison Allanbrook, Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart: Le Nozze Di Figaro & Don Giovanni (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983).

4 See David Buch, Chapter I: “L’Académie Royale de Musique,” in Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests: The Supernatural in Eighteenth-Century Musical Theater (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 43-102.

15 Eighteenth-century horror or terror manifesting in a musical style is discussed by

Clive McClelland in his landmark study Ombra: Supernatural Music in the Eighteenth

Century.5 According to McClelland, in late-eighteenth century music, the ombra style is associated with:

an elaborate set of musical features including slow sustained writing (reminiscent of church music), the use of flat keys (especially in the minor), angular melodic lines, chromaticism and dissonance, dotted rhythms and syncopation, pauses, tremolando effects, sudden dynamic contrasts, unexpected harmonic progressions and unusual instrumentation, especially involving trombones.6

McClelland makes several important distinctions to facilitate an understanding of the

broad set of circumstances to which the style was appropriate. These are divisions of

supernatural events and characters in operas before Mozart’s:

1.) Celestial - benevolent deities, heaven, paradise, and the Elysian Fields; 2.) Ceremonial - processions, rituals, sacrifices, prophecies, oracles, and statues; 3.) Ominous - incantations, scorcery, ghosts, tombs, dungeons, caves, night and death; 4.) Infernal - malevolent deities, hell, demons, furies; 5.) Devastating - sudden scenic transformations, monsters, storms, and earthquakes.7

McClelland distinguishes the last four categories (not including celestial) as “terrible.”

These are scenes whose characteristics are associated with the sturm und drang topos:

fast tempo, minor keys, disjunct motion, rapid scale passages, dissonances,

chromaticism, irregular rhythms, loud dynamics, and full orchestral textures.8

5 Clive McClelland, Ombra: Supernatural Music in the Eighteenth Century (United Kingdom: Lexington Books, 2012).

6 Clive McClelland, "Ombra," In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/51808 (accessed June 7, 2012). See also his taxonomy of ombra characteristics listed as Appendix A in McClelland, Ombra, 225.

7 McClelland, Introduction to Ombra, vii-viii.

8 As McClelland discusses, it is important to remember that the terms ombra and sturm und drang are anachronistic and were not understood or used in the eighteenth century. Both were first used in the twentieth century to describe these styles of music, which despite not being labeled as we know them,

16 Comparing these characteristics with those of ombra as McClelland defines it reveals

tempo to be a noticeable difference between the two; ombra is associated with slow

sustained or moderate tempos (never fast), while the “terrible” style is distinguished by

fast tempos. It appears as though McClelland has created a continuum that runs from

ombra to the “terrible” style, increasingly becoming more established as it progresses

(Figure 1-2). I am concerned here with music that constitutes the latter end of the

gradient, the “terrible” style, characterized and distinguished from ombra mainly by its

fast tempo. More specifically, I focus on McClelland’s last two designations: “infernal”

and “devastating,” which I argue are on the extreme “horrifying” end of the spectrum.

However, it is important to recognize and acknowledge that none of these sub-

categories are completely separate styles, and considerable overlap between them and

the broader category of ombra is inevitable.

Musical Exoticism

In a broad sense, horror is meant to provoke some sort of out-of-the-ordinary

reaction in the audience which, while not necessarily being the same reaction a modern

audience would have, somehow distinguishes it from its surrounding context. This is

similar to exoticism in the sense that it can be considered transgressive, different, out of

the realm of what is familiar, and essentially, “Other.” Since the early 1990s,

musicologists have begun to understand styles of music that evoke non-Western

cultures in Western theatrical genres through the frame of exoticism.9 Ralph Locke

were nonetheless widely understood by composers and audiences. For this reason, I will refer to the style as “terrible” rather than sturm und drang. 9 A select list of references dealing with exoticism and orientalism in music is as follows: Jonathan Bellman, The Exotic in Western Music (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1998); Pierpaolo Polzonetti, “Oriental Tyranny in the Extreme West: Reflections on Amiti e Ontario and Le Gare Generose,” in Essays on Opera:1750-1800, eds. John Rice (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2010), 283- 309; Timothy Taylor, “Peopling the Stage: Opera, Otherness, and New Musical Representations in the

17 defines it thus: “The evocation of a place, people or social milieu that is (or is perceived

to be) profoundly different from accepted local norms in attitude, customs and morals.”10

Following this, Locke goes on to describe the musical techniques that have been used

in Western music to suggest an exotic locale:

Modes and harmonies different from the familiar major and minor (such as pentatonic and other gapped scales); bare textures (unharmonized unisons or octaves, parallel 4ths or 5ths, drones and static harmonies and—in pieces evoking the Indonesian gamelan—a texture consisting of rhythmically stratified layers); distinctive repeated rhythmic or melodic patterns (sometimes deriving from dances of the ‘other’ country or group); and unusual musical instruments (especially percussion) or performing techniques (e.g. pizzicato, double stops, vocal portamento).11

When comparing the stylistic features of ombra music to those of “exotic” music, it

becomes clear that the two share some similarities.

In Locke’s chart showing stylistic features within Western music that are often

used to suggest exotic locale or culture (Figure 1-3), the first feature that distinguishes exotic music are “modes and harmonies that were considered non-normative in the era and place where the work was composed.”12 He elaborates that the basic “tool”

available for evoking the exotic was the use of modes and harmonies different from

whatever was the prevailing norm in that work or in other works in that genre at that

time and place. He speaks mainly of composers going outside the traditional use of

Eighteenth Century,” Cultural Critique 36 (1997), 65-88; Ralph Locke, “Reflections on Orientalism in Opera and Musical Theater,” The Opera Quarterly 10/1 (1993), 48-64; Ralph Locke, Musical Exoticism: Images and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009).

10 Ralph P. Locke, "Exoticism," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed March 18, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/45644.

11 Locke, "Exoticism." This is not an extensive list. For a fuller typology of style aspects that have been used in exotic portrayals, see Figure 3.1 in Locke: Musical Exoticism, 51-54.

12 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 51.

18 “functional tonality,” or the major-minor system. McClelland, when referring to ombra,

writes that certain keys, particularly minor flat keys, in addition to chromaticism,

unexpected harmonic progressions, and dissonance were typical features that

distinguished that style.13 There is a clear similarity in that both styles feature

“abnormal” harmonies and unconventional tonalities. This is also supported by Locke’s

sub-category in no. 3 of his “stylistic features of exoticism” chart: “intense chromaticism

and constantly shifting harmonies.”14

Another feature that Locke mentions is the use of modes and scales with

chromatically “altered” notes. He includes in this feature chromatic alterations such as

lowering of the second scalar degree, raising the fourth degree, and fluctuating

treatment of the sixth and seventh. This is congruent with the progressive harmonies that composers like Rameau frequently employed in dramatic stage works. In his Code de musique pratique, Rameau writes that in the “Trio des parques” from his Hippolyte et

Aricie (1733), he had used “the enharmonic genre...to inspire repulsion and horror.”15

This was not the only musical device used by composers such as Rameau to evoke a

specific reaction from the audience, as an analysis of other examples reveals.

Bare textures, such as unharmonized unisons or octaves, parallel fourths or

fifths, drones, and static harmonies are other characteristics of musical exoticism. David

Buch, in his monograph on the supernatural in eighteenth-century opera, mentions

several times that octave-and-unison sonorities were features that connoted the

13 McClelland, "Ombra."

14 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 51.

15 Downing A. Thomas, Aesthetics of Opera in the Ancien Régime,1647-1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 166.

19 supernatural in music, and in particular in scenes suggesting terror.16 Furthermore,

distinctive rhythmic and melodic patterns or repeated (ostinato) rhythms are other

features in Locke’s list of ingredients for musical exoticism. McClelland emphasizes the

prevalence of rhythmic ostinato in the musical style of ombra.17 Such distinctive patterns

such as syncopation, repetitious rhythmic figures, rapid repetitive sixteenth notes, or

dotted rhythms were frequently employed to connote fear, fury, or frantic motion (often

associated with storms), according to Buch.18

Vocal passages that evoke ritualistic chanting by means of extended melismas on nonsense syllables in free rhythm or by declamation of a monotone to a rigid, undifferentiated rhythm are yet another feature of exotic-style music.19 Moreover,

unusual words that are typical or indicative of the culture in question are often

highlighted musically. McClelland argues that the one feature that distinguishes ombra

music from sturm und drang-style music is its slow, sustained, moderate tempo which is

evocative of church music, or a ritualistic style.20 Extended melismas can be seen in

vocal passages sung by supernatural characters who are given ornate coloratura arias,

often to set them apart as “otherworldly” beings.21 Chant-like, monophonic declamations are also found in ombra passages; McClelland gives the oracle’s pronouncement in Act

16 Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests, 48.

17 McClelland, Ombra. See Chapter 4: Rhythm and Tempo (Opera), 83-122.

18 Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests, 47-49.

19 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 53.

20 McClelland, Ombra, 8.

21 Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests, 49.

20 1, scene 4 of Gluck’s Alceste as an example.22

Locke’s eleventh feature in the chart of exotic music is “departures from normative types of continuity or compositional patterning and forward flow.”23 These

may include “asymmetrical” phrase structure, sudden pauses or long notes (or quick

notes), and intentionally “excessive” repetition of short melodic fragments or

accompanimental rhythms. Buch stresses that rests often connoted dread or terror,

particularly starting with the music of Lully and seen frequently in Rameau’s, for

example, the death of the protagonist in Hippolyte et Aricie (1733), as he is devoured by

the sea monster. This famous excerpt contains a remarkably lengthy period of silence,

providing an opportunity for the horror and tragedy of Hippolyte’s death to resonate with

the audience. Extended pauses for dramatic effect appear in the works of Italian

composers influenced by French operatic elements, such as Niccolò Jommelli. He used

a similar dramatic pause in his finale of Fetonte (1768), where the chorus openly

mourns the suicide of Fetonte’s mother, Climene.

Foreign musical instruments, or Western ones used in ways that make them

sound foreign, are another characteristic of exotic music.24 While this is not necessarily

a feature of ombra, Locke observes that instruments that are used in a context that is

unusual for them, particularly instruments that are striking because of the rarity of their

use in Western art music, can be considered a feature of exoticism as well. Since at

least as early as Claudio Monteverdi’s Orfeo (1607), the use of low brass instruments

22 McClelland, Ombra, 34-35.

23 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 53.

24 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 54.

21 such as the trombone in infernal scenes has been an operatic convention. Furthermore,

dark-timbre instruments, unusual instrumentation, unusual instrumental and vocal

combinations, and muted strings are all features associated with ombra music and with

supernatural music in general.25 These features used in infernal scenes are found in

Monteverdi’s works, Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice, and Mozart’s Idomeneo, to name a few examples.

Highly distinctive instrumental techniques constitute Locke’s final exotic-style feature.26 McClelland observes that in supernatural music, concitato and tremolo

techniques are often used to convey fear and restless motion.27 Additional techniques

such as syncopation, tremolando, and sudden dynamic contracts are all characteristic.28

To convey anger and warlike actions, Monteverdi had devised the concitato genere or

stile concitato (agitated style), characterized by rapid reiteration on a single note,

whether on quickly spoken syllables or in a measured string tremolo.29 The stile

concitato became a widely used convention in seventeenth and eighteenth-century

opera in scenes depicting terrifying events, infernal scenes, and other fearful things.

Contemporaneous Theorists

One of the most famous composers and theorists of the eighteenth century,

Jean-Philippe Rameau, writes on the use of dissonance in music, especially when

25 McClelland, "Ombra."

26 Locke: Musical Exoticism, 54.

27 McClelland, Ombra, 7.

28 McClelland, "Ombra."

29 He used it famously to great effect in Il combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda (1624).

22 emotions such as despair and passions lead to rage. In this case, the music requires

unprepared dissonances, but the use of dissonance must be tactful:

It is even effective in certain expressions of this nature to go from one key to another by means of an unprepared major dissonance, without offending the ear through too great a disproportion between these two keys. This is why it can only be done prudently, much the same as all the rest: if one simply piled dissonance upon dissonance, anywhere they might occur, it would be a much greater flaw than allowing only consonances to be heard. Dissonance must be used, then, only with a great deal of discretion, even allowing it to remain unheard in chords from which it cannot be separated, by suppressing it deftly when its harshness does not suit the expression, distributing the consonances that compose the rest of the chord among all the parts.30

This sentiment is similar to the use of dissonance as McClelland discusses it in the

ombra style and Locke writes about in musical exoticism. Dissonance was to be used

sparingly and only when necessary to create an appropriate effect that may reflect

something out of the ordinary in the drama.

Johann Mattheson, whose theoretical works laid the foundations of a new style

based on sensibility rather than the authority of the ancients, has written about the

different “affects” and how music should respond accordingly:

78. Those affects that are, so to speak, to be set against hope and that consequently inspire a contrary arrangement of sounds are fear, pusillanimity, despondency, etc. Here also belong fright and terror, which invite – if they are properly understood and if one has distinct images of their natural characteristics – appropriate progressions of sound corresponding to the condition of the emotion.

79. For although, the musical profession should concern itself primarily with grace and pleasure, it also works at times with dissonant sounds or harsh-sounding themes and appropriately strident instruments to

30 Original source: Traité de l’harmonie réduite à ses principes naturels (Paris, 1722; repr. New York: Broude Bros., 1965). Quoted from Enrico Fubini, and Bonnie J. Blackburn, Music and Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe: A Source Book (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 139.

23 represent not only matters adverse and unpleasant, but even horrible and dreadful, in which the mind occasionally finds a particular kind of delight.31

Mattheson, as a contemporary theorist, confirms that fright and terror invite specific

musical devices to correspond to those particular emotions. In addition, he makes it

clear that dissonance and “appropriately strident instruments” should be utilized in

“unpleasant,” and even “horrible and dreadful” situations. Significantly, his comment about the fact that the mind can find delight in these situations is strongly reminiscent of

Edmund Burke’s concept of the sublime in the eighteenth century (discussed in more

detail in Chapter 6).

As one of its key features, much of the music that can be considered to be in the

“ombra” style has a preoccupation with tonality and instability of tonality. Rita Steblin has created a table presenting four major musicians and theorists on the qualities of flat major and minor keys over a span of roughly a hundred years, primarily from eighteenth-century (Figure 1-4).32 The table contains Charpentier and Rameau, both of

whom have works discussed elsewhere in this document. Upon examining the table, we

can glean that there are keys that most of the four (if not all) agree upon as far as what

affect they possess. Both Charpentier and Rameau interpreted the key of F major as being furious, meant for tempests and furies. All four composers (Rameau, Charpentier,

Schubart and Galeazzi) interpreted F minor as being sorrowful, gloomy, full of misery,

31 Original source: Johann Mattheson, Chapter 3, “Von der Natur-Lehre des Klanges,” in Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg, 1739; repr. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1954), 15-20. Quoted from Fubini, Music and Culture, 283.

32 Rita Steblin, A History of Key Characteristics in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983), 221-308. Steblin’s sources are: Marc-Antoine Charpentier, Règles de Composition (Paris: 1692), Jean-Philippe Rameau Traité de l’harmonie réduite à ses principes naturels (Paris: J. B. C. Ballard, 1772), Christian Friederich Daniel Schubart, Ideen zu einer Ästhetik der Tonkunst (Vienna: 1806), and Franceso Galeazzi, Elementi teorico-practici de musica, vol. 2 (Rome, 1796). For a further selection of opera scenes with ombra references and their keys in a chart, see McClelland, Ombra, 30-31.

24 anguish and lamenting. Finally, both Schubart and Galeazzi found the key of A-flat

major to invoke death, the grave, express horror, stillness, fear and terror. Niccoló

Jommelli was known to show a preference for E-flat major in his ombra scenes.33 Henry

Purcell was rather systematic in his use of the keys of G minor for death scenes and F minor for horror, witches and other scary events.34 While it remains impossible to

speculate that every composer, theorist, or musician of the time agreed on the affects of

a certain key, this information shows that there were some general agreements and

similarities shared by these contemporaries. Though they may not have agreed which

keys denoted which affect, at the very least it demonstrates that most key areas were

associated with some sort of emotional state.

“Supernatural” Exoticism

As Locke has observed, studies of seventeenth and eighteenth-century opera

that focus on musical exoticism constitute only a small part of the musicological investigation of the subject. Furthermore, those studies that explore exoticism in stage works tend to focus primarily on surface-level manifestations of the exotic and inquire as to what they might mean, or they restrict their attention to only passages that include

“non-Western sounding” music. For example, Jonathan Bellman describes exoticism as consisting of “the borrowing or use of musical materials that evoke distant locales or alien frames of reference.”35 Yet Locke has written that music’s “exoticness” depends

on more than just musical notes that sound “different” or “foreign” to a particular culture:

33 McClelland, Ombra, 23.

34 McClelland, Ombra, 27. Originally from Curtis Price, Henry Purcell and the London Stage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 21-26.

35 Bellman, Introduction to The Exotic in Western Music, ix.

25 The word “exoticism” relates, etymologically, to places or settings “away from” some vantage point considered normative, most often that of the observer him- or herself. Like so many “-isms” (idealism, Romanticism), exoticism can be broadly encompassing and relatively abstract: an ideology, a diverse collection of attitudes and prejudices, an intellectual tendency. Or it can be broad yet concrete: a cultural trend with rich and varied manifestations.36

Locke describes exoticness as something that is reflected not just in the music, but as

being something that can be expressed in extra-musical effects, presumably stage

settings, costume design, and the audience’s expectations:

Exoticness most often depends not just on the musical notes but also on their context or framing…and on other factors as well, notably the nature of a given performance and the musical and cultural preparation of a given listener.37

The “musical and cultural preparation” of eighteenth-century audiences led them to

recognize the operatic and musical conventions that will be discussed in the following

chapter.

Locke responds to the rather narrow definitions of musical exoticism expressed

in the literature thus far by providing a more comprehensive definition:

Musical exoticism is the process of evoking in or through music—whether the latter is “exotic-sounding” or not—a place, people, or social milieu that is not entirely imaginary and that differs profoundly from the “home” country or culture in attitudes, customs, and morals. More precisely, it is the process of evoking a place (people, social milieu) that is perceived as different from home by the people making and receiving the exoticist cultural product.38

Following what Locke has described as the “All the Music in Full Context”

36 Ralph P. Locke, “A Broader View of Musical Exoticism,” The Journal of Musicology 24, no. 4 (Fall 2007), 479.

37 Locke, “A Broader View of Musical Exoticism,” 478-479, footnote 3.

38 Locke, “A Broader View of Musical Exoticism,” 483-484.

26 Paradigm,39 I propose a new type of exoticism that deals not with surface-level

representations of exotic locations, but with below-the-surface manifestations of the potential hidden meanings of supernatural creatures, characters and events.

Sometimes this was realized literally, in the case of sea monsters. “Supernatural exoticism” can be described as the process of evoking in or through visual images, text and/or music a place, creatures, characters or scenario that is considered unreal, extraordinary or supernatural. The thing evoked differs profoundly from the normal or ordinary things/places/characters/creatures surrounding it in the context of the narrative.

It represents the most fantastic images conjured by the human mind—those which can simultaneously terrify and fascinate.

I define and identify the supernatural exotic through specific musical and visual features that conveyed horror to contemporary audiences. Why should horrific elements

be considered exotic? If musical exoticism evokes a people, place, or milieu that is

different from the “home” country in morals/attitudes, and so on, then the supernatural

(particularly the horrific supernatural) can arguably be viewed as a cultural “Other.” The

concept of “Otherness” is related to alterity or difference, both of which are used interchangeably in literature.40 “Otherness” culturally became a designation for

39 Locke, “A Broader View of Musical Exoticism,” 483. Locke writes, “I propose a much broader view of musical exoticism, one that incorporates the Exotic-Style Paradigm but allows for many other musical passages—ones that do not differ from the prevailing musical language of the day—to be considered as contributing to portrayal of an exotic Other. They do so because they are presented in a plainly exoticizing context, such as—in the case of an opera—plot, sung words, sets, and costumes.”

40 Its origins lie in the seventeenth-century French philosopher René Descartes, who established the understanding of the “Other” always in relation to the self, but soon it evolved in terms of post-colonial and cultural studies: “In cultural terms, alterity concerns those sections of post-Renaissance European society that are forbidden but desired: women, exotics, bohemians, primitives and peasants, for example.” See David Beard and Kenneth Gloag, Musicology: The Key Concepts (London: Routledge, 2005), 9. A well-known study on cultural “Otherness” and the related concept of “Orientalism” is Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1979), and also Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Vintage Books, 1994). Musicological studies include Ralph P. Locke,

27 essentially anything or anyone that was foreign to a particular culture. Likewise, in

musical terms, “Otherness” became associated with exoticism in the formation of

musical canons; most commonly in the distinction between Western art music and non-

Western music.

Viewed through the lens of exoticism, the role and function of supernatural

horrific elements/characters/creatures can be better understood within the context of the

work of which they are a part. Horrific scenes were not only meant to scare and awe the

audience, but were also a metaphorical obstacle for the characters who, through their

interaction with these scenes and the supernatural events and creatures in them,

experience the unknown. This ran counter to the rules of bienséance, or rules of good

taste, which dictated that taboo subjects such as death, murder, incest, suicides and so

on take place off-stage and not in full view of the audiences of Italian opera seria.

Toward the middle of the eighteenth century, experimentation within the genre began to

encourage the integration of these taboo subjects, and the result would lead in the

direction of a remarkable transformation of opera as a whole.

Through an examination of the sea monster in theatrical productions from the

seventeenth and eighteenth century, I demonstrate in the following chapters that the

visual spectacle of the monster, popular in the seventeenth century, eventually became

replaced with an aural depiction of the monster on stage. The orchestral advancements

of composers such as André Campra, Jean-Philippe Rameau and Wolfgang Mozart

“Constructing the Oriental ‘Other’: Saint-Saëns’s Samson et Dalila,” Cambridge Opera Journal 3 (1991), 261–302; Ralph P. Locke, “Reflections on Orientalism in Opera and Musical Theater,” Opera Quarterly 10, no.1 (1993–4), 48–64. For the arts more generally, see John M. MacKenzie, Orientalism: History, Theory, and the Arts (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995). For a more extensive list of sources dealing with orientalism in music, see the bibliography of Ralph P. Locke, "Orientalism," Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, accessed April 3, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/40604.

28 enabled a solidification of compositional techniques meant to evoke a supernatural realm in the minds of the audience. In works such as Hippolyte et Aricie, Idoménée, and

Idomeneo, the role of the orchestra is highlighted and imitation of storms, earthquakes, and overall frantic motion and fear at the approaching monster is a significant part of the musical language in supernatural scenes. Repetition of rapid sixteenth and thirty- second notes, rapid ascending and descending scale passages, choral numbers, dramatic key changes, fast tempos, tremolos, syncopation and orchestras imitating thunder, storms, and earthquakes were all techniques used to communicate a supernatural event and the appearance of a sea monster (see Figure 1-1). Finally, the use of silence in moments of devastation, such as the death of the protagonist in confrontation with the monster in Hippolyte et Aricie, was also a highly effective device to evoke a tragic atmosphere.

29 Work Musical features accompanying the sea monster

Corneille’s Androméde (1682 • Choral numbers: "Répétez nos tristes accents,” “Le revival) monstre est morte” • May have been instrumental music to accompany battle, but it is not extant • Less emphasis on music, more on visual spectacle

Lully’s Persée (1682) • Choral number: “Le monstre est morte” (contains dotted rhythms in French-overture fashion) • Repeated choral refrain • Less emphasis on music, more on visual spectacle

Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie • Repetition of rapid sixteenth and thirty-second notes (1733) • Rapid ascending scale passages • Choral number (“Quel bruit! Quel vents!”) • Key changes (B flat major to g minor) • Fast tempos • Orchestra imitating thunder, lightning, storms, and earthquakes • Ombra style characteristics including The elongated, sustained pitches in the strings and flute (reminiscent of church music), the initial use of a flat key (g minor), the angular melodic line, the frequent chromatic intervals and dotted rhythms in the voice, and finally, the unexpected harmonic progressions • Choral number (“Hippolyte n’est plus”) with devastating and striking silence

Rameau’s Dardanus (1739) • Rapid tempo (“vivement”) • Rapid ascending/descending scale passages • Quick key changes • Heavy accents on the first beat of the measure

Mozart’s Idomeneo (1781) • Neptune’s music is slow and in the key of C minor • Two tempêtes scenes (as in Campra’s work) • Dramatic symphonies featuring frenzied sixteenth-note patterns in the strings • syncopation • wave machine, thunder drum, and reflector lamps to make lightning (orchestra imitating nature) • tremolos in strings • ascending and descending scale figures in sixteenth- notes • Choral number: “Corriamo, fuggiamo”

Figure 1-1. Musical Features Accompanying the Sea Monster

30 Celestial Ceremonial Ominous Infernal Devastating “Ombra” style (slow to moderate tempos) “Terrible” style (fast tempos) Horrifying

Figure 1-2. McClelland’s continuum of “ombra” and “terrible” styles

(1) Modes and harmonies that were considered non-normative in the era and place where the work was composed. This category of features is vast and varied. In the art music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and in many film score, popular songs, and Broadway shows of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, the norm consisted/consists of what music theorists call “functional tonality” or the major-minor system. One should immediately note that, from around 1850 onward, many art-music composers began to enrich the major and minor modes, break down the distinction between them, and create or elaborate new modes (e.g., Aeolian, whole-tone, and octatonic) and harmonic practices (bitonal, atonal, and dodecaphonic). Some film composed have followed suit. But, even in the contacts of more “extended and alternative harmonic practices, the basic “tool” defined in the first sentence remained (and remains) available for evoking the exotic, namely using modes and harmonies different from whatever was (or is) the prevailing norm in the given work – or in other works in that genre at that time and place. (For simplicity’s sake, style features nos. 2-6 are worded with regard to the basic major-minor tonal system.)

(2) One sub-category of style feature no. 1: pentatonic (e.g., black-key) and other so-called “gapped” scales, with their strong implications of simplicity and, hence, of stable, unchanging sociocultural conditions.

(3) Another sub-category of style feature no. 1 (and almost the opposite in means and effect from no. 2): intense chromaticism and constantly shifting harmonies, which may move purposefully toward a goal, slither sinuously, or yank about jerkily.

Figure 1-3. Stylistic features within Western music that are often employed (especially in combination) to suggest an exotic locale or culture [adapted from Locke, Ralph. Musical Exoticism: Images and Reflections (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 51-54. [Figure 3.1]

31

(4) Somewhat in between style features 2 and 3: modes and scales with chromatically “altered” notes; and whole-tone and octatonic scales. In the first of these possibilities, the chromatic alterations may include such things as the lowering of the second scalar degree (e.g. D flat in the C-major or C-minor scale), raising of the fourth (F sharp), and a fluctuating treatment – sometimes natural, sometimes flatted – of the sixth (A) and seventh (B). The second possibility, whole-tone writing, is valued in part because it tends to deprive the listener of a home tonality. All the notes being the same distance apart, the listener cannot determine – without other factors, such as a long-held pedal tone in the accompaniment – which note in the scale is “home.” The third possibility, octatonic writing, is somewhat similar to whole-tone in that it constructs its scales systematically, except that their notes are, in alternation, a whole step and a half step apart (see Chapter 9). Again, a sense of “tonic,” if the composer desires it, needs to be achieved by a pedal or other means.

(5) Related to style feature no. 2 above: bare textures, such as unharmonized unisons or octaves, parallel fourths or fifths, and drones (pedal points – whether tonic of open-fifth); and static harmonies (often based on a single chord; or employing two chords in lengthy, perhaps slowish oscillation).

(6) The opposite of style feature no. 5 (and related to style features nos. 3 and 4 above): complex and inherently undefined chords (sometimes described as “magical” or “mystical”) that, because they can resolve in several ways, operate in unpredictable ways; or chords that are cacophonous or cluster-like.

(7) Distinctive repeated rhythmic or melodic patterns, sometimes deriving from dances of the country or group being portrayed; or repeated (ostinato) rhythms – for example in an instrumental accompaniment – that are not distinctive (not inherently marked as to origin) but nonetheless suggest either Otherness (by their rigid insistence) or rural-ness (by their resemblance, general or specific, to the recurring patterns of folk dance). Certain exotic styles make use of rhythmic complexities considered characteristic of the location (e.g., the polyrhythms of the Caribbean, sub-Saharan African, Middle Eastern, and Indonesian musical traditions).

(8) Opera arias – or melodies in instrumental works – that are more like simple songs, hence are presumably more typical of simple folk, whether in rural locations of the home country or in places far away. Sometimes opera arias of this sort are flagged by a genre designation such as Romance. (This is not to saw that all arias called “Romance” are exotic.)

Figure1-3. Continued.

32 (9) Vocal passages that evoke ritualistic (and incomprehensible) chanting by means of extended melismas on “Ah!” or nonsense syllables in free rhythm. Or (as is the case of despotic legalistic decrees) by declamation in a monotone and to a rigid, undifferentiated rhythm. Also various “cries” – such as the riveting “Aoua” in Ravel’s Chansons madécasses – or other musical highlighting of unusual words that are supposedly typical or indicative of the culture in question. Yet another possibility: use of local linguistic variants that are understood as bizarre or peculiar, such as the lingua franca in various Turkish and other Middle Eastern works of the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

(10) Instrumental lines that are the presumed equivalent of the melismas common in many traditional vocal styles (e.g., rāga-based singing in India) and also in many traditional instrumental styles (vīnā playing). These instrumental lines may take the form of extended “arabesque”-style wind or violin solos that are perceived as being “arabesque”-like, not only by their curling shape but because they make heavy use of unbroken chains of escape-note figures such as are indeed found in much Middle Eastern music.

(11) Departures from normative types of continuity or compositional patterning and forward flow. These departures may include “asymmetrical” phrase structure, “rhapsodic” melodic motion, sudden pauses or long notes (or quick notes), and intentionally “excessive” repetition (of, for example, short melodic fragments using a few notes close together; or of accompanimental rhythms, as noted in style feature no. 7 above).

(12) Quick ornaments used obtrusively or over-predictably, and presumably intended to be perceived as decorative encrustation – or as dissonant, nerve- jangling annoyance – rather than as organically integrated design. The “arabesque” solos mentioned in style feature no. 10 above are based on this principle of ornament (but repeat the ornamental feature many times in quick succession).

(13) Foreign musical instruments, or Western ones that are used in ways that make them sound foreign, for example xylophone, which, played pentatonically, can signify East and Southeast Asia; or specific piano figurations that evoke a Spanish guitar or Hungarian (or Hungarian-Gypsy) cimbalom. Also, instruments that are used in a context that is unusual for them. Particularly valuable for a composer in these various regards are woodwind instruments, such as flute, oboe (more striking because it is rarely used in Western art music) English horn, especially when any of these is given an extensive solo of an “arabesque” or a “melancholy-minor” type. Likewise valuable are unpitched percussion instruments, such as tom-tom, conga, and darabukka (to mention three relatively culture-specific options) but also the more generic ones: tambourine, bass drum, triangle, going, and small bells.

Figure1-3. Continued.

33

(14) Highly distinctive instrumental technique (and also techniques that are more usual – such as portamento, pizzicato, or double stops – but used in an unusual context). Also, emphatically regular (stomping, relentless) performance of repeated rhythms. Or the opposite: flexible, floating, “timeless” rendition of vocal melismas or instrumental solos (see style features nos. 9, 10, and 13 above).

(15) Distinctive uses of vocal range and tessitura (e.g., the “sultry” – to use a standard, freighted term – mezzo-soprano voice), and unusual styles of vocal production (“darkened” sound, throbbing vibrato, lack of vibration, etc.).

Figure1-3. Continued.

34 Charpentier (c. 1692) Rameau (1722) Schubart (c. 1784) Galeazzi (1796) F major Furious and quick- Tempests and Complaisance and Majestic, but less tempered furies calm so than E flat and C majors; it is also shrill but not piercing B-flat major Magnificent and joyful Tempests and Cheerful love, clear Tender, soft, furies conscience, hope sweet, effeminate, fit to express torments of love, charm, and grace E-flat major Cruel and hard The key of love, of Heroic, extremely devotion, of intimate majestic, grave, conversation with and serious God A-flat major Death, grave, Gloomy, low, putrefaction, deep, fit to judgement, eternity express horror, the silence of night, stillness, fear, terror D minor Serious and pious Sweet and tender Melancholy, Extremely womanliness. The melancholy and spleen and humours gloomy brood G minor Serious and Sweet and tender Discontent, Frenzy, despair, magnificent uneasiness, worry agitation, etc. about a failed scheme, bad- tempered gnashing of teeth C minor Gloomy and sad Tenderness and All languishing, A tragic key fit to plaints longing, sighing of express grand the lovesick soul lies mis-adventures, in this key deaths of heroes, and grand but mournful, ominous, and lugubrious actions F minor Gloomy and plaintive Tenderness and Deep depression, Weeping, grief, plaints, mournful funereal lament, sorrow, anguish, songs groans of misery, violent torments, and longing for the agitation, etc. grave

Figure 1-4. Some characteristics attributed to flat major and minor keys

Source: Rita, Steblin. A History of Key Characteristics in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983), 221-308.

35 CHAPTER 2 OPERATIC CONVENTIONS AND THE SEA MONSTER

This chapter illustrates how the image of the sea monster fits within the basic

conventions of opera or stands apart from those conventions. Understanding how

opera’s conventions (and those of its predecessors) functioned in creating and thwarting

audience expectations and the role of the monster within these expectations illuminates

how they, and thus the genre itself, changed over time. In tandem, these changes in

expectations of genre lead to an understanding of how and why audiences responded

to various works and the role both spectators and individual productions played in the

transformation of theatrical entertainment spanning the seventeenth and eighteenth

centuries.

Seventeenth-Century Conventions

Conventions of opera from its inception in the 1590s include the use of the deus ex machine and lieto fine, choruses, morals promoted by the drama, and the use of instrumental music to portray different settings. The deus ex machina convention (gods

descending from heaven who intervened in the drama to solve the problems of humans)

persisted through the seventeenth century and promoted an emphasis on visual

spectacle. The deus ex machina resulted in the lieto fine, or happy ending. The subject

matter of opera throughout the seventeenth century and well into the eighteenth

consisted largely of stories from classical Greek mythology. Several of the morals

emphasized in the genre include overcoming difficulties from heaven as a test of

character, men avoiding hubris, virtue as a prize from heaven that can be clouded by

emotion as opposed to reason, and the perils of earthly love.1 A few of these morals

1 Tim Carter, Monteverdi’s Musical Theatre (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 114-115.

36 become the central axis around which the dramma per musica in the next century

pivots.2 The basis for the creation of the dramma per musica was French classical drama. Emphasis upon the perils of earthly love and the expectation that the hero sacrifice his desire for that love in order to fulfill his duty, usually involving the triumph of reason over passions or emotions, were central tenets. One of the most common confrontations a hero would experience was with a terrible creature, often a sea monster, sent by the gods as a punishment for the hubris of men (or women). The goal of this chapter is to illustrate how the image of the sea monster fits within these basic conventions of the genre.

Opera emerged in France when spoken theater was at its high point in the latter half of the seventeenth century. French theater was governed by strict rules—Corneille and Racine’s “classic” spoken theater influenced the genre of opera that came to be known as tragédie en musique with its five-act structure a distinguishing feature.3

Typical plot material of tragédie en musique consisted of a pair of lovers and one or more rivals.4 In the 1670s, Jean-Baptiste Lully and his librettist Phillippe Quinault were

the main associations with early opera including those that would be continuously

revived well into the eighteenth century at the Académie Royale de Musique.

Eventually, lyric tragedy was not only considered to be the counterpart of spoken

tragedy but also its inverse; each was assigned its own subject material:

2 For a general overview of opera seria and its conventions, see Reinhard Strohm, “Introduction: the dramma per musica in the eighteenth century,” in Dramma per Musica: Italian Opera Seria of the Eighteenth Century (Great Britain: Redwood Books, 1997), 1-29.

3 Graham Sadler, “Tragédie en musique,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed March 5, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/20385.

4 Sadler, “Tragédie en musique.”

37 Whereas spoken tragedy preferred to treat historical figures, such subjects were considered inappropriate for opera. But if opera restricted itself to a world inhabited by gods and allegorical or legendary figures, the problem disappeared. Hence the preponderance of tragédies based on classical myth or legend (Lully, Alceste; Rameau, Castor et Pollux), Italian epic (Lully, Armide; Campra, Alcine) or Spanish romance (Lully, Amadis; Destouches, Amadis de Grèce). For the same reasons, librettists turned very occasionally to the Old Testament (Montéclair, Jephté) or other ancient religious sources (Rameau, Zoroastre).5

Because of the appropriations of these subjects, supernatural elements contributing to

le merveilleux (including monsters) were considered to be essential in tragédie en

musique. The prominence of le merveilleux justified the use of spectacular visual effects on stage, particularly through the use of machinery and dance, which were both eschewed in spoken drama. Violence and terrifying events were encouraged to take

place in full view of operatic audiences rather than backstage, which was normal for

spoken theater.

Seventeenth-century French and Italian opera treated the Aristotelian unities of time, place and action in different ways. Whereas Italian dramma per musica strove to adhere to these unities for the sake of verisimilitude, French lyric tragedy mostly ignored them. It was usual for each act to be set in a different location, and it was not unusual to see further scene changes within acts. Furthermore, unity of plot was a somewhat difficult task because of the genre’s devotion to divertissement, spectacle, and dance.

The unities of time, place, and action were more closely associated with the strict rules of classical spoken drama. The essential characteristic of the genre was “to hold the spirit, the eyes, and the ears in an equal enchantment.”6 Such a sentiment was different

5 Sadler, “Tragédie en musique.”

6 Quotation by La Bruyeré in Sadler, “Tragédie en musique.” “Lully and Quinault established a convention whereby action would give way at some point in each act to a fête or divertissement. Whereas the

38 from the goal of Italian dramma per musica, which sought to “enlighten” and “instruct” its

audience. French operatic conventions, namely dance, spectacle, choruses, and on-

stage violence would eventually be integrated into Italian dramma per musica and

contribute to the reform of that genre in the middle of the eighteenth century.

Scholarship on operatic reform has focused mainly on the infusion of these French

elements in Italian opera. Yet other elements associated with French operatic tradition

that have not received the attention they merit were also being re-introduced: horrifying

supernatural events, characters, and plot material. A key component in the spectacle

that made works containing these elements popular with contemporary audiences was

the climactic and horrifying appearance of a monster (and often a subsequent battle

with the creature) at some point in the drama.

Eighteenth-Century Italian Opera Seria Conventions

The founding of the Arcadian Academy in Rome (1690) can be considered the beginning of the dramma per musica genre and its conventions. The genre resulted from the reform of the Italian libretto from earlier in the century. Later on in the eighteenth century, to distinguish it from opera buffa, it would be more commonly known as opera seria. As Reinhard Strohm has observed, some aspects that distinguish the dramma per musica from those in other periods were the “competition, or coexistence, with ideas of enlightened absolutism, with forms of the European spoken drama (both tragedy and comedy, courtly, and bourgeois), and with the reception of antiquity.”7

Believing that the subject matter of the genre had strayed from that of its original

dramatic scènes would be declaimed predominantly in recitative, the fêtes would involve airs, choruses, ballet and spectacle in continuous sequences that between them might make up a third of the whole work or more.”

7 Strohm, Dramma per Musica, 2.

39 conception, the Academy sought to bring it back in line with classical Greek drama as

set forth in Aristotle's Poetics.8

Apostolo Zeno, one of the early Arcadian librettists, was the first to successfully

compose works that were molded to conform to the conventions of the new genre. He

influenced the most prolific librettist of works in the dramma per musica genre: Pietro

Metastasio. His librettos were considered the embodiment of Enlightenment values

emphasizing characters who were “able to overcome selfish human desires and act

according to the highest moral principles, the purity, elegance, and dignity of his

librettos, and because of their supreme suitability to a musical setting.”9 They gave the

genre its definitive literary and dramatic form in the 1720s. The early dominating

composers of dramma per musica were Vinci, Leo, Galuppi, Hasse and Pergolesi.

Perhaps the most famous of these was Vinci because of his frequent collaboration with

Metastasio; their joint efforts resulted in the Arcadian libretto and the new early Classical

style, or the style galant, becoming inextricably linked.

As a result of aligning opera with French classical theatre, certain conventions

that contributed to an emphasis on aesthetic ideals became a part of the genre. They

ensured that productions would focus upon the poetic dimensions of the action. Some

of these conventions include the use of stories based on Greek or Latin texts, a central

theme of love versus duty, a cast of two pairs of lovers surrounded by others, three acts

consisting of arias (where the action would stop) and recitative (action would

8 Marita P. McClymonds and Daniel Heartz, "Opera seria," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed January 28, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/20385.

9 McClymonds and Heartz, "Opera seria."

40 commence), the lieto fine, and observance of the Aristotelian unities of time, place, and

action to contribute consistency and verisimilitude.10 Preferred plots were based on

ancient history in contrast to mythology and any spectacle was to be natural or man- made. Shocking plot elements like onstage deaths, murders, or even combat were

rejected as offending the rules of good taste—or, bienséance.11 For these reasons,

supernatural creatures such as monsters were rare in Italian opera. Adherence to these

conventions was a necessity also in part because of the demand for new works and the

very brief amount of time that went into constructing them and rehearsing before

performances.

The desire for verisimilitude to permeate all aspects of the dramma per musica

gave rise to certain conventions. Strohm writes that the genre “rarely admitted events

which could not be expressed on stage through monologue or dialogue,”12 because

French classical drama had served as the model for the dramma per musica.

Furthermore, there were doubts about the probability of singing on stage, particularly for

the means of communication among more than two people:

Ensembles were rare in the dramma per musica, partly because they had no analogy in spoken drama. Where the love duet and the chorus were tolerated as legitimate forms of simultaneous speaking, the dramatic ensemble—regularly found already in Alessandro Scarlatti’s operas—was like a multiple, sung dialogue with interaction of the characters and was therefore seldom introduced. The typical seria - ensemble of the later eighteenth-century was more like a simultaneous a parte indicating a

10 This is by no means an exhaustive list. Other conventions are given in the introduction of Strohm, Dramma per Musica.

11 Marita McClymonds, “La morte di Semiramide ossia La vendetta di Nino and the Restoration of Death and Tragedy to the Italian Operatic Stage in the 1780s and 90s,” in Atti del XIV Congresso della Societa Internazionale di Musicologica, eds. Angelo Pompilio, Donatelia Restani, Lorenzo Bianconi, F. Alberto Gallo (Torino: 1990), 285.

12 Strohm, Dramma per Musica, 12

41 stalemate of conflicting affections, with expressive functions quite comparable to those of an aria.13

All of these conventions were meant to promote an imitation of nature, yet ironically, mid-century “reformers” would criticize the genre based on its artificiality and would advocate a new set of conventions and guidelines that would aid the genre in the imitation of nature. In essence, the goal of the genre would seemingly remain the same, but the approach and techniques would need to change in order to be effective. Those seeking to reform dramma per musica believed the conventions were too strict and made the genre rigid, unnatural and incohesive.

Perhaps the most well-known reformer of dramma per musica was Francesco

Algarotti, whose Saggio sopra l'opera in musica (An Essay on the Opera) from 1755 was considered the most widely influential critique of the genre. However, by expressing the need to “restore Opera to its pristine dignity and estimation,”14 reformers such as

Algarotti were not necessarily condemning the opera seria tradition and seeking to

discard it. Rather, they were seeking to restore in it elements that had been removed

during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century with the works by members of

the Arcadian Academy. This was primarily influenced by the spectacle of French opera:

“[Algarotti] advocated the integration of choral and danced episodes in the style of the

tragédie-lyrique into opera seria’s scenes in order to vary their structure and to provide

13 Strohm, Dramma per Musica, 14.

14 Francesco Algarotti and Robin Burgess, An Essay on the Opera = Saggio Sopra L'opera in Musica (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2005), 5. The idea of restoring elements to the genre which had been expunged is further supported by his claim that music “has degenerated from its former dignity” on page 24. He even echoes sentiments directly from Monteverdi in saying that “music derives its greatest merit from being no more than an auxiliary, the handmaid to the poetry” on page 27.

42 opportunities for spectacular display.”15

Parma’s Teatro Ducale is an example of one Italian theater that put Algarotti’s

recommendations into action. Composer Tommaso Traetta, director of theatres

Guillaume du Tillot, and court poet Carlo Frugoni formed an artistic triumvirate and

began experimenting with producing stage works that were infused with French

elements. They produced four operas modeled on works by Rameau and other

composers that represented a French-Italian synthesis: Ippolito ed Aricia (1759), I

Tindaridi (1760), Le feste d’Imeneo (1760), and Enea e Lavinia (1761). These operas

presented French-inspired choral and danced episodes, flexible scene structures,

multiple ensembles and other innovative features.16 Ippolito ed Aricia is particularly

significant in that it was modeled on Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie and the sea monster

is central to the action. Parma’s Italian reworking will be dealt with in detail in Chapter 4.

Such efforts to include French elements at great financial cost demonstrate the

resources and dedicated personnel necessary for these productions. These progressive

elements were very different from what was typical in dramma per musica and would

provide a starting point for other collaborators to follow in their own experimentations

elsewhere.

The continuous desire to reform Italian dramma per musica reflects changing

tastes and aesthetic values as time went on. Both the Arcadian and the mid-eighteenth century reform efforts looked to French models, the former to spoken drama and the latter to tragédie en musique and its elements of dance, chorus and spectacle. The

15 Margaret R. Butler, “Italian Opera in the Eighteenth Century,” in The Cambridge History of Eighteenth- Century Music, ed. Simon Keefe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 227.

16 Butler, “Italian Opera in the Eighteenth Century,” 227.

43 restoration of supernatural elements as well as shocking subjects including onstage

deaths, murder, battles, suicides, and other taboo plot material coincided with the return

of French components in Italian opera. The appearance of the sea monster as a

spectacular supernatural event contributed to the success and popularity of early forms

of theater, both court-sponsored and commercial. However, it disappeared from the

stage during the reforms implemented by the Arcadian Academy. It resurfaced as an

integral part of the drama in several popular works that exemplify the experimentations

occurring in the middle of the eighteenth century; efforts that would result in works

considered to be French-Italian syntheses.

Visual Spectacle: Maritime Scenes and Machines in Opera and its Predecessors

Andromeda (Venice, 1637) was the first Italian opera produced for public (i.e., commercial) performance. A discussion of the music and text of this influential work forms the basis of Chapter 3, but to understand its significance a brief overview of its

visual spectacle is in order here. From about 1644 on, printed librettos began to indicate

the type of sets used in a work within the text of the drama itself. Later in the century a

comprehensive list of sets began to appear at the beginning of a libretto with

descriptions of the scene repeated at the appropriate points in the action.17 Many

productions used only a limited number of different sets, each of which would appear

several times and thus be reused throughout the drama.18 In the case of Andromeda,

maritime “marine” scenes alternated primarily with forest scenes. The kinds of sets used

fall into a small number of standard types of scenes, represented in a chart derived from

17 Beth L.Glixon and Jonathan E. Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera: The Impresario and His World in Seventeenth-Century Venice (London: Oxford University Press, 2006), 240.

18 Glixon and Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera, 240.

44 Claude-François Ménestrier's Des représentations (1681), which was at that time the

most comprehensive attempt to classify the types of scenes. The standard procedure of

re-using sets several times throughout an opera and having standard types of scenes

reproduced continuously appeared to be part of the regular theatrical activity in the

public theaters of Venice and in Florence for the Medici family.19

The theatrical stage in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was known for its manipulation and depiction of spatial oppositions (vertical vs. horizontal). Stage machines, like scenes, had specific types:

Stage machines also fall into a relatively circumscribed set of basic types (although no contemporary writers categorized them in such a way). The most common provide descents and ascents of the gods, often in or on clouds, which not only moved, but could expand or contract, open up to reveal persons or things inside, or even transform into words or figures. Gods also moved through the air on chariots, frequently drawn by beasts, or in the sea (moving waves being a favored effect), usually in giant shells drawn by sea creatures. Theatrical engineers could imitate a variety of natural phenomena, including storms, the appearance or motion of astronomical bodies, or moving water in various forms. Motion occurred most commonly on or above the stage, but characters could descend below stage as well, or could even fly over the audience, disappearing through the ceiling of the auditorium.20

Various kinds of machines utilized different kinds of motion. Clouds, characters that fly without vehicles, and descents and ascents all provide opportunities for images of vertical movement. In contrast, beasts of the land pulling vehicles with characters, carrying them on their backs, and swimming in the sea provide an opportunity to display horizontal motion.

19 See Arthur Blumenthal, Giulio Parigi's Stage Designs: Florence and the Early Baroque Spectacle (New York: Garland Publishing, 1986). His work on the influence of Bernardo Buontalenti’s theatrical designs on generations of scenographers working for the Medici family, including Giulio Parigi and his pupils is a detailed examination of common scene types that were reused throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by different designers.

20 Glixon and Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera, 246.

45 Particularly relevant for the sea monster was Ménestrier's “Maritime” scene type, one that provided an abundance of horizontal movement. This type usually consists of the sea, ships, galleys, ports, islands, rocks, tempests, shipwrecks, marine monsters, and sea battles.21 Examples of horizontal motion in this scene type include creatures swimming in the sea and sea monsters pulling seashells through the water with characters riding on them. In addition, chariots in processions meant to glorify esteemed members of the Florentine court often featured maritime themes with decorations relating to the sea and creatures from it. These chariots were often designed by scenographers such as Bernardo Buontalenti and Giulio Parigi.

The tradition of maritime scenes in celebrations and festivals reaches back to the sixteenth century, and in order to understand the meaning of the monster to the audiences and to the patrons sponsoring the spectacle, a brief discussion of the history of the practice is in order. In the case of these festivities, the presentation of images of monsters and gods were often an attempt to link the patron family to a manifestation of otherworldly power and prestige. The elaborate outdoor festivals known as fêtes in the sixteenth century were frequently organized and presented by elite personnel, particularly in the wake of a marriage to unite kingdoms. These festivals consisted of various types of entertainment including knights storming enchanted castles, tournaments between kings, and elaborate water festivals that could include voyages through dangerous waters, ballets, or banquets.22 Catherine de’ Medici’s water fête from the Festival at Bayonne in 1565 was one example of this type of festivity (Figure 2-1).

21 Glixon and Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera, 245.

22 Roy Strong, Splendor at Court: Renaissance Spectacle and the Theater of Power (Great Britain: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1973), 133.

46 The Valois Tapestries provide a visual aid as to the nature of activities that occurred at such an event. Roy Strong describes the striking image:

Embarking on a boat constructed like a castle the royal party sailed through a series of canals to an island upon which Catherine had constructed an octagonal banqueting house. As they journeyed they passed various scenes: firstly, there was an attack on a whale led by men in boats which lasted half an hour; secondly, a marine tortoise appeared, upon which sat six musicians as tritons, who struck up music at the sight of Charles IX; thirdly, there was Neptune in a car drawn by sea-horses. Both the Valois Tapestry and Caron’s drawing show these incidents in detail and up until now all had been in the vein of the Fontainebleau festivals of the previous year. Neptune was followed by Arion on a dolphin’s back and three sirens, who combined in loyal songs, saying that now the time was propitious to greet Charles and his sister, the Queen of Spain.23

Strong argues that the attack on the whale was significant in that the whale on the journey symbolized war vanquished before the eyes of the onlooking travelers.24 The war referred to was the internal civil war between the Habsburgs and the Valois, and once the monster was subdued, it became possible for all the deities along the journey to resume the exultation of their patrons. This is only one of many early representations where a threatening and massive sea creature or monster is depicted in battle with humans in a public display of power. The power of the monster represents not only a physically threatening force, but a metaphorical threat to the unification of separate kingdoms through marriage.

An extant etching by Matthias Greuter shows another water fête, that of the

Argonautica, held on the Arno river in November of 1608 (Figure 2-2). This event was in honor of the regal nuptials of Don Cosimo de’ Medici and Maria Magdalena of Austria. In a view of the Arno river from a high vantage point, the etching shows several events in

23 Strong, Splendor at Court, 134-137.

24 Strong, Splendor at Court, 138.

47 detail:

The two bridges are those of Santa Trinita and the Carraia, the latter made over into the fortress of Colchis, the Asian country from which Jason and the Argonauts recovered the Golden Fleece. Between the two bridges, the armada of Colchis (sixteen ships) is followed counter- clockwise by the armada of the Greek Argonauts (sixteen ships, increased by Francesco Cini, the festival creator, from the original one ship, the Argo). They sail around the “Isle” of Colchis, while a whale, a giant turtle, a giant lobster, floating reefs of river gods, and nereids on huge shells inhabit the surrounding waters. Spectators crowd the Ponte Santa Trinita, the grandstands on either side and every available window. Below, Greuter shows us the four formations: the combat of Jason and the dragon on the “Isle”; the division of the “Isle”; the naval battle and attack on the fortress; and the final destruction of the fortress, seen here in flames. Two dozen banks of torches lit the scene as night fell.25

Blumenthal observes that the Medici family frequently promoted itself as the new

Greeks through festivities such as this. In other etchings, Cosimo de’ Medici was depicted as the new Jason in captaining the ship of Jason, for example.26 This water spectacle on the Arno was perhaps the most complicated, recorded in the most detail, and the most impressive put on by the Medici family. Strong notes that the most extraordinary and exotic boats were constructed to bear the knights to the combat.27 But it was certainly not the last, nor the only spectacle that would continue to align the idea of the Medici family as benevolent rulers with the image of Greek heroes, gods, and goddesses.

In the same year that the water spectacle on the Arno river took place, a spectacular stage work was presented at the Medici court: Il Giudizio di Paride. It was presented as another entertainment for the marriage celebration festivities of Maria

25 Arthur Blumenthal, Theater Art of the Medici (New Hampshire: The Trustees of Dartmouth College, 1980), 37.

26 Blumenthal,Theater Art of the Medici, 37.

27 Strong, Splendor at Court, 206.

48 Magdalena of Austria and Cosimo de' Medici, and it contained several elaborate

intermedi. The fourth intermedio, entitled “The Ship of Amerigo Vespucci on the Shores

of the Indies,” was written by Giovan Battista Strozzi and the scene contains a multitude

of detailed marine images:

The scene shows a seascape with rocky reeds, palm trees, a hut, a rhinoceros and a goat(?) on either side—all representing the shores of the Indies in the process of being discovered. Amerigo Vespucci (1458-1512), the Florentine navigator after whom America is named, stands in full armor on the poop of his ship (A), which slowly sails in from the rights; below the prow of the ship, we see the head of a lion marking Vespucci as a Florentine, and behind him stand two sailors. A third rocky reef has risen in the middle of the sea, stage center (B); the female personification of Tranquility (with halycons in her hair) sits on top of this reef, while Zephyrus, husband to Flora (goddess of Florence) and god of the mild west wind, harnesses the two large dolphins which pull this “reef-chariot” (note the coral-filled wheel). The nine nymphs with harps and viols encircling the base of the reef represent the “Gentle Breezes,” and tritons with conch shells and mermaids with coral frolic in the surrounding sea. The front of the stage, unlike the three previous settings, is “broken,” showing water cascading down the front center.28

Blumenthal has commented that this intermedio is one of the most original of the period

because until it, no one had before shown a historical, non-mythical character on stage.

Yet the non-mythical figure Vespucci still functioned as propaganda in favor of the

Medici family; displaying him as the discoverer of America and further solidifying his

Florentine connection with the image of the lion. The image of Zephyrus was also associated with Florence and all these associations contributed to the not-so-subtle references to the power of Medici family. An abundance of marvelous sea creatures, deities, and exotic land animals such as the rhinoceros add to the visual appeal of the scene, as does the “broken” front of the stage suggesting the cascading of the water presumably down into the audience.

28 Blumenthal,Theater Art of the Medici, 51.

49 The final day of spectacular festivities for the 1608 Medici wedding included the

previously discussed triumph of the Argonauts on the Arno river, which Blumenthal has

referred to as the “most grandiose river festival ever held in Florence and the

centerpiece of the wedding.”29 The elaborate and exotic ships displayed in the

Argonautica were part of the spectacle in which the Prince Cosimo himself played

Jason. Blumenthal explains that instead of the one ship for the display, each one of the

Argonauts traveled in a separate ship, and the Tuscan Argonauts battled with the

Colcians on the water.30 Giulio Parigi was responsible for designing most of the ships,

which were paid for by various Florentine aristocrats who also sailed them. Remigio

Cantagallina etched all the designs for the ships, of which there were nineteen total.

The last two etchings of the Argonautica are significant for their visual emphasis

on what appear to be sea monsters or whales and the presence of musicians in each.

The deck is covered with musicians and oarsmen who are dressed as sea tritons.

Drawn by two whales on top of which are tritons with shells, the ship is further

surrounded by dolphins and more tritons. The last etching is similar to the previous one

in the prominent placement of the whale in the forefront of the image (Figure 2-3). Each of the whales in both images also has a rider. Furthermore, both scenes exploit the marvelous images of large and seemingly wild sea creatures to promote the grandiose idea of the Medici family as god-like, larger-than-life rulers who had control not only over their kingdom, but over the wild and untamable creatures of the sea that have the potential for extreme destruction and retribution if provoked (as did the Medici family).

In the seventeenth century, the sea monster was represented with particularly

29 Blumenthal,Theater Art of the Medici, 57.

30 Blumenthal,Theater Art of the Medici, 59.

50 striking visual effects on the stage. These effects were part of a tradition that began in

festivals and celebrations from the previous century, but made their way from a

relatively public realm to a more private one: the theater. In addition to providing an

outlet for spectacle, which was a valued component of drama at the time, the monster

also had allegorical meaning.31 Powerful rulers such as Cosimo de’ Medici often posed

as Greek gods in festivals while subduing, vanquishing, or potentially riding sea

monsters. This served as propaganda to promote the image of the family as powerful,

worthy of admiration, and capable of inducing fear, punishment, and destruction to any

threat that may appear. However, due to the Arcadian reforms in the late seventeenth

century, spectacle would cease to be a highly valued component in Italian dramma per

musica. It would not be until the mid-century reform efforts that spectacle and the sea

monster were reintegrated into the genre. Furthermore, the resurfacing of the monster

would be accompanied by some of the most striking programmatic music heard up to

that time.

31 The allegorical significance of the monster, its relationship to theatrical spectators, and how all these may have changed through time is discussed in more depth in the final chapter of this study.

51

Figure 2-1. Catherine de’ Medici’s water fête from the Festival at Bayonne in 1565, Valois Tapestry, 1580-81

52

Figure 2-2. Water fête, Argonautica, held on the Arno river in November of 1608 by Matthias Greuter

53

Figure 2-3. “Goddesses on the River,” Balthasar Moncornet after Remigio Cantagallina (1600-1668)

54 CHAPTER 3 THE SEA MONSTER IN SIX SETTINGS OF THE ANDROMEDA MYTH

The myth of Perseus and Andromeda is, next to that of Orpheus and Eurydice,

arguably the most familiar and frequently set story in seventeenth and eighteenth-

century opera. It was the subject of the very first commercial opera given in Venice in

1637 at the Teatro S. Cassiano. However, before this production, a lesser-known one of

Andromeda was commissioned for Carnival of 1620 at the Mantuan court.1 Ovid’s

Metamorphoses provides the essential narrative upon which later operas and stage

works were based. After the Venetian Andromeda (Ferrari/Manelli), Pierre Corneille’s

influential Andromède premiered during Carnival of 1650 at the Petit Bourbon in Paris.2

This, the first ever machine-play,3 influenced future compositions centering upon the

same myth including various operatic settings on a libretto by Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-

Santi throughout the eighteenth century, and another setting for Venice at the end of the

century (1796). In fact, Andromède was so popular with the Parisian public that a revival

1 This early version of Andromeda is not as well known due to the fact that an extant libretto was not discovered until 1985 and the existence of this libretto has not been recorded in general bibliographical works and catalogues including specialized catalogues of opera librettos (Sonneck, Stiegler, and Sartori). See Albi Rosenthal, “Monteverdi’s ‘Andromeda’: A Lost Libretto Found,” Music and Letters 66, no. 1 (1985), 1-8. The original libretto is now located in the Albi Rosenthal Collection of Monteverdi and the Birth of Opera, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University (call number: Monteverdi 1). There is no extant score for this production.

2 Wes Williams, “’For Your Eyes Only’: Corneille’s View of Andromeda,” in “Ekphrasis,” ed. Shadi Bartsch and Jaś Elsner, Classical Philology 102, no. 1 (January 2007): 110.

3 Machine-plays, or “théâtre à machines” were French plays, mostly from the middle third of the 17th century, requiring complicated machinery for special effects, such as scenes of hell and descents of gods and goddesses.” See M. Elizabeth C. Bartlet, "Théâtre à machines," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online (Oxford University Press), accessed July 16, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O004973. See also the entry for “Pièce à machines,” by Elizabeth Bartlet as well.

55 opened in 1682, the very same year Jean-Baptiste Lully’s opera Persée, which is based

upon the same myth, premiered.4

In addition to exploring how the sea monster may have been created for these

productions, several other questions are addressed in this chapter. First, what are the

similarities between the Venetian 1637 commercial opera Andromeda, the French

machine-play Andromède, and Lully’s 1682 tragédie en musique, Persée? Second, to

what extent did these three settings of the myth influence the two Italian operatic

productions in the next century examined here? Finally, when considering the amount of

extraordinary visual effects created upon the stage, what kinds of sets and machinery were used? Here I demonstrate that the use of spectacular visual display including advanced stage machinery, costumes and effects were the primary reasons for the success and popularity of the seventeenth-century productions while those from the eighteenth-century focused on events in the plot rather than visual spectacle.

Andromeda (1637) has no extant score and some music for Corneille’s

Andromède is lost, including portions of the music that accompanied the sea monster’s appearance.5 The only extant primary sources of their initial performances are

contemporary descriptions and librettos. Furthermore, the fact that such accounts exist

and describe the visual aspects in such detail supports the observation that in the seventeenth century, horrifying events such as sea monster appearances were presented on the stage primarily through visual means. Horror was only one aspect of le

4 Williams, “’For Your Eyes Only,’” 110. “Quinault and Lully capitalized on its success to introduce the French public to opera, with their version of the story, Persée, first performed in 1682. That same year the Comédie Française capitalized on this success in turn, and produced yet another revival of the now legendary Andromède, with new music by Charpentier, costumes, and a set produced at even greater expense than the original with the addition of a live flying horse.”

5 A choral number from Corneille’s Andromède celebrating the defeat of the monster at the hands of Perseus (“Le monstre est mort”) does remain and will be examined later in this chapter.

56 merveilleux, or “the marvelous,” which contributed to and even justified the use of

spectacular visual effects on stage, particularly through the use of machinery and

dance. This chapter will focus mainly on the visual means of communicating horror to

the audience, but will include a discussion of music where possible, primarily with an

examination of two choral numbers celebrating the monster’s defeat in Corneille’s

Andromède and Lully’s Persée.

Marliani/Monteverdi/(?)’s Andromeda (1620)

In 1618, the Mantuan court made an effort to secure theatrical music from

composer Claudio Monteverdi, who had formerly been employed by the court but was

working in Venice at the time.6 The request was for the composer to set the Andromeda

libretto by the court secretary Hercole Marliani. It was eventually performed in Carnival

1620 under Prince Vincenzo Gonzaga.7 From studying the various letters to and from

Monteverdi and Prince Gonzaga, Tim Carter argues that because of the tight schedule

and the delay in getting music from the composer as well as the sheer length of the

libretto, it is unlikely that Monteverdi wrote the complete score.8 Here I am only

concerned with plot and the similarities between this and later productions based on the

myth.

The plot in Marliano’s libretto involved a third figure named Agenore, who was

also pursuing Andromeda. After Perseus rescues her, their wedding is interrupted by

Agenore, who claims, with Cassiopeia’s support, that he was to be married to

6 Tim Carter, “Monteverdi, Early Opera and a Question of Genre: The Case of Andromeda (1620),” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 137, no. 1 (2012), 1-2.

7 Carter, “Monteverdi, Early Opera and a Question of Genre,” 1. However, Rosenthal writes that there has not been “definite proof that a performance took place.” See Rosenthal, “Monteverdi’s ‘Andromeda,’” 1.

8 Carter, “Monteverdi, Early Opera and a Question of Genre,” 17-18.

57 Andromeda before Perseus arrived.9 However, to avoid confrontation between characters, Marliani has Agenore withdraw his claim on Andromeda’s hand once

Perseus has saved her. Along with potential conflicts between characters, the amount of visual spectacle in the work seems to have been similarly downplayed:

Marliani’s text, like Arianna, is not divided into acts or scenes, and was clearly intended to be performed without a break, although five strophic choruses partition the action in a plausibly classical style. The libretto also adheres to the unity of place and (it seems) time. As a result, and in contrast to what would surely have occurred in an intermedio-type piece, we see neither the monster nor Andromeda chained to her rock, nor indeed Perseo’s entrance on the winged horse Pegasus and his rescue of the unhappy maiden, all of which are narrated by messengers. This in turn raises questions about the intended staging of the work, which could, in principle, have been relatively modest.10

The adherence to the unities of place and time strongly looks forward to the guidelines that would be set forth by the Arcadian Academy at the end of the seventeenth century.

Furthermore, the fact that none of the events which would have warranted visual spectacle (Andromeda chained to the rock while Perseus battled the sea monster while flying through the air on Pegasus and then rescuing her) took place within view of the audience also looks to Arcadian reforms. That these events were narrated by messengers rather than enacted in view of the audience strongly resonates with what would become Italian dramma per musica in the next century. Finally, the important role of the chorus in and around the scene involving Andromeda’s sacrifice to and rescue from the monster foreshadows the same treatment in subsequent Andromeda productions.

9 Carter, “Monteverdi, Early Opera and a Question of Genre,” 20.

10 Carter, “Monteverdi, Early Opera and a Question of Genre,” 23.

58 Ferrari/Manelli’s Andromeda for Venice (1637): Machine and Scene Types

The over twenty-five librettos on the Andromeda subject before 1800 testify to its

enduring popularity.11 Andromeda’s mother, Queen Cassiopeia, dared compare her

daughter’s beauty to the Nereids. In fury, Neptune sends a sea monster to plague the

town. King Cepheus (Andromeda’s father), is told through Zeus’ oracle that the town

could be saved only by sacrificing Andromeda to the monster. Perseus falls in love with

the chained Andromeda and rescues her by turning the monster to stone by exposing it

to Medusa’s head.12 Dale Monson further notes that early versions often included much

of the mythological account, and particularly emphasized the role of the gods in both

punishing and saving Andromeda.13 The convention of the deus ex machina, by which

gods intervened in the affairs of mortals, was well-known in Renaissance and Baroque drama. It was utilized often in order to exploit the visual spectacle created by machinery moving gods and goddesses from heaven to earth and back again upon the stage. The central theme of sacrificing a victim in order to appease the wrath of the gods was also common, and would continue to manifest itself in many operatic works well into the eighteenth century. The sacrifice, as in the Andromeda myth and in other stories, frequently featured the appearance of a monster sent from Neptune.

The description in the libretto for Ferrari and Manelli’s Andromeda (1637), confirms the importance of stage spectacle. Aurora, the first character on stage,

“appeared inside a very beautiful cloud which sometimes grew large and sometimes

11 Dale E. Monson, "Andromeda,” The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online (Oxford University Press), accessed January 14, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O005368. No score for this production is extant.

12 Monson, "Andromeda.”

13 Monson, "Andromeda.”

59 small.”14 The use of another apparatus that was capable of aiding the movement of

characters is indicated by Mercury’s flight and the statement that no other machine was

clearly seen to be supporting him. Further entrances and exits by means of machines

were used with the divinities Neptune, Astraea, and Venus. The visual juxtaposition of

vertical and horizontal motion is represented in act two, where Astraea appears in the

sky and Venus appears on the sea in a shell drawn by swans.15 How such effects were

created upon the stage, what materials were used, and what kinds of stage machinery

existed to perform these spectacular feats remain in two written accounts.

Niccolò Sabbattini (1574–1654), a native Italian architect and engineer, wrote

one such account explaining how stage effects were created. His book, Practica di

Fabricar Scene e Machine ne’Teatri (1638), is a standard work on stage design in early

seventeenth-century Italian theater. Sabbattini did not invent the devices he discussed,

but only recorded their use and existence. The machines he described were well-known

and had been used at least since the late sixteenth century.16 His treatise describes

everything from how to make a sea tempestuous to how to create special lighting

effects, transformations, appearances of sea monsters, dragons, and dolphins, and

disappearances on stage. Sabbattini provides a rather lengthy description of how

characters (such as Aurora) were able to appear in a cloud that seemed to grow and

14 Simon Towneley Worsthorne, Venetian Opera in the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), 25.

15 John Whenham, "Andromeda," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online (Oxford University Press), accessed July 16, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O900134.

16 Bernard Hewitt, The Renaissance Stage: Documents of Serlio, Sabbattini, and Furttenbach, trans. Allardyce Nicoll, John McDowell, and George Kernodle (Miami: University of Miami Press, 1958), 41-42. In McDowell’s introduction to Sabbattini and his work, he mentions that the machines “had long been used” (37).

60 diminish in size.17 He also gives several descriptions of how to lower and move

characters about with or without cloud machines.18

Andromeda featured only two sets that alternated: a sea scape and a woodland

scene.19 Several statements made about these scenes emphasize the naturalness they

exhibited:

When the curtain disappeared one saw the stage entirely as the sea, with a distant view so well constructed of water and cliffs that the naturalness of it (even though not real) created doubt in the onlookers whether they were really in a theater or on an actual seashore.20

The depiction of the woodland scene is similar:

In an instant one saw the scene change from the sea to a forest, which was so natural, that from moment to moment one’s eye moved from that real snowy peak, to that true flowered plain, to that true tangled forest, and to that not-false running water.21

These descriptions are a testament to the level of detail and accuracy that stage

settings, decorations and machinery were able to achieve. The spectators felt

themselves to be removed from the theater, suspended in disbelief, and

transported into the setting.

The Sea Monster in Andromeda (1637)

One of the most terrifying descriptions of Andromeda’s sea monster in all the

settings of the myth considered here is the one from 1637:

17 Bernard Hewitt, The Renaissance Stage, 162-64. This information is found in Chapter 46 entitled “How To Represent A Cloud That Increases In Size As It Descends.”

18 Hewitt, The Renaissance Stage, 168-9. In the chapter titled “How To Lower A Person On To The Stage Without Using A Cloud, So That He May Immediately Walk About And Dance.”

19 This is also verified in Whenham, "Andromeda.”

20 Benedetto Ferrari, Andromeda (Venice, 1637), 5. Translation taken from Beth L. and Jonathan E. Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera: The Impresario and His World in Seventeenth-Century Venice (London: Oxford University Press, 2006), 227.

21 Glixon, Inventing the Business of Opera, 227.

61 Regretfully the palace disappeared and we saw the scene entirely of sea with Andromeda bound to a rock. The sea monster came out. This animal was made with such beautiful cunning that, although not real, he put people in terror. Except for the act of tearing to pieces and devouring he did everything as if alive and breathing. Perseus arrived on Pegasus, and with three blows of a lance and five with a rapier he overthrew the monster and killed it.22

Arguably, the monster in this setting was meant to cause fear, but also to entertain. The

fact that the account describes the “beautiful cunning” with which the animal was made

and which lead to the terror it caused the audience supports the interpretation of the

monster as at once fascinating and terrifying. One portion of Sabbattini’s work deals directly with the depiction of sea monsters (titled “How To Make Dolphins And Other

Marine Monsters Appear To Spout Water While They Swim”):

Dolphins or other marine monsters are made to glide along the sea and to spout water from time to time from their heads in this manner: a dolphin or other monster is made from a piece of painted board, and on the dolphin’s stomach is nailed a 2 foot piece of wood which will be held by the person who is to move it. From underneath the stage the dolphin is moved by this handle in the space between two waves, the head and tail being raised and lowered in imitation of nature.

To make it seem to spout water from its head, underneath the dolphin’s head is placed another man who holds in his hand a cardboard cornucopia fully half a foot across, with a tube at the bottom. In it is put a large quantity of pieces of beaten silver or pounded and pulverized talc. When the dolphin is to spout water, this cornucopia is put behind its head out of sight of the spectators. The man below blows through the end of the cornucopia. In an instant those little pieces of silver will come out of the larger end of the cornucopia and, by means of the reflection of the light, it will truly seem that water comes out of the head of the dolphin. By having a sufficient quantity of pieces of silver, the man below can repeat this operation from time to time.

Let A be the dolphin, and AB be the piece of wood nailed to the stomach of the fish. Let CD be the cornucopia, and the pieces of silver be placed in the wider part of C. To do this, he holds the piece of wood AB at B which will raise and lower the dolphin, in imitation of its natural motion. From time to time the man who holds the cornucopia CD directly under the head

22 Worsthorne, Venetian Opera, 27.

62 of the dolphin will blow in the smaller end D and immediately the little piece of silver will come out at E, F, and G, making the spectators believe that it is water.23

By 1637 this method of portraying a sea creature spouting water would have been

common to theatrical personnel and audiences. It seems likely, therefore, that this

would have been the same method used for the terrifying sea monster in Andromeda.

Pierre Corneille’s Andromède (1650)

The first half of the seventeenth century witnessed significant political turbulence

within the French monarchy. Giulio Mazarin, a French politician of Italian birth, had

advocated Italian opera in France and introduced seven of them to the Parisian public

between 1645 and 1662.24 One of these operas was a sumptuous production of Rossi’s

Orfée, first performed in 1647. John Powell describes the unrest that followed the

production in a growing anti-Italian culture:

In the barrage of political pamphlets that followed, Mazarin, Rossi, and the set designer Giacomo Torelli became targets for the anti-Italian faction. With the public outcry over these expensive, foreign productions, little wonder that plans to mount a French version of Orfeo in a translation by Pierre Corneille were ultimately abandoned in favor of a completely different project—an original machine-play by Corneille on the myth of Perseus and Andromeda.25

This machine-play, Andromède, contained set designs and machines created by

Giacomo Torelli, which had been reused from the set of Orfée.26 A revival of this

production preceded Lully and Quinault’s Persée by just three months.

23 Hewitt, The Renaissance Stage, 178.

24 James R. Anthony, "Mazarin, Cardinal Jules," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed April 15, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/18188.

25 John S. Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal of Gods, Men, and Monsters in Corneille’s Androméde,” unpublished paper, http://www.personal.utulsa.edu/~john- powell/Andromede/HTM_files/Introduction.htm, accessed July 28, 2013.

26 Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.”

63 In the play’s preface, Corneille refers to Ovid’s Metamorphoses as the basis for

his setting, but he also admits that he took liberties with the myth.27 Above all, he sought

to make the plot pleasurable to the audience. In Corneille’s version, Andromeda’s

mother, Cassiope, casts lots in the first act to see which maiden would be the next to be

sacrificed to the sea monster. In Ovid’s version, only Andromeda was to be sacrificed

because of her mother’s hubris toward the Gods.28 Perseus’s character represents

another departure from Ovid; Corneille transformed him into a noble hero who would

never require the hand of a princess before attacking the beast threatening her. In his

setting, Perseus knows of and has feelings for Andromeda before the sea monster’s

attack, while in Ovid he just happened to be flying by at the right moment and made an

agreement with her parents to save her only if he was promised her hand in marriage.

The final and perhaps most significant change is the fact that Perseus flies to the rescue

upon Pegasus, rather than on winged feet, as in Ovid’s version. Apparently this was due

to Corneille not wanting Perseus to be confused with the messenger God, Mercury, who

also had winged feet.29

Although a musical score was provided by Charles d’Assoucy, Corneille made it clear in the play’s preface that scenery and stage machinery constituted the primary

focus.30 Music was considered secondary in importance; it was merely background

27 Per Bjurström, Giacomo Torelli and Baroque Stage Design (Almqvist and Wiksell: Stockholm, 1962), 148.

28 See footnote 10 in Bjurström, Giacomo Torelli, 148.

29 Bjurström, Giacomo Torelli, 148. Bjurström comments that Corneille “seems to have been untroubled by the fact that he himself confused Perseus with Bellerophon, who rode Pegasus in the fight with the Chimaera.”

30 Powell has written that “Pierre Corneille’s Andromède was the first official attempt to unite the arts in a French mythological machine play. Corneille’s tragedy bore a superficial resemblance to Italian opera in

64 accompanying the machines and drowning out their noise:

Each act, as well as the prologue, has its own individual set and at least one flying machine, with musical accompaniment that I employed only to satisfy the ears of the spectators while their eyes are attracted by the comings and goings of the machines or something which prevents them from paying attention to whatever the actors are saying, as in the combat between Perseus and the monster…[The machines] are not incidental ornaments in this tragedy; they form the crux and the dénouement of the plot. They are such an essential part of it that not one of them could be omitted without destroying the entire edifice…The beauty of the production, if you will, makes up for the lack of beautiful poetry, which you will not find in as great abundance here as in Cinna or Rodogune, because my main goal in this case was to satisfy the eye through brilliance and diversity of the spectacle, and not to move the intellect with powerful thought, or the heart with tender emotions. This is not to say that I avoided or neglected any such opportunities; but there was so little of it that I prefer to admit that this play is for the eyes only.31

Each act has its own stage setting and all but one of the sets were reused from the production of Orfée.32 The only set designed specifically for this production was the final

one, which was apparently the most magnificent and visually appealing due to Torelli’s

use of color (according to Corneille’s specific praise). As for the scene containing the

battle with the sea monster in act 3 (“A Landscape With Cliffs and Sea”), Per Bjurström

speculates that the cliffs in the set could easily have come from the underworld scene in

Orphée, while the sea was most likely from the third act where, Bacchus dispatches his

Bacchantes to seek revenge upon the protagonist.

its choice of subject, in its allegorical prologue, in its use of elaborate sets, staging, and abundance of machines, and in its combination of vocal solos, duets, choruses, and instrumental music. Andromède, however, was conceptually different from Italian opera, for its author strictly limited the role of music.” See John S. Powell, Music and Theatre in France: 1600-1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 228.

31 Catherine Cessac, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, trans. E. Thomas Glasow (Amadeus Press: Oregon, 1995), 88.

32 Bjurström, Giacomo Torelli,156.

65 Revival of Corneille’s Andromède (1682)

Not to be out-done by the Académie Royale, which was performing Jean-

Baptiste Lully’s Persée, the Comédie-Francaise revived Andromède in 1682 with an

extravagant amount of machinery and visual spectacle. No expense was spared for this

new production, and nearly 13,000 livres were incurred for scenery, machines and a

new musical score by Marc-Antoine Charpentier.33 The numerous flying machines for

each act required enormous counterweights—some 3400 pounds of lead were melted to meet the demand. Machines were then tested for three days under Dufort, who acted as engineer and machinist while trying to out-do Torelli’s original designs. Furthermore,

the spectators who usually sat on the stage during the performance were prohibited

from doing so because of the space required for the extravagant mechanical effects.

Arguably the most surprising effect in the play was the appearance of Pegasus; a

live horse who flew through the air in act 3 as the sea monster prepared to devour

Andromeda. A contemporary account describes how this was accomplished:

A person who has seen a performance of this revival has informed us how they managed to make the animal appear war-like. He was subjected to a strict fast before the performance, and this gave him a big appetite. When it was time to bring him out, a stagehand in the wings waved a basket of oats. The famished horse neighed, stamped his hoofs and reacted just as he was supposed to. Incidentally, it was Sieur Dauvilliers who played the role of Perseus. The stage business with the horse greatly contributed to the success of that tragedy. Everyone eagerly watched to see the animal’s remarkable behavior, which became better with every performance.34

Indeed, the horse was such a star that his name was entered into the theater registers

33 Cessac, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, 86. Powell argues that despite Corneille’s well-known attitude that music was an extraneous ornament to accompany machine and gods, music in fact plays a more significant dramaturgical role in the production than Corneille is willing to admit; music (or lack of it) actually distinguishes the realm of the gods from the world of men and monsters. See “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.”

34 Cessac, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, 87.

66 along with the names of other actors in the production.35

The Sea Monster in Andromède

Although a live, flying horse is hard to top in terms of spectacle, the battle

between Perseus and the sea monster was equally extraordinary and is the focal point

of several contemporary descriptions of the production. An engraving by Chauveau

reveals a fantastic spectacle, with Perseus diving on his winged-horse toward the

threatening monster with jaws agape below (Figure 3-1). According to Corneille's stage

directions, the chorus cheering him on sings "Courage, child of the Gods! She is your

prize; | Never has a lover or warrior | Seen his head wreathed | With so fine a myrtle or

so lovely a laurel."36 In the 1682 production, a choral lament for the Ethiopian people

("Répétez nos tristes accents") was sung as the monster slowly approached

Andromeda through the waves.37 No doubt the tension of the monster’s creeping

advance and Andromeda’s impending doom would have had the audience on the edge

of their seats.

In the first production from 1650, Andromeda’s mother, Cassiopeia, "sees this

horrible monster, which advances little by little toward her grief-stricken daughter, by

moving not only its body but all of its parts along the great path that it makes."38 The

1682 livret reports: “As it approaches, it is seen to grow larger, and soon one is able to

35 Cessac, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, 87. There are extant records indicating that he was well cared for, including a rather amusing account of an incident where he ate too much sugar and was given three enemas.

36 Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.”

37 Unfortunately the music for this particular portion does not survive. See John Powell, Liner notes, Intermedes d’Andromede, Le Ballet de Polieucte, Compact Disc. Gaudeamus, 2002.

38 Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.” Quoted in La Gazzette, 1650.

67 make out its horrible shape: this scaly monster, armed with sharp claws and fins, comes toward the unhappy Andromeda to swallow her up.” The monster has also been

described as “scaly, armed with claws and with bony protrusions.”39 The end of the

scene and the triumph of Perseus was particularly effective:

In the printed play, the chorus begins to sing as Perseus engages the sea monster in battle. Indeed, it would seem that the power of music actually aids Perseus in defeating the monster. According to the 1650 livret, "the people, to encourage him also on their part, enliven him with these words that they sing during his battle. . . ." Upon freeing Andromeda, Perseus calls upon the winds to spirit her away; he then executes a caracole (a half turn to right or left performed by a horse and rider) on Pegasus, and the chorus expresses its joy in a victory song while Perseus flies off after Andromeda.40

Powell clearly intended this scene as an example to support his view: that music had a

significant role in the dramaturgy. He notes that the music seems to aid the hero in

defeating the monster, but despite the fact that Charpentier’s 1682 score preserves

music for eight out of nine of Corneille’s original choruses, music is noticeably absent

from the scene of the battle with the sea monster. Music was used to create a contrast

between the upper and lower worlds: “In the heavens we have the innately musical

gods, and in the depths of the sea a decidedly unmusical sea monster.”41

Powell believes the lack of music in the sea monster’s scene results from the fact

that there was already sound emanating from the acrobatics and machinery onstage.

Nina Treadwell argues the same point for a similar scene in a work from almost one

hundred years earlier: the 1589 Interludes for La pellegrina. The famous intermedio,

containing a horrifying infernal scene in the fourth act, is complete with furies, nudity,

39 Cessac, Marc-Antoine Charpentier, 91.

40 Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.”

41 Powell, “Music and the Scenic Portrayal.”

68 deformity, monstrosity, and naked children (representing souls) being devoured by

Lucifer (a gruesome three-headed monster). No music was composed for this scene:

“the scene functioned much like the calculated use of silence in contemporary film: the audible horrors of hell were left to the spectator's own vivid imagination, prompting her to plumb the depths of her own worst fears.”42 The contemplation of hell with a sonic

backdrop of silence in this interlude foreshadows the dramatic use of silence practiced

by eighteenth-century opera composers in depicting similar horrifying or tragic

moments. This interpretation links the two scenes: horrifying demonic underworld with

devil consuming children and sea monster with gaping jaws rising from below the

surface of the water in order to devour the sacrifice. Both are silent; they are refused

music, perhaps because of their “otherworldly” nature, and perhaps because monsters

have traditionally been regarded as lying outside natural harmony and order.

Although only some of Charpentier’s music from the scene with the monster

survives, a chorus titled “Le monstre est mort” (“The monster is dead”) is extant. John

Powell clarifies the significance of the chorus in the scene’s triumphant conclusion:

The scene changes in the third act to a barren landscape with high cliffs bordering the sea. Two Winds are seen tying Andromeda to the foot of a rock, while the chorus of Ethiopians looks on from the shore and sings a lament (Charpentier’s music unfortunately has not survived). The Queen, in despair, vows to throw herself into the sea. The sea-monster approaches, but at that instant Perseus appears in the sky on his winged steed Pegasus. As the chorus urges the hero on in his battle Perseus slays the monster; he then frees Andromeda, and flies away on Pegasus. The Ethiopian people sing a chorus of victory (Le monstre est mort, crions victoire) in which they acknowledge that Perseus, not Phineus, is the man worthy of Andromeda.43

42 Nina Treadwell, Music and Wonder at the Medici Court: The 1589 Interludes for La pellegrina (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), 126.

43 Powell, Liner notes, Intermedes d’Andromede.

69 The chorus sings the words, “The monster is dead, let us cry victory! Victory all, victory

with full voice. Let our fields and woods resound with nothing but his glory.”44 Given that

the chorus of Ethiopians is celebrating the victory in battle with the monster and in

winning the heart of Andromeda, this number is a prime example of the allegorical link

between Perseus’s victories and those of Louis XIV. 45 Lully’s Persée contains a

strikingly similar choral number with the same title.

Lully/Quinault’s Persée (1682): Monsters and Heroes as Political Propaganda

The character Perseus has traditionally been aligned with many powerful

authority figures in pamphlets spread as propaganda, not the least of which was Louis

XIV of France. As the valiant demigod who saves Andromeda from a sea monster in the

classical Greek tale, the image of Perseus is one of a hero who will go to any lengths,

battle any creature, and take on endless foes to keep Andromeda and the nation safe

from whatever monsters plague the day. Andromeda herself has long been recognized

as the victim of an almost-sacrifice to a terrible sea monster in the famous display that

has predated modern theatrical versions by a history of depictions in visual iconography.

But if Perseus is the hero and Andromeda and her people are the victims, what shall we

make of the third entity in this famous scene? What does the monster represent in this

narrative?

Within the context of seventeenth-century France and its politics, if it is agreed

that the hero is allegorically linked to the present king or sovereign ruler while the one to

44 Powell, Liner notes, Intermedes d’Andromede.

45 Interpretations of what the sea monster meant or how contemporary audiences interpreted it as well as the allegorical link between Louis XIV and mythological heroes is discussed further in the last chapter titled “Meaning of the Monster.”

70 be saved, Andromeda, is the nation of France and its people, I argue that this would suggest that the monster represents a threat to that nation, or in other words, a foreign

“Other.” This argument is partially supported in Chapter 2 by the description of the history of the use of water creatures and deities in outdoor festivals as propaganda to promote the ideals of wealthy patrons, particularly the Medici family starting in the late sixteenth century. Here I will provide further evidence by examining two similar choral numbers that accompany the defeat of the sea monster in two different theatrical productions based upon the myth: Pierre Corneille’s machine-play Andromède and

Philippe Quinault’s opera Persée. The musical displays of propaganda in these works reveal that in the narrative’s climactic scene, the chorus functions in an allegorical capacity as the spectators who were witness to the hero’s (i.e. the King’s) performance of power in publicly defeating the monster (foreign “Other”).

Although only some of Charpentier’s music from the scene with the monster survives, there remains an extant chorus titled “Le monstre est mort” (“The monster is dead”). The chorus sings, “The monster is dead, let us cry victory! Victory all, victory with full voice. Let our fields and woods resound with nothing but his glory.”46 Often interpreted as a reflection of the King of France, Perseus’s victories reflect his triumphs in both love and war. Given that the chorus of Ethiopians is celebrating the victory in battle with the monster and in winning the heart of Andromeda, this musical number can be considered as a musical representation of the allegorical link between Perseus’s victories and those of Louis XIV. A similar choral number which is even more obviously linked to France’s King is found in Jean-Baptiste Lully and Philippe Quinault’s 1682 opera Persée.

46 Powell, Liner notes, Intermedes d’Andromede.

71 Louis XIV reportedly commented to Lully that “he had never seen an opera

whose music was more uniformly beautiful throughout.”47 This compliment was directed

at the new production of Persée. Lully himself solidified the link between the King and the Greek hero when he wrote “In Perseus, I discovered the image of Your Majesty” in the dedication of the printed score (1682 Ballard edition).48 Furthermore, Louis XIV had

chosen the subject of the opera, and the myth of Perseus was closely associated with

the royalty of the Ancien Régime for several years, as is indicated by the vast number of

revivals of the opera for royal weddings and celebrations. The legend of Perseus was

widely recognized as an image of the hero-king who is blessed by the gods with

superhuman powers. As Buford Norman has written, “…one can easily see how Persée

could serve as a ‘mirror’ in which Louis XIV could see—and show—himself as he liked

to be seen.”49

The action involving the sea monster scene takes place in act 4 across scenes 5,

6, and 7 of Persée. In the libretto, the very first image one encounters is a striking

portrayal of Perseus flying through the air, noticeably without Pegasus, while the sea

monster threatens Andromeda, who remains chained to the rocks in the center of the

illustration. The eponymous hero kills the monster in the last two scenes and the

Ethiopians rejoice with songs of love, including a joyous rendition of “The monster is

dead.” In the score, the end of the D minor chorus of Tritons follows Persée’s rescue of

Andromeda and the beginning of the celebration chorus. In what can be considered a

47 Lois Rosow, “Introduction,” Journal of Seventeenth-Century Music 10, no. 1 (2004): par. 1.4; http://www.sscm-jscm.org/v10/no1/introduction.html.

48 Rosow, “Introduction.”

49 Buford Norman, Touched by Graces: The Libretti of Philippe Quinault in the Context of French Classicism (Birmingham: Summa Publications, 2001), 244.

72 programmatic depiction of repeatedly descending melodic lines, the Tritons admit defeat

and prepare to descend into the waves. According to the libretto, the waves grow calm.

Several similarities exist between the two versions of the choral number “The

monster is dead” in Andromède and Persée. Dramatically, both are celebrating

Perseus’s victory over the monster and singing his praises. Musically, both are homorhythmic statements beginning with three quarter notes that start on beat two after a rest on beat one of the measure. Both have instrumental episodes that are gigue-like in nature. As for differences, Persée’s chorus is preceded by the D minor chorus of

Tritons, so the sudden contrast with the move to D major makes the joyousness of the key change all the more dramatic. Perhaps the biggest difference is in the reiterations of the refrain in each excerpt. In Androméde, the refrain is only stated once, according to the libretto. However, in Persée, the chorus functions as a repeating refrain that surrounds the commentary of other characters. In scene seven, Andromeda,

Cassiopeia and Cepheus sing the refrain first (“The monster is dead. Perseus is the victor. Perseus is invincible”), then the chorus of Ethiopians repeat it as Perseus unties

Andromeda.50 The refrain is then repeated after an interjection by Cassiopeia and

Cepheus followed by Andromeda and Perseus.51 The repetition of this refrain at least

three times, along with the dotted rhythms that characterize much of the music in a

50 Rosow, “Lully’s Musical Architecture: Act IV of Persée,” Journal of Seventeenth-Century Music 10, no. 1 (2004): http://www.sscm-jscm.org/v10/no1/rosow.html.

51 This is not the only scene that appears to be unified by a repeating statement. Caroline Wood has noted that in Act IV, scene iv, “the whole scene is unified by three statements of a short duet. Cassiope and Cephée, the parents of Andromède, are pleading for her life. Between the statements of the duet, each parent has a recitative; the effect is of a rondeau structure.” See Caroline Wood, Music and Drama in the Tragédie en Musique, 1673-1715: Jean-Baptiste Lully and His Successors (New York: Garland Publishing, 1996), 94. For more on the musical architecture of this scene, see Rosow, “Lully’s Musical Architecture: Act IV of Persée.”

73 French-overture fashion further supports the interpretation of this choral number as

being allegorically linked with Louis XIV and his own victories.

Louis XIV was certainly not the only authority figure to be compared to the hero

Perseus, although this tradition had a peculiarly French iconographical history and even had a name: Persée français. In a woodcut from the end of the sixteenth century, Henri

IV is also depicted as Perseus. As the accompanying text explains, he is pursuing the

Spaniard “waves” out of France in an attempt to secure the unity of his newly acquired kingdom. As Wes Williams has observed of this image, Andromeda is positioned in such a way that she “is able to see Perseus, with Henri IV’s goatee beard and pineapple hat, perform his heroic slaughter of the foreign enemy.”52 The same imagery was later

used when French Protestants laid siege to La Rochelle in 1628 and the Catholic king,

Louis XIII, was depicted in propaganda pamphlets as Perseus flying to rescue

Andromeda, who allegorically represented the town, populace, church, etc. Whether in

“talking paintings” or performed musical propaganda, the image of the sovereign as hero and his struggle against the monster was a public display of the monarch’s power—the power to rule, the power to keep the people and the nation safe, and the power to vanquish all foreign threats.

As easy as it is to identify Louis XIV with the hero Perseus, and despite the fact that the genre of tragédie en musique identified with the King as the touchstone of his taste and reflection of his power, the roles and imagery in the drama were less tangibly

52 Wes Williams, “’For Your Eyes Only,’” 114.

74 linked to the King.53 Buford Norman argues that the picture was more complex than a

literal reading in which the heroes on stage represent the monarch provides:

As Jean-Marie Apostolidès suggests in Le Prince sacrifié, the tragédie lyrique should be understood not as a direct reflection of current events but as part of a changing “episteme” and “esthémé.” Any ideological interpretation of the Quinault-Lully operas must take into account the much larger issue of changing social, political, economic and esthetic systems in the 1670s and 1680s, in particular the relation between king and hero as both capitalism and the absolute monarchy of Louis XIV threatened the traditional feudal system…The heroic image that Louis and his court would like to present is thus present, but so are some of the problems already apparent by the end of the second decade of his personal reign, such as the dissatisfaction of many nobles and the struggles for succession to various European thrones.54

The genre was meant to please the King, but it also catered to a public whose taste was

influenced by the feudal ideal of the aristocracy and by the increasing presence of

intelligent women.55 Yet Georgia Cowart has argued that Lully and Quinault’s operas, particularly in the 1680s, emphasize patriarchal power at the expense of their female characters. She gives the examples of Isis and Perséphone, in which abductions and rape are seen as positive symbols for imperial domination.56 Tragédie en musique

clearly presented military and love conquests and the concepts of love and pleasure

were at the heart of the genre’s artistic conception.57 However, after 1677 and

increasingly in the 1680s, themes that dominate Quinault’s libretti are the virtue and

wisdom of Louis XIV, rather than his military or love conquests. This is exemplified in the

53 Georgia J. Cowart, The Triumph of Pleasure: Louis XIV and the Politics of Spectacle (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2008), 123.

54 Norman, Touched by the Graces, 33-34.

55 Norman, Touched by the Graces, 34.

56 Cowart, The Triumph of Pleasure, 124.

57 Cowart, The Triumph of Pleasure, 125.

75 prologue to Persée, where the monarch has brought peace to France and orders La

Fortune to be at peace with La Vertu.58 Perhaps this shift reflects Louis XIV’s secret

marriage to Mme. De Maintenon and his own turn from marital infidelity to monogamous

piety and the religious austerity that accompanied the increased political control in his

later years, as Cowart has suggested.59 In any case, the later Lully/Quinault operas emphasize the dangers of the excess of love. It is certainly true that, as Norman writes, an understanding of a theatrical work is limited by interpreting it only in the sense of reflecting the power of the monarch. However, this interpretation should not be

disregarded, since theater in general can almost always tell us something about the

culture that sponsors it as well as the patrons who fund it.

A Contemporary Production of Persée (2004) and its Sea Monster

In an era when Baroque opera is rarely performed, Lully’s masterpiece was given a production in 2000 by the Toronto opera company Opera Atelier.60 A video recording

of this production’s 2004 revival is now available. This is the first video of an opera by

Lully produced for widespread commercial distribution; it therefore merits a discussion

of some of the modern staging techniques, particularly the sea monster’s appearance.61

Antonia Banducci compares the sets, costumes, machinery and performances of

the actors in the 2000 performance to elements of performance practice from French

Baroque opera. The production’s sets aligned with French opera conventions: “The

58 Norman, Touched by the Graces, 51.

59 Cowart, The Triumph of Pleasure, 134.

60 The company consisted of directors Marshall Pynkoski and Jeannette Zingg, along with the Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra and Chamber Choir under conductor Hervé Niquet.

61 Lois Rosow, “A Video of Lully’s Persée,” Journal of Seventeenth-Century Music 12, no. 1 (2004): http://www.sscm-jscm.org/v12/no1/rosow.html.

76 illusion of a series of flats painted to resemble a palace, a garden, and an interior

courtyard changed in seconds from one to the other before our eyes during the entr’acte

music.”62 Mercury and Venus actually descended to the stage upon clouds, while

Andromeda and Perseus ascended up to the heavens in the finale of the production,

therefore fulfilling the deus ex machine convention. However, some modifications were

made, specifically the flight of Perseus. Instead of having a machine lift Perseus and aid

him in flying, dance was substituted; a more practical solution than an extravagant and

expensive machine (for either Perseus or his horse):

No machine propelled Persée through the air, however, when Mercure’s gift of winged sandals allowed the hero to fly. Rather, Persée simulated flight with marvelous high-flying grand jetés, a feat accomplished via a powerful dancing double. The dancer (not identified in the program, perhaps to avoid giving away the theatrical deceit) substituted for the singer so seamlessly that Persée’s ability to soar above the stage came as a complete surprise. I found this artfully contrived alternative to machinery, although modern in conception and execution, entirely in keeping with the spirit of the opera.63

The production was evidently representative of what the original production must

have been like in set design, performances and operatic convention. But one of its most unsatisfying aspects is the appearance of the sea monster (Figure 3-4). Banducci

describes the monster, which in fact looks more like a dragon than a sea serpent (as the

2004 video shows): “The ‘serpent’ galumphed across the stage with a big grin on its

face, looking entirely as though it had mistaken this production for Mozart’s The Magic

Flute.”64 She adds that the director, Pynkoski, revealed that this dragon (a particular

62 Antonia L. Banducci, “The Opera Atelier Performance (Toronto, 2000): The Spirit of Lully on the Modern Stage,” Journal of Seventeenth-Century Music 10, no. 1 (2004): par. 8.1; http://www.sscm- jscm.org/v10/no1/banducci.html.

63 Banducci, “The Opera Atelier Performance.”

64 Banducci, “The Opera Atelier Performance.”

77 favorite of his) had indeed premiered in Opera Atelier’s 1991 production of that Mozart

opera. Banducci’s complaint about the sea monster’s less-than-terrifying appearance echoes one from 1747, when a spectator of a court theater revival of Persée had stated:

It has to be admitted (and I have said as much to our whole province) that the Persées have improved themselves beyond recognition, and yet, by an incredible contrast, the monsters no longer arouse any interest. They have nothing to characterize them, nothing which in former times used to cause that delicious feeling we call goose flesh.

People will reply, perhaps, that this decline to which I take exception is quite immaterial, that monsters no longer attract the attention of the public, who regard them as mere sleight of hand (tour de gobelet). Yet I maintain—and several ladies of [Bourgogne] agree with me—that one never sees monsters without experiencing emotion. What potential to stir up violent feelings in the spectator’s heart if the monsters were as they should be! But what kind of a monster is it which, with two paws about the size of my fan, tries to terrify an Andromeda who is prepared to laugh in its face? … … Every sea monster, for example, should be at least 18 feet long by 6 feet wide with an aperture in its head that could gobble up a twenty-year-old; how ridiculous a monster seems if it is reduced to snapping like a common guard dog. That is truly ignoble.65

As disappointing as the sea monster was in these two productions, the practice of re-

using set designs, costumes, machinery, and monsters from previous productions was

standard not just at the Paris Opéra but throughout Italy as well. (Recall the set designs

and machines by Torelli reused in the French production of Corneille’s Andromède from

the earlier production Orphée.) In this sense, the contemporary video of Persée falls

within historic precedent in reusing the monster from the earlier production of The Magic

Flute.

65 Banducci, “The Opera Atelier Performance.”

78 Eighteenth-Century Andromedas

Eighteenth-century Italian settings of the Andromeda myth would prove different

in several ways from their seventeenth-century predecessors. By the end of the

seventeenth century, opera seria began to take shape from the Arcadian Academy’s

efforts to reform Venetian opera. Believing that the subject matter had strayed from that

of its original conception, the Academy sought to bring it back in line with classical

Greek drama as set forth in Aristotle's Poetics.66 The works of French neo-classical

dramatists Pierre Corneille and Jean Racine provided a foundation. As a result of

aligning opera with French classical theatre, certain conventions that contributed to an

emphasis on aesthetic ideals became a part of the genre and they ensured that

productions would focus upon the mental and poetic dimensions of the action. These

conventions include the use of stories based on Greek or Latin texts, a central theme of

love versus duty, a cast of two pairs of lovers surrounded by others, three acts

consisting of arias (where the action would stop) and recitative (action would

commence), the lieto fine, and observance of the Aristotlelian unities of time, place, and

action to contribute consistency and verisimilitude.67 Preferred plots were based on

ancient history in contrast to mythology and any spectacle was to be natural or man-

made. Shocking plot elements like onstage deaths, murders, or even combat were

rejected as offending the rules of good taste—or, bienséance.68 Adherence to these

66 Marita P. McClymonds and Daniel Heartz, "Opera seria," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed January 28, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/20385.

67 This is by no means an exhaustive list. See Reinhard Strohm, Dramma per Musica: Italian Opera Seria of the Eighteenth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997).

68 Marita McClymonds, “La morte di Semiramide ossia La vendetta di Nino and the Restoration of Death and Tragedy to the Italian Operatic Stage in the 1780s and 90s,” in Atti del XIV Congresso della Societa

79 conventions was a necessity because of the demand for new works and the very brief

amount of time that went into constructing them and rehearsing before performances.

Librettos by Pietro Metastasio were emblematic of the opera seria genre and its

principles.

Cigna-Santi’s Andromeda for Turin (1755)

Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-Santi was the house poet at Turin’s Teatro Regio from the

mid-1750s through the 1770s.69 As Margaret Butler has demonstrated, his tenure at the

Regio coincided with a period during which the genre of dramma per musica underwent

a profound change.70 Furthermore, Cigna, who has been characterized as a

Metastasian imitator, “incorporated innovative principles and experimental

characteristics into the standard framework of the dramma per musica.”71 These

innovations reveal that he was not only aware of, but participated in the transformation

of the genre in the middle of the eighteenth century.

As his first known libretto, he set the Andromeda myth in a particularly popular

variant which introduced another suitor for Andromeda’s hand, thus creating a love

conflict between several characters. The number of settings by different composers attests to its popularity.72 Cigna-Santi follows Metastasian principles in several aspects

Internazionale di Musicologica, eds. Angelo Pompilio, Donatelia Restani, Lorenzo Bianconi, F. Alberto Gallo (Torino: 1990), 285.

69 Margaret Ruth Butler, Operatic Reform at Turin's Teatro Regio: Aspects of Production and Stylistic Change in the 1760s (Lucca: Libreria musicale italiana, 2001), 30.

70 Margaret Butler, “Innovation in the Librettos of Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-Santi,” Miscellanea di Studi 5 (Torino: Centro Studi Piedmontesi Instituto per I Beni Musicali in Piedmonte, 2003), 141.

71 Butler, “Innovation in the Librettos of Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-Santi,” 141.

72 Dale Monson, “Andromeda,” The New Grove Dictionary of Opera. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed September 8, 2013,

80 of the work. First, the cast list contains only six human characters: Ceseo, Andromeda,

Perseus, Euristeo, Erminia, and Timante. The absence of gods or goddesses in the cast

already demonstrates a significant lack of supernatural intervention in the drama.

Secondly, the work contains two pairs of lovers (Andromeda/Perseus and

Euristeo/Erminia) and two ancillary characters (Ceseo and Timante) and there are no

choruses. The third aspect is the fact that it has three acts with structures that alternate

between recitative and arias and a lieto fine where Andromeda and Perseus marry.

Significantly, the description of the drama in the libretto makes it clear that the purpose

of the action is not primarily the rescue of Andromeda, but her marriage to Perseus. Yet

the monster scene was nonetheless spectacular, as Margaret Butler observes:

The high point of the spectacle in Andromeda occurs in the middle of act II, when a sea monster is slain in interpretive pantomime. In Cigna’s dramatic and descriptive narration of the event, Andromeda, chained to a rock in the middle of the raging sea, is attacked by the monster. During the sinfonia accompanying the action, ministers and royal guards are made to flee by Perseus’s followers, who attack the great creature. They are assisted by another group of his attendants, who kill the monster by shooting him with arrows; Perseus frees Andromeda and the sea becomes calm.73

That Perseus slays the beast assisted by his followers and unaided by the powers of

Medusa’s severed head indicates extraction of yet another supernatural element.74

Furthermore, the mention of a sinfonia during the battle makes sense given that in other

http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O005368.Cigna-Santi’s version was set by at least four composers: Cocchi (1755, Turin), Fiorillo (1770, Kassel), Colla (1772, Turin) and Paisiello (1774, Milan). Butler also writes that the decision to mount two productions of the same libretto within two decades testifies to its popularity with Turinese audiences, and this is confirmed by the high number of performances: 22 performances in 1755 and 25 in 1772. See Butler, Operatic Reform at Turin's Teatro Regio, 205 (footnote 1).

73 Butler, “Innovation in the Librettos of Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-Santi,” 153-154.

74 Unfortunately, while some of Cocchi’s music including recitative and arias are extant from this production, the sinfonia accompanying this scene is not.

81 contemporary productions, instrumental music was often used to cover up the noise of

the stage machinery. The use of instrumental music during these climactic scenes

would continue into the next century, but the descriptive musical devices employed by

the orchestra would enable it to achieve a central role within the drama.

Bertati/Zingarelli’s Andromeda for Venice (1796)

The great opera center of Venice represents both the beginning and the end of

Andromeda’s seventeenth and eighteenth-century history: Giovanni Bertati and Niccolò

Antonio Zingarelli’s Andromeda of 1796 both contrasts with and resembles its predecessors. While it was customary throughout the century to have settings of opera seria consisting of three acts, in this late setting Bertati gave the melodrama only two.75

Another significant difference is in the cast list: the 1796 cast is quite minimalistic,

including only three characters: Andromeda, Perseus and Phineus. The libretto is only

eighteen pages, and there is very little stage direction in it other than in the sea monster

scene which begins at the end of act one and continues into act two. In fact, this is the

only place with extensive stage directions in the libretto:

The curtain falls, followed by a Symphony, which expresses a contrary wind and great storm at sea, during which it is supposed that the fight with Perseus to free Andromeda from the Sea Monster occurs.

Open to a magnificent location of the palace, where you can see the sea. In the midst of the waves from one side you see a rock where Andromeda is tied, and a little farther away the form of the petrified Monster. The curtain rises, we see Perseus on the winged horse in the act of withdrawing the shield, at the sight of which the rest of the Monster, petrified, falls/crumbles, and hangs at the middle. Running to free

75 Bertati was one of the first librettists to write texts with innovations such as the two act structure and the introduzione. See John Platoff, "Bertati, Giovanni," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed February 5, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/02898.

82 Andromeda, who is still chained to the rock, he brings her down. All the Pantomime must be accompanied by music.76

The libretto’s preface reveals that Bertati placed great emphasis on the rescue of

Andromeda from the sea monster.77 While the mid-eighteenth century setting by Cigna-

Santi highlighted the marriage of Perseus and Andromeda as the focal point, this late eighteenth-century setting not only emphasizes the rescue from the monster, but also makes no attempt to forge any romantic connection between Andromeda and her

rescuer. Evidently, some sort of instrumental music accompanied the battle between

Perseus and the monster. This makes sense due to the practice of using instrumental

music to mask the noise of the stage machinery. By the time the curtain rises for the

second act, the battle is over and the monster has been petrified by the head of

Medusa. Finally, it is worth noting how the monster meets its demise in this late version.

While Cigna-Santi’s version made it clear that no magical weapons were used to

destroy the monster, Bertati’s version, in adopting the petrifying stare of Medusa’s head,

hearkens back to the demonstrations of le merveilleux from those seventeenth-century

productions based on the Andromeda myth. This is significant in that it suggests the re-

integration of supernatural and magical elements into Italian opera seria by the end of

the eighteenth century, which was likely due to mid-century reform efforts and the

incorporation of French elements.

76 Giovanni Bertati and Nicola Zingarelli. n.d. Andromeda. Melodramma in due atti a tre personaggi. Rappresentato nell' anno 1796 nel Teatro di S.E. el Signor conte Carlo di Breunner ambasciatore Cesareo regio presso la serenissima repubblica di Venezia.

77 Bertati and Zingarelli. n.d. Andromeda.

83 Conclusions

The eighteenth-century settings of the Andromeda myth have fewer characters,

less spectacle, fewer supernatural events, and a greater emphasis on the plot, poetry,

and music than their seventeenth-century counterparts. Furthermore, there appears to

be less emphasis on the scenes featuring the sea monster according to the accounts

found in the librettos. In productions such as Corneille’s Andromède, machinery and

visual spectacle were of primary importance and any accompanying music was

secondary, according to Corneille himself. In some cases, the absence of surviving

music has led some scholars to speculate that the noise of the machines was enough

for the scene, as Powell has done. However, it appears that a common musical trait in

and around scenes featuring a sea monster includes a choral number where members

of the village, in this case Ethiopians, lament the dreadful approach of the creature or

celebrate its defeat. This is seen in both Andromède and Persée in the chorus “Le monstre est mort.”

Eighteenth-century settings of the libretto reflect Pietro Metastasio’s structure, subject matter, and conventions which were in alignment with the Arcadian Academy’s reforms. In Cigna-Santi’s libretto, there are no supernatural characters like gods or goddesses and thus far less need for machines to carry them to and from heaven, there are no choruses, and the action is focused on Andromeda’s marriage to Perseus, rather than her rescue from the sea monster. Finally, the death of the monster is brought about not through supernatural means (i.e. Medusa’s head), but with a sword. Bertati’s libretto from 1796, in accordance with seventeenth-century settings of the myth, used the head of Medusa to conquer the monster, but has only three characters. Productions of the myth in the seventeenth century emphasized visual spectacle, machinery, dance, and

84 choruses. Those from the eighteenth century, however, tended to focus more on the human experience, the poetry, the hero’s responsibility to duty rather than love, and other conventions of Italian opera seria, which had begun to solidify early in the century.

As a medium that was never stagnant, however, this genre of opera would undergo another transformation in the middle of the eighteenth century.

85

Figure 3-1. Engraving by Chaveau: Andromède, Act III: Perseus rescues Andromeda from the sea monster

86

Figure 3-2. Illustration from libretto to Persée, Perseus rescues Andromeda from the sea monster

87

Example 3-1. Chorus, “Le monstre est mort,” Persée Act IV, scene vii

88

Example 3-1. Continued.

89

Example 3-1. Continued.

90

Example 3-1. Continued.

91

Example 3-1. Continued.

92

Figure 3-3. Libretto to Andromède, Act III, scene iii

93

Figure 3-4. Opera Atelier Photo: Bruce Zinger / Cyril Auvity and the sea monster in Persée (2004). Courtesy of Opera Atelier.

94 CHAPTER 4 PRESENCE AND ABSENCE: THE SEA MONSTER IN HIPPOLYTE ET ARICIE (1733), IPPOLITO ED ARICIA (1759), AND DARDANUS (1739)

The tragédie en musique was arguably the most important genre of French opera

in the period between Jean-Baptiste Lully and Jean-Philippe Rameau. This genre would profoundly influence the operatic reform efforts of Niccolò Jommelli, Tommaso

Traetta and Christoph-Willibald Gluck in the middle of the eighteenth century. After

Lully’s death in 1687, his works remained the staple of the French operatic diet, continuing to be revived for almost a century. His monopoly left little room for any new

operas to gain a foothold on the French stage until the entrance of Rameau and his

innovative works for the theater, particularly his first opera, Hippolyte et Aricie (1733).

In the age of Louis XIV, spoken tragedy (tragédie) and its musical counterpart,

the tragédie en musique, were considered to be opposite forms of entertainment;

inverse conventions of one genre could be found in the other. Pierre Corneille and Jean

Racine were the champions of the spoken genre, whose conventions included minimal

or bare sets, a unity of place and time (the action was presented in one place over a

span of no more than twenty-four hours), and subjects chosen from history or mythology

that featured mortal characters in every-day situations. In addition, unseemly violence or

unacceptable behavior was relegated to backstage or left only in descriptions and a

“limited, noble vocabulary” was employed “to explore the depths of the human condition

and to create poetry of extraordinary beauty.”1

The conventions of the tragédie en musique, however, were quite different. The

genre, invented by composer Lully with his librettist Philippe Quinault, included

1 Buford Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon: ‘Phèdre’ and the Operatic Stage,” Cambridge Opera Journal 10, no. 3 (November, 1998), 225.

95 spectacular sets and costumes for each act, and stimulating visual display. Staged

battles, storms, divine characters and interventions were common features, and these

larger-than-life scenarios demanded the use of complex machinery that enabled the

divinities to ascend and descend from “heaven” to “earth.” Situations and

characterizations were made less complex in order to allow more time and emphasis to

be upon music and dance.2 This particular operatic genre aimed to provoke an extreme

range of emotions:

The tragédie lyrique shows on stage not only an elegant representation of the love and heroism that were so dear to the aristocracy, but also events that overtly evoke a wide variety of emotions, joyous as well as sad, external and violent as well as internal and controlled. One sees and hears the monsters, divinities and natural disasters that are evoked so magically in Racine's words, witnesses violence and horror that are represented without the profound 'tragic effect' of Racine or the horrible details of the earlier more violent tragedies ('tragédie sanglante') -- music is there to express the horror and violence through an 'aesthetic detour', a sort of musical catharsis. Strong emotions are present, but filtered through a carefully organised structure.3

Hippolyte et Aricie (1733), composed by Lully’s successor, Rameau, would

continue in the tradition of the tragédie en musique. Graham Sadler has observed that

the main difference between Lully and Rameau has to do with expansion—in musical

language, structure, and other elements such as the latter’s novel orchestral

combinations and original approach to scoring.4 Rameau inspired other composers to

expand their vocabulary of topics.5 Using Lully’s techniques as a model, he went

2 Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon,” 225.

3 Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon,” 226.

4 See Graham Sadler, “Rameau and the Orchestra,” Proceedings of the Royal Music Association 108 (1981-82): 47-68.

5 David Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests: The Supernatural in Eighteenth-Century Musical Theater (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 60-61.

96 beyond traditional French conventions and developed sweeping instrumental motives that accompanied storm scenes and subterranean noises. His exceptional use of keys and harmonies as expressive devices resulted in vivid depictions of terror, particularly in the form of enharmonic alterations.6 In his first and perhaps most controversial work,

Rameau’s progressive harmonic language challenged audiences. The second “Trio des parques” from the second act uses sweeping upward scales, aggressive dotted rhythms and sudden silences. Justly renowned for its bizarre enharmonic progressions, it was introduced by Rameau “to inspire dread and horror.”7 Lully had employed musical devices to portray a pictorial image on the stage, and Rameau expanded upon them, making the devices more varied and, in particular, by using unconventional harmonies to challenge the listener. As a progressive composer, he struggled frequently between his artistic integrity and feeling the need to please audiences that were unprepared for his innovative music:

In the opera Hippolyte et Aricie we had found the means to insert in the second trio of the Parques, a song written in the enharmonic diatonic form, which we thought very promising in this situation; but while some of the singers were able to attempt it, they were not all equally capable, with the result that what might have been of the greatest beauty, had it been perfectly executed, became unbearable when the performance failed, so that we had to change it for the theatre, although still allowing it to give an impression of the way we had imagined it, so that the more curious members of the audience could judge for themselves: but it should not be heard until one is assured of a perfect performance, because judgement is often based on first impressions, without the listener troubling to find out whether the fault lies in the music itself or in the performance.8

6 Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests, 60-61.

7 Sadler, “Tragédie en musique.”

8 Jean-Philippe Rameau, Sylvie Bouissou, and Simon-Joseph Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie: version 1733: RCT 43 (Paris: G. Billaudot, 2002). Original source: Jean-Philippe Rameau, Génération harmonique, (Paris: Prault et fils, 1737), 154-155.

97 The work enjoyed limited popularity among contemporary audiences, however;

they upheld Lully’s works as the foundation of the genre.9 Yet although the work’s early

reception was “troublesome,” later revivals in 1742 and 1757 and after the composer’s

death were relatively successful, possibly due to cuts made to the original.10 There are

certainly even public accounts that show appreciation for his musical expression and

portrayal of events sonically:

Pay attention to this first tableau, it is the second act of Hippolyte et Aricie. The doors of Hell open, I hear doleful cries of guilt, the Fates howl and the Demons are unleashed. How terrifying is the sight of the Fury with Thésée! What truth in the expression; one is arrested by it, with the impression that the sounds heard by the ears pierce through to the soul and fill it with horror. In the third act, Thésée’s monoloque, his invocation to Neptune, and the swelling of the waves all increase the confusion. Painting could do but imperfect justice to these images, because the canvas on which they appear remains silent; it is music that speaks.11

Today, the work is considered one of his greatest, yet when it premiered contemporary

audiences found its music challenging and progressive, which to some extent meant

that it was different from the precedent set by Lully.

Pellegrin and Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie

As exemplified in Racine’s Phèdre, Euripides’s Hippolytos and Seneca’s

Pheadre, the myth of Hippolyte et Aricie (like that of Andromeda and Perseus) was a

well-known Greek classic featuring a pair of lovers and a threat to their happiness which

must be overcome. Simon-Joseph Pellegrin made it clear in his preface to the 1733

9 Although Daniel Heartz argues that Hippolyte et Aricie, “and Rameau’s subsequent tragèdies, hewed quite firmly to the Lullian ideal; the emphasis remained upon declamation, spectacle, ballet, and chorus.” See Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” in From Garrick to Gluck: Essays on Opera in the Age of Enlightenment, ed. John Rice (New York: Pendragon Press, 2004), 271.

10 Graham Sadler, "Hippolyte et Aricie," Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed March 9, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O009340.

11 Louis d’Arquin de Châteaulyon, Siècle littéraire de Louis XV ou Lettres sur les homes célèbres, Lettre III sur Mr Rameau (Amsterdam, 1754), 69.

98 libretto that he felt this myth appropriate for the genre of tragédie en musique but not for

spoken tragedy because of the importance of le merveilleux, supernatural, and

spectacle.12 The preface clarifies why the opera was not titled Phèdre, but rather named

after Hippolyte and Aricie. Yet despite the title, the drama revolves not around the

youthful lovers, but around Theseus and Phaedra, as the original tragedies did.

Hippolyte et Aricie, like the majority of Rameau’s works, was revived several

times which resulted in the existence of several different revisions. As Sylvie Bouissou

has observed, the printed editions of this work followed a different path from that taken

by other operas by Rameau such as Castor et Pollux (1737) and Dardanus (1739),

which have distinct and clearly dated editions.13 Such revisions, additions, subtractions and reorchestrations were the vogue of the day. Eighteenth-century opera librettos might be set many times to new music and new productions might involve different personnel. The musical changes in these revisions could be significant. Such revisions

12 Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon,” 245. Pellegrin wrote: “Although a noble boldness is one of the greatest prerogatives of Poetry, I would never have dared, after an author such as RACINE, put a Phèdre on the stage, if the difference of genre had not reassured me: Never has a Subject seemed more likely to enrich the Lyric Stage, and I am surprised that the great master of this Stage [Quinault] has not anticipated me in a project that tempted me so much that I could not resist. The merveilleux [supernatural] with which this Myth is filled seems to declare obviously which of these two spectacles is the best suited to it. My respect for the most worthy Rival of the great CORNEILLE [Racine] has kept me from presenting this Tragedy under the name of Phèdre.”

13 Jean-Philippe Rameau, Sylvie Bouissou, and Simon-Joseph Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie: version 1733: RCT 43 (Paris: G. Billaudot, 2002). Bouissou writes: “There are in fact four published versions of the music of Hippolyte et Aricie, all of which bear the same date of 1733, even though they were printed between 1733 and 1742, and just some ten pages were re-engraved. As a result, in the eyes of both musicians and musicologists, the various versions of this opera are confusingly alike. And yet each of the Paris revivals between 1742 and 1757 brought its own upheavals in its wake, with scenes cut, others added, the order of numbers switched, the drama revised, numerous passages reorchestrated and rewritten - multiple changes which can be seen in certain manuscript copies and annotated editions.Unlike Castor et Pollux or Dardanus, the printed editions of Hippolyte et Aricie have no entirely new acts, although every scene bears some trace of reworking.” Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, “General Preface.” Bouissou’s edition of the score (OOR IV.1) “is thus devoted to the original 1733 version, not as it appears in the first published copy, but as it should be read, taking into account revisions published in supplement of the second music edition.”

99 complicate our conception of what constitutes “the work,” raising important questions

about authenticity and its relationship to performance.14

The differences between Racine’s play and Pellegrin’s libretto are arguably more

numerous than the similarities. Probably the most noticeable is the fact that Diana

restores Hippolyte to life in the opera.15 In addition, Theseus has a greater motivation to

ask Neptune to punish his son for attempting to force himself upon his stepmother.16

This aligns with the French operatic tradition of embracing every opportunity to include a

spectacle, dance, or visual display of some kind to entertain the audience. Because the

plot was full of supernatural events, Pellegrin saw in this myth many opportunities to

exploit the conventions of the tragédie en musique. Significantly, there remains almost no trace of the performances of the opera in 1733.17 However, the monster and its

actions were apparently striking enough to be mentioned in the Mercure de France:

“The celebrations are interrupted by a storm; the sea in its wrath throws up a furious

monster on the shore. Hippolyte goes forth to fight it, and the wounded monster belches

forth fire and smoke.”18 The fact that the “monster scene” was singled out in the sole

surviving statement on the performance attests to its importance in the narrative’s

climax.

14 For treatment of this and related issues, see Nicolas Kenyon, Authenticity and Early Music: A Symposium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988).

15 Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon,” 229.

16 Norman, “Remaking a Cultural Icon,” 230.

17 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, “The 1733 Paris Performances.”

18 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, “The 1733 Paris Performances.” Original source: Mercure de France, 1733, October, 2245.

100 The Monster(s) in Hippolyte et Aricie

Monstrous imagery appears throughout Racine’s play and is particularly noticeable in Hippolyte’s relationship with Thésée.19 The opera has fewer references to monsters than the play, but this likely has more to do with the need to compress the text and plot due to it being a musical performance and not spoken tragedy.20 Thésée refers

to monsters most often, and of all the characters it is he who dwells on monstrosity the

most. In act five, scene one, he even refers to himself as a monster (“Let us deliver the

world from a monster such as I”).21

While Hippolyte makes no actual references to monsters in the opera, he must

confront a dramatically and musically tangible one in act four of Pellegrin’s version. In

Racine’s play, this terrifying and gruesome scene was relegated to being described

solely through the text:

Meanwhile, an enormous wave mounts and disturbs the surface of the liquid plain. The wave approaches, breaks, and vomits before our eyes a furious monster. His large brow is armed with menacing horns, his entire body covered with jaundiced scales. Untameable bull, violent dragon, his croup twists into tortuous coils. His long roars make the shoreline tremble. Heaven sees this savage monster with horror. The earth stirs; the air is infected by it. The flood it brings with it recoils frightfully.22

In Pellegrin and Rameau’s opera, however, this monster was physically present on the stage, providing another opportunity to present the visual spectacle for which the genre was known. Because this scene would have featured a monster and music

19 See Charles Dill, Monstrous Opera: Rameau and the Tragic Tradition (New Jersey: Princeton University Press), 1998. This book focuses on examining Rameau’s compositional aesthetic as a figure preoccupied with tradition, music theory, his own creative instincts, and the public’s expectations of his music and his attempt to mediate between them. This study will be discussed in more depth in Chapter 6.

20 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 452.

21 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 453.

22 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 455.

101 accompanying it, the text describing the scene was shortened significantly and given to

a chorus: “What noise! What winds! What a mountainous wave! What a monster [this

wave] bears before us! Diane, hurry! Fly [to us] from the height of heaven.” Recall from

the previous chapter that in Corneille’s Andromède and Lully’s Persée, the appearance

of the sea monster and/or its defeat at the hands of the hero was also accompanied by

a chorus.23 As Dill has observed, in shifting the focus here “away from the rational world

of language and toward the merveilleux, Pellegrin also underscores the irrational nature of monstrosity. Unlike spoken tragedy, where shocking events were narrated from a safe distance, in opera they provided a pretext for much-anticipated special effects, both musical and mechanical.”24

The Music of the Monster

Rameau responded to Pellegrin’s vivid text by musically portraying the noise it

suggested. Dill has written that the musical setting “is a conventional operatic depiction

of a tempête.”25 His analysis of this scene describes how the music ties all the

components together:

The extraordinary event occurs when the waves vomit forth their contents, a stage monster accompanied by an equally monstrous musical progression modulating from the tonal region of Eb major to Ab major. As we see in measure 4, at the words "Quel Monstre elle enfante a nos yeux" ("What monster does [this mountainous wave] give birth to before our eyes?"), both chorus and orchestra lurch in fear, yanking the music chromatically from its Bb-major harmony (serving as the dominant of Eb major) up to a harmony on Db major, a wholly audible gesture that would still surprise audiences when Beethoven used it at the beginning of the next century. This music is disruptive in a way the previously cited examples are not, and the composer employs it to signify the unnatural

23 See Chapter 3.

24 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 456.

25 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 456.

102 force that brings about the story's calamity. Through this musical effect, Rameau's monster becomes a unary figure in a way it never could have been for Racine. Music per se, through the same irrational intrusiveness audiences found dis-quieting, sutures together text, action, and visual impact to create the defining moment in the story, an act of overdetermination that necessarily refines the shifting meanings accrued in the course of the opera.26

Clearly, Dill’s analysis focuses primarily on the tonalities throughout the scene. While it

can be agreed that the “music is disruptive” and “the composer employs it to signify the

unnatural force that brings about the story’s calamity,” Dill does not focus on the other

techniques Rameau uses other than juxtaposition of contrasting tonalities in order to

bring about chaos. I have found that comparing this scene’s distinctive features with

those representing a terrifying musical style in other eighteenth-century operas reveals

a commonly understood method by which composers sought to communicate scenes of

terror with their audiences. The music of the sea monster scene in Act 4, scene 3 of

Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie can be classified as constituting the latter end of the

McClelland’s continuum, the “terrible” style, characterized and distinguished from ombra

mainly by its fast tempo (see Figure 1-1).27 More specifically, it can be labeled as

“devastating,” which is on the extreme “horrifying” end of the continuum.

Recall from Chapter 1 that in French opera, “rapid sixteenth notes were sufficient to denote fear, fury, or frantic motion; abrupt rhythms and string flourishes implied magic and astonishment … rapid scales and repeated notes, rhythmic variety and dotted rhythms accompanied monsters, demons, magicians and scenic transformations.”28 In

addition, repeated rapid ascending and descending scales and heavy accents on the

26 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 456.

27 Refer to Chapter 1 for a detailed discussion of the ombra style.

28 Buch, Magic Flutes & Enchanted Forests, 36-37.

103 first beat of the measure are often used to depict Hades in Lully’s works. Rameau continued this practice, as is evident in this passage accompanying the sea monster. In the first few measures of the scene’s opening, the unison repetition of rapid sixteenth and thirty-second notes in the strings signal the appearance of the dreaded monster and the storm accompanying it (measures 443-448).

Object 4-1. Orchestral score, Hippolyte et Aricie, Act 4 scene 3

The flute enhances the frantic mood with its rapid ascending scale passages ending on the downbeat of each measure. Rameau’s passage exhibits all of the characteristic features traditionally associated with terrifying supernatural events. Although the scene does not occur in Hades, the music reflects the terror of a creature ascending from the depths of the sea in order to wreak havoc.

After the stage has been set by the instrumental passages, the chorus enters the scene (last beat of measure 448). As I have shown in my discussion of settings on the

Andromeda myth, the chorus plays an integral role in accompanying the monster, announcing its presence, encouraging the hero in battle against it, or commenting on its defeat. While the various parts of the chorus are not unison in pitch most of the time, they are always in unison rhythmically. Text painting occurs in measures 450-451, when the chorus sings “O heavens!”-- the two outer voices move up a fourth on “heavens.”

Meanwhile, all the frantic activity in the strings and flute has continued. In another striking moment, right before the chorus sings “O Diane,” this flurry of activity ceases

(measure 457). Rameau clearly wanted to emphasize the plea to the goddess, and for just that brief moment the texture becomes remarkably thin and her name is the most important communication before the repeating thirty-second notes take over again in the next measure.

104 In the next scene, Phèdre mourns Hippolyte and approaches the chorus trying to

seek answers in order to discover what has happened (beginning in measure 489). The

chorus responds: "A furious monster, from out of the flood, has just torn this hero from

us.”29 The instrumental accompaniment depicting the noise of the wind, storm, and

monster have been subdued. When the chorus answers her, the meter changes to a

slow triple (measure 494). The strings and flute double the voices, and the statement is

made in a striking unison. Dill observes that the key, which was B-flat major, takes on a change to G minor with the addition of several F-sharps instead of the previous F- natural. All of these musical features demonstrate that common compositional techniques existed that were meant portray supernatural events such as storms and the sea monster’s subsequent appearance, and Rameau frequently employed them.

The final extended passage with Phèdre’s recitative alternating with the chorus is remarkable for several reasons. After communicating with the chorus, Phèdre finally commences a monologue in which she admits her guilt, which she resolves to reveal to

Theseus in a recitative accompanied by continuo alone (measure 505).30 As she cries,

“It is because of me that he descends into the underworld,” Rameau illustrates the text

with a descending melodic contour in her vocal line as well as in the accompaniment

(measures 507-509). This changes to accompanied recitative with a fast tempo as she

senses thunder, lighting and an earthquake, which are all imitated by the orchestra.31

She once more refers to the underworld: “I feel the earth quaking. Hades opens under

29 Dill, “Rameau’s Imaginary Monsters,” 458.

30 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, 255. All text translations taken from J. Peter Burkholder, Claude V. Palisca, Donald Jay Grout, and Barbara Russano Hanning, Norton Anthology of Western Music (New York: W.W. Norton and Company Inc., 2010), 700.

31 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, 255-256.

105 my feet.” Once more, Rameau uses a descending melodic contour for these passages

(measures 524-528), as if to indicate that she actually sees or is descending into the

underworld. The bass moves upward by steps, which further supports the interpretation

of the underworld opening and rising up to merge with Phèdre, who must descend

(physically and melodically) to access it.32

Phèdre’s passage closes with her resolution in a slower accompanied recitative

with sustained pitches in the strings and flutes. While the previous tumultuous passages

involving storms, earthquakes, wind and the underworld referenced in the text could be

considered to represent the last two categories within McClelland’s ombra style

(“infernal” and “devastating”), the same cannot be said of this last section. Beginning at

measure 536, this section represents a change in style.33 It can be still classified as

ombra, albeit in a different spot on the continuum (see Figure 1-1) closely resembling

the categories labeled “celestial” and “ceremonial.” The elongated, sustained pitches in

the strings and flute (reminiscent of church music), the initial use of a flat key (G minor),

the angular melodic line, the frequent chromatic intervals and dotted rhythms in the

voice, and finally, the unexpected harmonic progressions all suggest the ombra style.

Phèdre’s impassioned and desperate appeal to the gods places it even more firmly

within the classification of ombra:

Cruel gods, implacable avengers! Cease your wrath that freezes me with dread! Ah! If you are fair-minded, do not thunder any more at me! The glory of a hero whom injustice oppresses demands your rightful aid. Let

32 In the next chapter which discusses Mozart and Varesco’s Idomeneo, the composer accompanies the character Electra with similar text painting that illustrates her strong connection to and ability to invoke the underworld in her Act III aria, “D'Oreste, d'Ajace.”

33 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, 257. This celestial passage lasts until the chorus comes back in in measure 559 to lament Hippolyte’s death.

106 me reveal to the author of his days [his father] Both his innocence and my crime!34

The final, and perhaps the most awesome and tragic moments in this section are

represented in Rameau’s treatment of the chorus. In one of the most striking moments

in all of eighteenth-century opera, the chorus comments three times upon the tragic

death of Hippolyte. Opening act four, the chorus laments three times, “O useless

remorse! Hippolyte is no more.” It occurs again in response to Phèdre’s inquiries, but

the most remarkable iteration is the last statement of the lament ending the section

(measures 559-564).35 Rameau has the chorus (and orchestra doubling it) pause for the

entire length of four beats before finally singing “Hippolyte is no more.” The use of

silence here is nothing short of astonishing, effectively communicating the devastation

that has occurred. In the depiction of this tragic moment, the silence is reminiscent of

that in the Interludes for La pellegrina from 1589 while a gruesome Lucifer devoured

naked children, representing souls. It also relates to John Powell’s argument that, in

Corneille’s Andromède, the noise of the machines during the battle of Perseus and the

sea monster was enough sonic stimulation that music was not needed (see Chapter 3).

Finally, the use of silence links underworld scenes and maritime scenes: both potentially

feature horrific supernatural entities (Lucifer, sea monster) rising from the depths with

the intent to devour mankind with gaping jaws.

Until Rameau’s appearance, the Opéra had indeed become “a veritable

graveyard of lyric tragedies.”36 It was not until the premiere of his first opera, Hippolyte

34 Text translation from Burkholder and Palisca, Norton Anthology of Western Music, 699.

35 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, 561-562.

36 Downing Thomas, Aesthetics of Opera in the Ancien Régime, 1647-1785 (United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 157. Thomas includes a footnote with other sources reflecting this attitude.

107 et Aricie (1733) that the “graveyard” began to be reanimated:

In 1733 Rameau presented Hippolyte et Aricie, and soon afterwards his Les Indes galantes was performed—and thus came about the revolution in French musical taste. A musician of genius…Rameau enlightened the nation through his works. …The old men, attached to the style with which they were familiar, rose up strongly against this new phenomenon. They had on their side a whole array of ignorant musicians, who found it easier to rail against the new style than accept it. The more discerning people were divided, and ever since then the French have split into two violent and extremely fierce camps; the old and the new musical styles were for each a kind of religion, in defence of which they took up every possible weapon. This battle still goes on; but as the old men die off and the population renews itself, the old music daily loses a multitude of supporters and the new wins new champions.37

This opera would, in turn, shake the static ground on which opera seria was built with a

revised version, Traetta’s Ippolito ed Aricia (1759). Monsters were banished from Italian

opera seria at the beginning of the eighteenth century due to the reforms of the

Arcadian Academy.38 However, as the century progressed, calls for an integration of

French elements back into Italian opera became more prevalent, especially toward the

middle of the century. Ippolito tried to sustain the French tradition of monsters appearing

on the stage with music suggesting tempête conventions (albeit in an altered form). The

work is particularly significant in that it was modeled on Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie.

Tommaso Traetta and Carlo Frugoni’s Ippolito ed Aricia (1759)

The middle of the eighteenth century witnessed a flurry of communications and a

large growth of literature addressing the topic of operatic rejuvenation or “reform.”

Various calls for the reform of Italian opera, most famously those of Francesco Algarotti,

attempted to reinstate some of the very elements eliminated at the end of the

37 Caroline Wood and Graham Sadler, French Baroque Opera: A Reader (United Kingdom: Ashgate Publishing, 2000), 100.

38 See Chapter 2 for detailed information on operatic conventions and how they changed between seventeenth and eighteenth-century French and Italian opera.

108 seventeenth century. Shocking plot elements like onstage deaths, murders, or even

combat were rejected as offending the rules of good taste—or, bienséance.39 For these

reasons, supernatural creatures such as monsters were rare in Italian opera. The

contrast between conventions of Italian and French opera were highlighted and

reassessed. Italian serious opera’s conventional structure of arias alternating with

recitatives, the practice of displaying the popular leading singers, the vast amount of

vocal embellishments and the emphasis on the solo singer all were criticized as

“unnatural.”40 Desirable elements from French opera including visual spectacle,

choruses, dance, and flexible scene structures were called upon by contemporary critics

to be integrated into Italian opera in order to produce the ultimate form of entertainment.

The irony of the Italian opera seria genre was that it sought to enlighten and instruct

audiences in the ways of moral duty, thus implying an attentive audience, yet this

contrasted greatly with what was actually happening in the theater during the eighteenth

century. Theater spectators were the opposite of attentive; playing cards, gambling,

eating, drinking, moving around the theater to visit, and sometimes outright ignoring the

goings-on onstage were all common behaviors in the midst of a performance.41 An

39 Marita McClymonds, “La morte di Semiramide ossia La vendetta di Nino and the Restoration of Death and Tragedy to the Italian Operatic Stage in the 1780s and 90s,” in Atti del XIV Congresso della Societa Internazionale di Musicologica, eds. Angelo Pompilio, Donatelia Restani, Lorenzo Bianconi, F. Alberto Gallo (Torino: 1990), 285.

40 The most well-known critical response and call for reform is Francesco Algarotti, An Essay on the Opera = Saggio Sopra L'opera in Musica, ed. Robin Burgess (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2005).

41 Margaret R. Butler, “’Oliviero’s’ Painting of Turin’s Teatro Regio: Toward a Reevaluation of an Operatic Emblem,” Music in Art 34 (2009), 137-151. For more on evenings at the opera, audience behavior, and the relationship between opera seria and the various crises of social and political transformation in eighteenth-century Italy, see Chapter 1 of Martha Feldman, Opera and Sovereignty: Transforming Myths in Eighteenth-Century Italy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007).

109 account by an English visitor to an opera house in Naples describes the general

practice:

There are some who contend, that the singers might be very well heard, if the audience were more silent; but it is so much the fashion at Naples, and, indeed, through all Italy, to consider the Opera as a place of rendezvous and visiting, that they do not seem in the least to attend to the musick, but laugh and talk through the whole performance, without any restraint; and, it may be imagined, that an assembly of so many hundreds conversing together so loudly, must entirely cover the voices of the singers.42

Italian audiences would witness several new theatrical ideals, particularly as

presented in Parma at the Teatro Ducale.43 The theater’s collaborative team consisted

of librettist Carlo Innocenzo Frugoni, theatrical director and Francophile Guillaume Du

Tillot, and composer Tommaso Traetta. The Duchy of Parma had strong ties with France

and this influenced the repertory and style of opera presented at its principal theater.44

As an innovative director, Du Tillot saw to it that the theater participated in the French-

inspired reform efforts more enthusiastically than any other theater in the Italian

states.45 Although many composers, librettists, choreographers and other artists began

to implement reform guidelines and experiment with stage works around Europe,46 the

culmination of the reform efforts is generally associated with Vienna and such works as

42 Samuel Sharp, Letters from Italy, Describing the Customs and Manners of that Country in the Years 1765 and 1766, 3rd ed. (London: Henry and Cave, 1767), Letters 19-22. Quoted from Fubini, Music and Culture, 209.

43 See Daniel Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” in From Garrick to Gluck: Essays on Opera in the Age of Enlightenment, ed. John A. Rice (New York: Pendragon Press, 2004), 271-292.

44 Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 8-13.

45 Margaret R. Butler, “Italian Opera in the Eighteenth Century,” in The Cambridge History of Eighteenth- Century Music, ed. Simon Keefe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 217.

46 Marita P. McClymonds, “Opera Reform in Italy, 1750–80,” in Bianca Maria Antolini, Teresa M. Gialdroni and Annunziato Pugliese (eds), ‘Et facciam dolci canti’: Studi in onore di Agostino Ziino in 2 occasione del suo 65° compleanno (Lucca: Libreria Musicale Italiana II, 2003), 895–912.

110 Gluck and Calzabigi’s Orfeo ed Euridice (1762) and Alceste (1767).47 In his preface to

the latter, Calzabigi expressed his resolve to correct the “abuses” that had disfigured

Italian opera and to assign music to its proper function, which was to serve the poetry

and advance the plot.48 In alignment with other contemporaries, particularly Algarotti, he

also argued that the overture should be an integral part of the opera, the orchestra

should reflect the drama of the plot, and the contrast between aria and recitative should

be diminished.

One common French operatic element that played a crucial role in reform-

inspired opera at Parma in the latter half of the eighteenth century was the chorus.

While in traditional dramma per musica choruses mainly stood apart from and

commented upon the drama, in reform-inspired operas choruses participated more fully

and were frequently integrated into the scenes.49 One of the most widely recognized

manifestos of operatic reform, Algarotti’s Saggio sopra l’opera in musica (1755), advocated the use of the chorus to “heighten spectacle and to create a continuous complex of various types of vocal music.”50 As envisioned by Algarotti and others calling

for reform, Italian opera would retain its traditional dramaturgical structure while being

infused with chorus, dance and supernatural stage spectacle drawn from French opera

47 For an excellent and thorough study on Gluck’s influence and collaborations in Vienna, see Bruce Alan Brown, Gluck and the French Theater in Vienna (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991).

48 Daniel Heartz, Haydn, Mozart, and the Viennese School, 1740-1780 (New York: W.W.Norton and Company, Inc.,1995), 219. See Ranieri de’ Calzabigi and Christoph Willibald Gluck, “Preface to Alceste (1769)” in Enrico Fubini, Music and Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe: A Source Book, translation edited by Bonnie J. Blackburn (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994), 364-366.

49 Butler, “Producing the Operatic Chorus,” 231-232.

50 Butler, “Producing the Operatic Chorus,” 232. See Franceso Algarotti, “Essay on Opera,” in Fubini, Music and Culture, 233-240. The full text in English translation is Franceso Algarotti, An Essay on the Opera (London: F.A.R.A.P, 1767).

111 conventions.51 Four operas by Traetta exhibit the stylistic mixture represented by

Parma’s response to the calls for reform. The first of these was Ippolito ed Aricia.

Traetta is often lauded a composer who occupies a central place in the history of operatic reform in Italy, along with Niccolò Jommelli. However, a letter from Traetta to

Mannheim’s court poet Mattia Verazi has revealed that he envisioned his central task as writing Italian-style music at Parma.52 Although Ippolito ed Aricia was refashioned from

Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie, Traetta rejected the idea that he should imitate Rameau:

I have received the letter by which you inform me that French journalists have said that I availed myself in the opera Ippolito ed Aricia of the music of Rameau. I thank you for the information you give about the charge they make: it is so little founded that those who know our Italian operas, who know how the style of our music differs from that of the French, can never put faith in it; I have always had much veneration for the name of M. Rameau; he has composed some excellent works, but they are only suited to the French language and to the particular musical style of that nation. Inasmuch as I seek to please in theaters where a style reigns that entirely opposes his, I must not only not copy it, but even forbid myself all imitation; as far as Ippolito ed Aricia is concerned, I protest on my honor that I have not even seen his music.53

In composing the libretto for Ippolito, Frugoni originally said he would leave the poem in Pellegrin’s original five-act form. As the work progressed, however, he began to instead draw upon Jean Racine’s Phèdre (1677). In his last letter before the premiere, he emphasizes that he was not the one who chose the subject of the plot, yet he strove

51 Butler, “Producing the Operatic Chorus,” 232.

52 See Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia.” See also Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 19. Loomis also demonstrates that librettist Frugoni also did not view himself as an instrument of change.

53 See footnote 28 in Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 19-20. Also, see Marita McClymonds,“Transforming Opera Seria: Verazi’s innovations and their impact on Opera in Italy,” in Opera and the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 119-132. Original source: Tommaso Traetta, Journal des Journaux 1 (Mannheim, 1760), 701.

112 to incorporate everything he could from Racine’s Phèdre.54 He states that he retains

Italian drama and “only suitably introduced into it the divertissements of French opera.”55 Frugoni saw his work as remaining essentially faithful to Italian tradition (arias placed at the ends of scenes and followed by a character’s exit) though enriched by new elements (chorus, dance, and spectacle).56

Missing the Monster

Although Frugoni retained the five-act structure of the French version of the myth, his libretto for Parma in 1759 cut back on supernatural content significantly. The elimination of the storm and the sea monster from act 4 and Neptune’s appearance in act 5 attests to this.57 In essence, the overall role of the gods and all supernatural elements is diminished in Frugoni’s setting. This is a further testament to the extensive adherence to Racine’s model, where the action takes place off stage and the audience is informed of it later in the drama. Yet whereas Racine prefaces the appearance of the monster, Frugoni does away with it entirely.58

Why was the monster eliminated from the drama in the Parma version? Heartz suggests that unwillingness to work spectacle into the drama may have be a result of

“insufficient liaison with the choreographer” and believes this may explain the

“emasculation of act 4.”59 In terms of production practice, the Teatro Ducale’s financial

54 Quoted in Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 34.

55 Quoted in Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 35.

56 Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 49-50.

57 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” 281.

58 Loomis, “Tommaso Traetta’s Operas for Parma,” 70.

59 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” 287.

113 resources were considerably taxed by this opera. For example, the choristers alone

were considered valuable enough by Traetta that they were brought from Bologna and

were paid more than at other places in Italy.60 Heartz suggests that the cost of the stage

machinery needed for a sea monster in addition to the costumes, lodging and financial

compensation for the choristers was more than the theater was able to handle:

One of the most striking innovations for Italian audiences was to see a production carefully mounted and costumed, even down to the numerous chorus and ballet (each involving about twenty performers). Expenses were higher also for the sets, the five acts involving nine scene changes, a third again as many as customary. What was attempted at Parma imposed a financial burden more appropriate to a kingdom than a tiny duchy, which is one reason Du Tillot had to give up this theatrical innovation a few years after so auspicious a beginning.61

Furthermore, it is possible that the monster was cut because of the time

constraints of the production process. Heartz writes that Frugoni was given Rameau’s

libretto to rework early in 1759 and brought to the stage in May. In his letters to

Algarotti, Frugoni claims that two acts of the work were written in mid-March and that

three remained.62 With possibly just over a month to get the entire production up and running, the facilitation of additional complicated machinery to create the image of a sea monster was perhaps impractical. Heartz supports this in observing that “the need for haste and economy militated against the use of anything but stock scenery.”63 Another

reason the monster was missing may be due to the social function of opera seria.

Typically, an audience paid very little serious attention to the often lengthy production.

60 Butler, “Producing the Operatic Chorus,” 240.

61 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” 290.

62 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia, 278-279.

63 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” 276.

114 Spectators were much more interested in seeing others and in being seen, social

activities such as games, drinking, eating, and conversing. When they did give their full

attention, it was usually to hear their favorite singer perform a favorite aria. It is well

known that Traetta’s productions were largely constructed to exploit the talent of one

famous singer: Caterina Gabrielli.64 No supernatural monster could have competed with

the great Gabrielli for musical pride of place or audience attention. In some cases,

operas originally written with an abundance of supernatural material such as a monster

went through numerous revisions where that material was cut, as was the case with

Rameau’s Dardanus. However, the loss of that material frequently coincided with a loss

of some of the most innovative music heard up until that time.

Rameau and Le Bruère’s Dardanus (1739)

Public gossip and anticipation was rampant around the time of the premiere of

Rameau’s fifth opera, Dardanus, in 1739.65 In fact, it “marked the climax of the Lulliste–

Ramiste dispute, involving cabal and counter-cabal.”66 The opera attracted much

attention and spectators reserved boxes far in advance and had to send their valets in

the morning to ensure a seat at the performance.67 But despite all the hype and activity

64 Heartz, “Traetta in Parma: Ippolito ed Aricia,” 289.

65 There is also an adaptation of the opera by Antonio Sacchini in four acts to a libretto by Nicolas- François Guillard after La Bruère’s, which was premiered in Versailles on September 18, 1784. However, since this version is based on Rameau’s revised 1744 edition which omits much of the supernatural plot elements including the sea monster, it will not be discussed here. See Julian Rushton, "Dardanus (ii)," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed March 17, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O901258.

66 Graham Sadler, "Dardanus (i)," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed March 17, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O901257.

67 Jean-Philippe Rameau and Graham Sadler, Dardanus, with John Mark Ainsley, Véronique Gens and Laurent Naouri, and Marc Minkowski, © 2000 by Duetsche Grammophon, 463 477-2, Compact disc.

115 surrounding the work, some Lullistes sought to scrutinize every perceived flaw in it. As

can be seen from contemporary accounts written in the three weeks leading up to its

premiere, opinions on the work were anything but consistent.68 Madame de Graffigny, today recognized as a significant female writer and playwright from the eighteenth century, provides a description of a particular rehearsal illustrating the general chaos surrounding the new opera:

Oh! …what ludicrous things rehearsals are! While one person sang mournfully, a dozen others were dancing at the back of the stage, neither together nor with the music…I don’t know how to convey the absurdity of it all. The interruptions, the scoldings! Rameau, who has the manner and appearance of a great devil, sang to give the note; those in the auditorium, where there were more than 150 people, clapped at him in derision…and he clapped his hands back at them. It all amounted to a very peculiar experience; and what with all these antics, what with the beauty of the music and the magic of Jélyotte’s voice, I wept bitterly half the time, behind my fan.69

Rameau eventually began carrying a sword after engaging in a brawl with librettist

Pierre-Charles Roy, one of his main critics. Such heightened emotions, on the part of

the composer and those experiencing the work for the first time, demonstrates

Rameau’s preoccupation with pleasing audiences and the tense atmosphere

surrounding his attempt to balance his own aesthetic tastes with their approval.

Set in Phrygia, now a part of Turkey, the story on which Dardanus is based is not

firmly based in classical source material.70 The son of Jupiter and Electra, Dardanus

68 See the conflicting contemporary accounts of the opera translated in Wood and Sadler, French Baroque Opera, 101-103.

69 Quoted in Sadler, “Dardanus: A Musician’s Opera.” Original translation in Wood and Sadler, French Baroque Opera, 37-38. Original source: English Showalter Jr, “Voltaire et ses amis d’après la correspondence de Mme de Graffigny, I: 1738-39”, SVEC, 139 (1975), 198-9.

70 Sadler, “Dardanus: A Musician’s Opera.”

116 founded the house of Troy with the support of king Teucer. However, Charles-Antoine Le

Clerc de La Bruère, the librettist, reconstructed an imaginary history before these events

where Dardanus was at war with Teucer. He was also in love with the king’s daughter,

the princess Iphise. In scene three, Neptune sends a sea monster to enact vengeance

on the “impious imprisonment” of the titular character, who is a son of Jupiter.71 In the

following scene, Dardanus has escaped, confronts and slays the monster “during a

graphically portrayed tempest.”72 Apparently, one of the main criticisms of the opera was

that La Bruère had ruined it “by introducing numerous absurdities, among them the

repeated and puerile appearances of a sea monster.”73 Sadler explains that the problem

was not the use of the supernatural, which had been a “keystone” of French opera from

its conception, but the unjustified use of it throughout Dardanus.74 Revised versions of

the opera were staged in 1744 and again in 1760, and in these La Bruère simplified the

plot and eliminated much of the supernatural. One result of this was the enhanced

human interest and focus on the main characters. The revised versions may have been

more successful dramatically, but much of the music of the original version—music

depicting in particular the supernatural—was cut. Since the last three acts were

fundamentally changed in the revisions, almost all the music accompanying the sea

71 Graham Sadler. "Dardanus (i)." The New Grove Dictionary of Opera. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed August 11, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O901257.

72 Sadler. "Dardanus (i)."

73 Sadler, “Dardanus: A Musician’s Opera.”

74 Sadler, “Dardanus: A Musician’s Opera.” He writes, “Unfortunately, the relatively inexperienced librettist marred it by introducing numerous absurdities, among them the repeated and puerile appearances of a sea monster. The problem was not with the supernatural as such, for this element had from the outset been a keystone of French opera. But its use had to be strictly justified, and we might usefully contrast the ineptitude of La Bruère’s handling of the monster with that in Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie, where its appearance leads to genuinely tragic consequences.”

117 monster was taken out of the opera. Sadler acknowledges this loss in saying “on a

purely musical level the original version of Dardanus is, without doubt, one of Rameau’s

most inspired creations, encompassing the widest emotional range of all his works.”75

Sadler acknowledges the significance of the music from Dardanus, but simultaneously

blames the librettist for “marring” the opera with the numerous appearances of the sea monster. This interpretation gives the impression that the music and the image of the monster should be considered separate elements or that they are not combined with

one another in an important dramatic way. It is a view that appears to deny the

importance of the supernatural. Sadler writes that the use of the supernatural had to be strictly justified in the plot, but arguably much French opera contained supernatural

interventions without any sort of justification. The primary impetus for incorporation of

the supernatural was purely for the visual spectacle, a “keystone” of the theater.

Furthermore, the incorporation of supernatural elements is actually what inspired much

of Rameau’s innovative and progressive music, which would not exist without the

corresponding visual and narrative elements. This aligns with the concept of

“supernatural exoticism” (Chapter 1), where supernatural entities or events are considered to be visually and aurally entangled.

The Sea Monster and its Music in Dardanus

At the end of scene three in the fourth act, Dardanus goes off to find and fight the

monster. Instead of a chorus commenting on the scene (as was the case in Hippolyte et

Aricie), a single character (Antenor) sings an aria about the monster:

75 Sadler, “Dardanus: A Musician’s Opera.”

118 Fearful monster, formidable monster, ah! How favorable fate would be to me if it exposed me only to your blows! Fearful monster, formidable monster, ah! Love is still more terrible than you.76

In A minor, the aria has a tone of reverence, and its “lentement” marking encourages

that interpretation.77

Object 4-2. Orchestral score, Dardanus, Act 4 scene 3

The strings have a consistent pulsating eighth-note figure that remains constant

throughout, while the winds have sustained pitches with forte-piano dynamics. There is

a short recitative passage at the end, and then the air is repeated. However, the second

time through is sung at a very soft piano dynamic, which lends the air an even more

reverent tone; it could even be considered ecclesiastical. A contrast is provided in the

next section, which is obviously a tempête scene (it would be clear even if it was not

marked as such in the score).78 The tempo is rapid (“vivement”) and characterized by

steady eighth notes in the bass voices and repetitive, rapidly ascending and descending

scales in the upper strings (measures 1-10). Caroline Wood has written that tempête

scenes were one of the most individual features of the tragédie en musique in the period between Lully’s death and Rameau’s entrance onto the opera scene.79 The

section begins in F major, and Antenor cries “What noise!” There is a text-painting

moment where he sings “The waves rise to the skies” and his vocal line rises an octave

76 Translations of the libretto are by Lionel Salter in Liner notes for Jean-Phillippe Rameau, Dardanus, Marc Minkowski, compact disc, © 2000 Deutsche Grammophon.

77 Jean-Philippe Rameau and Charles-Antoine le Clerc de la Bruère, Dardanus: Tragédie lyrique en cinq actes et un prologue (Paris, 1739), 133-134.

78 Rameau and la Bruère, Dardanus. This section lasts from page 135-141.

79 Caroline Wood, Music and Drama in the Tragédie en Musique, 1673-1715: Jean-Baptiste Lully and His Successors (New York: Garland Publishing, 1996), 345.

119 from F (measures 18-20).80 In the places where the rapidly ascending and descending

passages are not prevalent, frantic motion is still portrayed by the alternation that

frequently happens between two pitches (measures 12-14,19-20). A dramatic change occurs in the dynamic immediately before Antenor sings “The night;” a soft dynamic is adopted after everything else had been forte (measure 27).

Antenor implores the monster to “come out from your deep grottos” and this passage is accompanied by some adventures into other key areas (measures 39-46).

Hoping to goad the monster into battle, he cries “Allons!” (measure 6-7) At this point, the

following is written in the libretto:

Antenor goes to fight the monster, which has emerged from the sea vomiting flames; these force the warrior to retreat into the wings…Dardanus, who had gone to look for the monster along the shore, arrives at the same moment.81

At the beginning of scene five, Dardanus decides to rush to Antenor’s aid and battle the

monster. He fights it, kills it, and brings Antenor, who had fled offstage, back on. After

Dardanus sings the word “vengeance,” rapidly descending scales suggest the furious

movement of the battle with the monster. The section ends with a slow recitative where

Dardanus and Antenor acknowledge the defeat of the monster by the hero, Antenor

thanks him, and then pledges an oath to let the princess refuse his hand.

The music accompanying the monster’s presence is similar to that in Hippolyte et

Aricie in several ways. The most obvious similarity is the use of tempête features, which

occur in both operas and has distinguishing musical components including rapidly

ascending and descending scale patterns, rapid sixteenth or thirty-second note

80 Rameau and la Bruère, Dardanus, 136.

81 Salter in Liner notes for Jean-Phillippe Rameau, Dardanus, 109.

120 patterns, and heavy accents on the first beat of the measure. These are all meant to convey a sense of frantic motion, fear, and fury, and were all conventions of the tempête style. One key difference between the two scenes in each opera is the use of the chorus, which is predominant in Hippolyte but not a main feature in Dardanus. This could be due to several reasons, the main one being that no characters are killed by the monster in Dardanus, so there is no need for a choral lament, as is the case in

Hippolyte. In the latter, the chorus is mainly used to highlight the Phèdre’s grief over the death of the protagonist.

Conclusions

Ippolito ed Aricia takes from its French predecessor the five-act structure, the underworld scene, gods descending in machines, choruses, dances and sinfonias. Yet it simultaneously follows the conventions of Italian opera seria in having a fixed number of characters in each scene and by ending scenes with exit arias.82 Most of the choruses and dances appear in scenes that serve as entr’actes and are not incorporated into the action, which is French in style.83 The use of obbligato recitative and the size and textural complexity of the choruses are further innovations introduced by Traetta. In comparison with Hippolyte et Aricie, the supernatural content (particularly the monster and its accompanying storm) only exists in the minds of the characters and in the music’s sonic portrayal. The monster is spoken about in the libretto and suggested in the music, but does not physically appear on the stage. In this way it is an

82 Marita P. McClymonds, "Ippolito ed Aricia," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, accessed October 20, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O004121.

83 McClymonds, "Ippolito ed Aricia." Also, see McClymonds,“Transforming Opera Seria,” cited above.

121 “offstage monster” that is absent physically but present in the minds of the characters

and presumably the audience.

Finally, the production was limited as far as resources and time constraints. The

addition of such a formidable scene with a sea monster was simply not practical. In the

case of Rameau’s Dardanus, revisions of the opera frequently cut supernatural material, however, some of the most progressive and challenging music accompanying those scenes was lost in the process. The scene where the monster appears is integral to the drama, and not having the monster physically appear would have been anticlimactic as a turning point in the narrative. However, the specific musical conventions that were associated with its appearance were cues to the audience that the monster was to be imagined as being part of the drama. In this way, the monster can be seen as an

embodiment of the storm, but also as a suggestion of supernatural events. The monster, existing under a larger umbrella encompassing supernatural elements, inspired the kind of challenging music written by Rameau that audiences initially reacted negatively toward. Here I am questioning the often persistent attitude in secondary literature that alludes to the existence of the supernatural in eighteenth-century opera as

being “puerile” or unnecessary. The music that accompanied the supernatural

significantly altered the expectations of contemporary audiences, and that alone justifies

its use. Finally, the absence of the monster physically with its presence portrayed

sonically is directly inverse to productions with monsters from the sixteenth and

seventeenth century, where a visual representation was more significant and silence

often accompanied the horrific appearance of a supernatural entity (see Chapter 3). The

use of silence was to stimulate the audience to imagine what the depths of hell would

122 sound like, just as several eighteenth-century productions would use music to aid the audience in imagining what the monster would look like.

123 CHAPTER 5 SUPERNATURAL SCENE TYPES IN CAMPRA/DANCHET’S IDOMÉNÉE (1712) AND MOZART/VARESCO’S IDOMENEO (1781)

By the end of the eighteenth century, the consideration of how to set a

supernatural scene to music had become an important concern for Wolfgang Mozart, as

is shown in his correspondence with his father about the oracle scene in Idomeneo.

This chapter will focus on the supernatural scenes in Idoménée (1712) and Idomeneo

(1781), scenes that involve tempêtes (storm scenes), sea monsters-and, in the case of

Idomeneo, an oracle. I seek to determine how the treatment of each of these scenes

changed from Idoménée to its later incarnation in order to determine how the sea

monster was presented differently in these two settings. Both widely successful when

they premiered, each opera contains innovative elements in orchestration, use of

chorus, and visual spectacle. Mozart and Varesco’s Idomeneo embodies a strong

response to calls for operatic “reform” from the mid-eighteenth century. However, I will

demonstrate that its predecessor also evinced a remarkable amount of Italian influence

that pointed toward the French-Italian synthesis Idomeneo represents. Finally, the

differing treatment of the supernatural events in each makes these two works ideal

candidates for demonstrating the changing aesthetics in opera between the early to the

late part of the eighteenth century.

Campra and Danchet’s Idoménée

Consisting of a prologue and five acts, André Campra and Antoine Danchet’s

Idoménée was performed twelve times after its debut in 1712 and was later revived for

the Parisian public in 1731.1 It is based on the portion of the Trojan legends concerning

1 Christine Dee Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée: A study of its structural components and a critical edition of the work” (Ph.D. diss., University of Kentucky, 1988), 253.

124 Idomeneus, King of Crete. Campra and Danchet became aware of it through the

eponymous spoken play by Prosper-Jolyte de Crébillion from 1705, and this was the

first modern treatment of the subject.2 Danchet gave it his own touch: he rearranged it

into a four-character love intrigue and completely rewrote the text. The drama centers

around Idomeneus (king), his son, Idamante, Electra, and the Trojan princess Ilia. At the

beginning of the story, Ilia has been captured by Idomeneus, who has defeated the

Trojans in battle. He loves her, but she is attracted to his son, Idamante, which makes

for a complicated love triangle. To add to the intrigue, Electra is also romantically

interested in Idamante, who is enamored only with Ilia. The promise Idomeneus makes

to the god Neptune forms the crux of the drama around which the action pivots:

Beset by a violent storm as he returned to Crete, he [Idomeneus] vowed to Neptune that if he escaped shipwreck he would sacrifice to the god the first living thing he saw on his safe arrival; that thing turned out to be his own son. Idomeneus carried out his vow; the inhumanity of his deed caused such horror that he was forced to abdicate and leave Crete. This story, whose parallels with the story of Agamemnon and Iphigenia and the biblical stories of Abraham and especially Jephtha are obvious, is unmentioned by Homer. It may not have been associated with Idomeneus until late antiquity, and probably under the influence of other legends. The 4th-century grammarian Servius, in his commentary on Virgil’s Aeneid, is the author of what is apparently the earliest surviving account.3

The theme of sacrificing one’s own child for the benefit of the community is found in sacred texts, such as the Bible (Abraham and Isaac), and in classical Greek mythology and tragedy (Euripides’s Iphigenia in Aulis). In the end, Idomeneus consents to the marriage of Idamante and Ilia, which makes Electra intensely unhappy and she

2 Although John Rice mentions that “François de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon (1651–1715) recounted the story of Idomeneus’s tragic vow in his didactic novel Télémaque (1696); six years later it became the subject of a spoken tragedy, Idomenée, by Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon. John A. Rice, "Idomeneus," The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, accessed November 17, 2013, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O006228.

3 Rice, "Idomeneus.”

125 threatens vengeance and suicide. The celebration of the young couple’s love is

interrupted by Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance, who reminds Idomeneus of his

pledge to Neptune. In the final scene, he goes insane and kills his son. After recovering

his sanity and realizing what he has done, he attempts to kill himself but is prevented

from doing so by the onlookers. Such a horrific and tragic ending was typical of the

tragédie lyrique.

Campra’s Style: An Overview

French composer André Campra (1660-1744) occupied a crucial position as a

préramiste composer. He was the most significant composer in the period between Lully

and Rameau and was best known for his opéra-ballets. Despite the persistent view of

this period as “an operatic wasteland,” the préramiste period saw an abundance of

innovative compositional techniques in the French operatic realm.4 Choruses, which

were popular in the French court but had diminished in Italian opera by the middle of the

seventeenth century, were particularly important elements in operas composed after

Lully. Christine Smith views the préramiste period as one of “the conscious integration

of the chorus into the dramatic action.”5 She breaks down the function of the choruses

into three groups: 1.) Representation, which includes choruses that are sung by a group

of onlookers with a single specific identity, may express imperatives or invoke absent

4 See Downing A. Thomas, Aesthetics of Opera in the Ancien Régime, 1647-1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 354, footnote 15. “Unfortunately, the standard view of French operatic history continues to portray the period between Lully and Rameau as an operatic wasteland. Leslie Ellen Brown had attempted to nuance such criticisms. ‘It is incorrect,’ she notes, ‘to attribute any weaknesses in the préramiste works to a subordination of the dramatic to the decorative components. On the contrary, dramatic continuity and convincing character expressions were realized through an expansive repertoire of devices that Lully himself did not utilize’ (“Departures from Lullian Convention in the Tragédie Lyrique of the Préramiste Era,” Recherches sur la musique française classique 22 [1984], 76).’”

5 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 177.

126 deities, and have forms that are loosely organized around binary or rondeau structures;

2.) Exclamatory, where choruses intervene in dramatic action and dialogue and aid in

advancing the plot and are not strictly decorative but usually consist of choral

fragments; and 3.) Descriptive choruses, which are purely decorative and used simply

to describe why the group of people has gathered or to comment upon the action.6 The last type is the one that most resembles the function of choruses in Greek classical tragedy. However, these choruses are not as closely incorporated into the drama; the vast majority of them are integrated into divertissements. This indicates that their presence was closely associated with visual spectacle.

Another innovative element in the operas between Lully and Rameau, particularly in those composed by Campra, is the use of the “dramatic symphonie.” Smith loosely defines this as a wide variety of instrumental passages that are directly involved in the dramatic action of a tragédie lyrique. They typically consist of instrumental evocations of storms, earthquakes, and volcanoes, or any other natural disaster, but they also frequently accompany the action of a character (s) or a change of setting within or between scenes.7 While these instrumental passages were used mainly to cover up the

noise of stage machinery in seventeenth-century theater, Campra and his contemporaries made a significant effort to incorporate them, as well as choruses, more fully into the drama. While they had some use in Lullian operas, they were far more developed and utilized in works of the préramiste period and would reach their peak in those of Rameau. Both choruses and dramatic symphonies are used in scenes with

6 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 177.

7 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 188-189.

127 sea monsters in French opera. Choruses frequently accompany its appearance and

function to lament the monster’s approach or to celebrate its defeat, as in Andromède

(1650) and Perseé (1682). A chorus was used again in Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie

(1733), although in this case it was used to lament the death of the protagonist who was devoured by the monster. Dramatic symphonies were also used in the depictions of tempêtes, which frequently accompanied or anticipated the appearance of the monster.

This was the case in Rameau’s Hippolyte and Dardanus (1739), and also the case in both Idoméneé and Idomeneo.

Scene Types: Tempête, Ombre, and Oracle in Campra’s Idoménée

All three of these scene types have specific musical styles, and all three can be

classified under the umbrella of what I am calling “supernatural exoticism.”8 As a

reminder from Chapter 1, “supernatural exoticism” can be described as the process of

evoking in or through visual images, text and/or music a place, creatures, characters or

scenario that is considered unreal, extraordinary or supernatural. Caroline Wood

discusses the increasingly important role of the orchestra within drama of operas

composed after Lully’s death. She argues that “the orchestra becomes an integral part

of the drama, introducing and supporting solo, ensemble and choral forces,

characterizing individuals and groups, describing natural and supernatural phenomena

and, to a limited extent, exploiting colour and texture.”9 In particular, she discusses

three distinctive types of scenes that emerged: the sommeil scene, the ombra or oracle

scene, and tempête (storm) scene. The latter two both hold a strong connection to the

8 For a detailed explanation of this concept, see Chapter 1 and Chapter 6.

9 Caroline Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle in the ‘tragédie en musique’ 1673-1715: Oracle, ‘sommeil’ and ‘tempête,’” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 108 (1981-1982), 29.

128 supernatural and, by extension, the appearance of sea monsters. They can both be

considered to fall under the umbrella of “supernatural exoticism.”

One of the most significant advances composers after Lully made was the

musical depiction of storm scenes. Wood claims that these scenes move further away

from Lully’s models than any other musical element.10 The first type of scene

considered to be in this category appeared in Pascal Collasse’s Thétis et Pélée

(1689).11 The components that characterize this style are increasingly active string

writing featuring tremolando, scalic runs in short note values (typically sixteenth or thirty-

second notes), and arpeggios. Campra’s Idoménée is the only opera from the early

eighteenth century that contains two storm scenes (all the others include only one), as

Wood shows.12 Campra played a vital role in popularizing this scene type.

Idoménée depends heavily upon storm scenes. For example, the second act

opens with “une tempête affreuse” and a spectacular shipwreck. The opening

description in the libretto sets the scene:

The stage shows the shores of the sea agitated by a horrible storm: the background is filled with broken vessels which have been shipwrecked. Darkness is spreading over all. One hears the noise of the thunder, and from time to time lightning flashes into the air.13

A descriptive symphonie erupts with sixteenth-note scale runs and arpeggios in the key of F major, while the basso continuo and bassoons move right along underneath with their steady eighth-note pattern, often thought as an imitation of the sea’s waves.

Object 5-1. Orchestral score, Idoménée, Act 2 scene 1

10 Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle,” 34.

11 Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle,” 40.

12 Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle,” 43.

13 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 392.

129 The “Chorus of people who have been shipwrecked” enter after the orchestra’s initial

têmpete depiction: “Oh Gods! Oh just Gods! Give us help: The winds, the sea, the

heaven all threaten our days!” For the first iteration of this phrase, the tonal area

remains in F major. In the second iteration, halfway through the phrase the key

transitions to C minor (mm. 37), and the third repetition changes to G minor (mm. 43-

44). Finally, the last statement of the text briefly visits B-flat major and then smoothly elides into Neptune’s recitative, which returns to F major. The second scene of act two begins with Neptune’s emergence from the sea. He speaks: “Cease to raise the waves.

Raging winds, cease: Go back to your deep prisons. Neptune speaks, obey.” This is set

as accompanied recitative with the strings and bassoons punctuating his statements

with scale flourishes representing the storm subsiding (mm. 73). These sonic depictions

of a storm functioned as an aid for audiences to visualize the chaos in the drama. It sets

the atmosphere aurally, and clearly means to suggest a specific moment in the narrative

that was significantly different from the other scenes in the drama. The storm music and

the entrance of a supernatural character (Neptune) who speaks to the frightened chorus

both support the interpretation of this scene as being “supernaturally exotic.”

In the second major tempête scene, Idomeneus attempts to send his son away

rather than sacrifice him, but “a terrifying noise is heard, the sea rises up, and the winds

form a tempest.”14 In A major, the dramatic symphonie is a flurry of string activity with sixteenth-note scalic passages reminiscent of the first storm scene. The beginning of scene eight is what Smith describes as a dramatic divertissement.15 The chorus enters

14 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 414. This storm is found in scene seven and eight of Act 3.

15 See Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 235-241. She distinguishes between two types of divertissements: spectacle and dramatic. “Each of these scenes types is a distinct category although their

130 in the key of e minor and exclaims in horror at the sight of Proteus emerging from the

sea: “What noise! What new obstacles! It is an enraged Proteus who appears on the

waves!” Proteus then calls forth the sea monster: “I come from the vast seas to close

the passages to you: treacherous king, fear the fury of a God. Come forth, cause

frightful ravages, Monster, spread terror; make terror and horror reign everywhere on

these shores.” As was Neptune’s recitative from act two, Proteus’s is also accompanied

and contains orchestral flourishes punctuating his phrases and highlighting the chaos

and frenzied activity of the storm and the sea (mm. 744-760). The bass line provides a sonic representation of the monster’s ascent from the depths as it moves chromatically upward (D, D-sharp, E) immediately before Proteus says “Come forth” (mm. 749-751).

The elongated high D Proteus sings on “reign” (“regner”) held for three full beats paints that word effectively, establishing the monster’s strength (mm. 762-763). On the last syllable of “horreur,” the music changes to a triple meter and the upper strings take off in furious sixteenth notes with moving eighth-note values in the bass (mm. 765-766). Here the libretto reads, “A monster comes out of the sea.” Finally, the chorus exclaims as they flee: “Ah! What hate! What wrath! Neptune, what offence rages you against us?” (“Ah!

Quelle haine! Quel courroux! Neptune, quell forfeit t’irrite contre nous?”).

Storm scenes, particularly those in Campra’s Idoménée, illustrate a tendency to give the orchestra a distinctive role in the drama and function to allow the composer to

dramatic functions may overlap. The former is more closely associated with celebrations, the latter with the presentation of special effects. When either type extends beyond the limits of a single scene to form a scene-complex the boundaries are defined not by a consistent number of characters but by the continuity of the subject matter. It is not unusual to find several independent spectacle scenes in succession, each with its own unique subject or dramatic purpose.” Dramatic divertissements are functional rather than decorative and contribute to the plot’s development, and there are usually fewer dances than in the spectacle divertissement. The dramatic content is often a reaction to natural phenomena.

131 construct large-scale movements founded upon the orchestra.16 Furthermore, they demonstrate that the orchestra was increasingly placed at the center of events in the drama. Composers depended upon instrumental sound and techniques to stir the emotions of their audience and to strengthen the connection between what the characters were experiencing on stage and the audience’s reaction to it. The orchestra’s integration into the drama and its heightened role in the narrative contrasts with its earlier function at least in one other opera highlighting a monster’s appearance: to cover up the noise of the stage machinery (recall Corneille’s Androméde of 1650 and its revival in 1682, discussed in Chapter 3). The dramatic role of instrumental music increased throughout the early eighteenth century in French opera, particularly in works by Rameau, and would significantly influence the transformations of Italian opera seria that were to come in the middle of the century.

Smith demonstrates that the two versions of Idoménée, the first from 1712 and its 1731 revision, are excellent candidates in revealing how aesthetic tastes in opera were changing early in the century. A substantial number of differences are noticeable between the premiere and revised versions, and there is evidence of Italian compositional influence in the revision including polyphonic textures, melismatic vocal lines, active bass lines, and affective intervals, particularly in the airs.17 Arguably the most salient change in the 1731 revision is the clear effort to incorporate the obligatory entertainments such as the divertissements, instrumental music in the form of dramatic symphonies, and choruses into the drama in order to strengthen the dramatic structure.

16 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 344.

17 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 347.

132 The latter is seen in the way the thematic material in choruses usually comes from a

musical unit that immediately precedes it—a dance, air, prelude, or dramatic symphonie

(as is the case in the tempête scenes).18 Dramatic symphonies show musical

inventiveness in their wide variety of instrumental combinations, polyphonic textures,

and extended range of orchestral techniques. These made more technical demands on

the players than the music of Lully’s operas. The significance of these innovations can

perhaps only be fully appreciated when considered retrospectively in light of the efforts

to integrate these French elements into Italian opera in the decades following these

advancements in France’s own repertoire.

Mozart and Varesco’s Idomeneo

Leopold Mozart's letter to his son from Salzburg on December 11, 1780

illustrates Leopold’s influence on the progress of the production of Idomeneo then

taking shape in Munich:

I advise you when working on the score to consider not only the musical but also the unmusical public. You know that for every 10 real connoisseurs there are 100 ignoramuses. So don't forget what's called the popular style, which tickles long ears.19

Wolfgang's response a few days later is typical of the composer's confidence and

knowledge about the necessity of catering to the taste of connoisseurs as well as

amateur audiences20: “As for what is called popular taste, don't worry, for my opera

18 Smith, “Andre Campra's Idoménée,” 350.

19 Leopold Mozart to Wolfgang Mozart, Salzburg, 11 December 1780, in The Letters of Mozart & His Family, ed. Emily Anderson, C. B. Oldman, and Ludwig Schiedermair (London: Macmillan and Company, 1938), 685.

20 For a discussion of connoisseur and amateur audiences and the eighteenth-century composers' concern for a balance of the two, see Mark Evan Bonds, “Listening to Listeners” in Communication in Eighteenth-Century Music, eds. Danuta Mirka and Kofi Agawu (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 34-52.

133 contains music for all kinds of people, not just for those with long ears.”21 In

emphasizing the foolish depiction of amateur (“popular”) audience members, both

Leopold and Wolfgang appear to discount the fact the music must always appeal to

both kinds of audience members in order to be successful. Yet, although Mozart claimed

to be doing just that in Idomeneo, much of the music of this French-inspired work was nothing if not challenging to its contemporary audiences. As in the French version of the myth, the integration of the chorus, the increasingly dramatic role of the orchestra, and an emphasis on dramatic continuity all formed the basis for experimentation in this

Italian-French theatrical synthesis. Nowhere in the opera is the challenge to audiences

of conventional opera seria demonstrated more clearly than in the music that accompanies supernatural events including the oracle’s prophesy, the storm scenes, and the appearance of the sea monster.

During the summer of 1778, Mozart sought an appropriate subject to set for an

opera. Two years later, to his delight, Carl Theodor commissioned him to write the main

opera for a carnival at Munich.22 The opera was to be serious, in whatever language he

preferred, and on a large scale. He would also have the Mannheim orchestra at his

disposal, which meant the music could be challenging for instrumentalists. The

information about who chose Danchet’s Idomenée as the subject is lacking, but Heartz

mentions that Carl Theodor was surrounded by literati who debated the matter. He also

writes that the choice was very appropriate in the context of what was in vogue for

21 Wolfgang Mozart to Leopold Mozart, Munich, 16 December 1780, in The Letters of Mozart & His Family, 690.

22 Daniel Heartz, “The Genesis of Mozart’s Idomeneo,” in Mozart’s Operas, ed. Thomas Bauman (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), 16.

134 opera seria during the time, namely revising tragédie lyriques into Italian librettos and

integrating elements of French spectacle in Italian-style musical practices. Furthermore,

the Idomeneo tale aligned well with Francesco Algarotti’s recommendation of Iphigénie

en Aulide as a topic well suited for operatic experimentations in his Saggio sopra l’opera

in musica (1755). Both stories are rooted in Greek tragedy and contain the theme of

sacrifice of one’s kin for the common good.

Perhaps the greatest contrast between the Danchet/Campra and the

Varesco/Mozart setting of the myth is the presence of Venus, Neptune, Nemesis, and other gods and allegorical figures from the former that were eliminated from the latter

(except for Neptune). Lois Rosow suggests that this convention of the tragédie en musique, which she describes as the humanization of the supernatural, “apparently did not interest Mozart and Varesco.”23 Indeed, Varesco only kept Neptune in a pantomime

of the first act and as a mysterious voice at the end of the opera. However, the

elimination of most of the supernatural entities or events in the French version might be

explained in another way. As is indicated in many of his letters to his father, Mozart was

clearly concerned with the length of the work and was continuously cutting arias and

asking Varesco to shorten parts of the libretto. Supernatural interventions were a

familiar convention in seventeenth and eighteenth-century French opera, but they were

much less common in opera outside of France; they were especially uncommon in

Italian opera due to their banishment by the Arcadian Academy early in the century. But,

considering the fact that in certain places supernatural elements were being

reintroduced to Italian opera along with choruses, dance, and spectacle at mid-century,

23 Lois Rosow, “Idomeneo and Idoménée and the French Disconnection,” in "L'esprit Français" Und Die Musik Europas (New York: Olms, 2007), 435.

135 Mozart and Varesco’s elimination of them can more reasonably be attributed to practical

concerns regarding the length of the work.24

Eliminating supernatural elements in Idomeneo does not in any way de- emphasize them, but rather causes them to be all the more striking for their rarity and because of the special care taken to depict them effectively on the stage:

The chorus numbers, even those that do not add to the progress of the plot, are vital elements in this respect as are the manifestations of the supernatural, upon which the plot still depends in spite of the accents on realism and personal human drama. If the supernatural aspects are underplayed, the monster at the end of Act II and the voice that brings about the lieto fine remain distanced from the remainder of the action. The ever-present threat of the sea, a visual effect called for in the scene descriptions, helps to align these occult elements with the human action.25

Indeed, Mozart's correspondence with his father reveals that both were concerned with

the believability of Neptune's voice uttering the prophesy of Idomeneo, Idamante, and

Ilia’s fate in the final act of scene three. Wolfgang’s letter, with its detailed description of

how the voice should be framed musically, is particularly telling:

Tell me, don’t you think that the speech of the subterranean voice is too long? Consider it carefully. Picture yourself in the theatre, and remember that the voice must be terrifying—must penetrate—that the audience must believe that it really exists. Well, how can this effect be produced if the speech is too long, for in this case the listener will become more and more convinced that it means nothing? If the speech of the Ghost in Hamlet were not so long it would be far more effective. It is quite easy to shorten the speech of the subterranean voice and it will gain thereby more than it will lose.26

Clearly, when it came to supernatural voices, Wolfgang believed that less was more. His

24 See the discussion of similar circumstances surrounding the production of Traetta’s Ippolito ed Aricia in Chapter 4.

25 Don Neville, “From tragédie lyrique to moral drama,” in Julian Rushton, W.A. Mozart 'Idomeneo' (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 81.

26 Emily Anderson, Wolfgang Mozart to Leopold Mozart, Salzburg, 29 December 1780, in The Letters of Mozart & His Family, 674.

136 father responded with musical suggestions for the scene:

I assume that you will choose very deep wind-instruments to accompany the subterranean voice. How would it be if after the slight subterranean rumble the instruments sustained, or rather began to sustain, their notes piano then made a crescendo such as might almost inspire terror, while after this and during the decrescendo the voice would begin to sing? And there might be a terrifying crescendo at every phrase uttered by the voice. Owing to the rumble, which must be short, and rather like the shock of a thunderbolt, which sends up the figure of Neptune, the attention of the audience is aroused; and this attention is intensified by the introduction of a quiet, prolonged and then swelling and very alarming wind-instrument passage, and finally becomes strained to the utmost when, behold! A voice is heard. Why, I seem to see and hear it.27

The long-standing convention of accompanying infernal scenes or subterranean characters or voices can be traced back to the beginning of opera as a genre. Brass instruments, and particularly trombones, have long been associated with the somber and noble elegance of the underworld. This “deep” sonority in tandem with the dramatic crescendos and decrescendos of the wind instruments to build terrifying tension before the voice speaks is so specifically described in Leopold's letter that one cannot ignore how important this moment was in the opera. Leopold himself seems “to see and hear it.” Mozart heeded his father's instructions, and replied that he had used five instruments only to accompany the subterranean voice: three trombones and two French horns. The use of trombones was something that audiences likely appreciated and functioned as an invocation of an otherworldly realm.

Oracle and Ombre Scenes

According to Wood, an oracle scene involves “a disclosure of prophesy or advice at a sacred place, usually in ambiguous terms, or in the more general sense of a pronouncement of doom or straightforward fortune-telling, often uninvited and provided

27 Anderson, Leopold Mozart to Wolfgang Mozart, Salzburg, 29 December 1780, in The Letters of Mozart & His Family, 700.

137 by an underworld figure…”28 Ombres, translating to “spirits” or “shades,” refer to long-

dead ancestors or a spirit of the departed who returns to haunt the living characters in

the drama. The musical ingredients of these scenes include “monotones in voice and/or

accompaniment, vocal rhythm less flexible and slower-moving that surrounding

recitative, and obsessive rhythmic figure in the accompaniment, the scoring pitched low,

A-flat minor key.”29 This list resonates with Clive McClelland’s own definition of the

elements of an ombra scene as including slow sustained writing, the use of flat keys, angular melodic lines, chromaticism and dissonance, dotted rhythms and syncopation, pauses, tremolando effects, sudden dynamic contrasts, unexpected harmonic progressions and unusual instrumentation (especially involving trombones).30

It is well known that Mozart had disagreements with the intendant of Mannheim’s court

opera, Count Seeau, over the matter of inclusion of trombones in the Act 3 oracle

scene, and their expense.31 Seeau negotiated the contract and was involved with the

opera’s progress. The fact that the composer was willing to go to great lengths to

include them demonstrates their importance to his conception of the scene. Yet the fact

that there are four different versions of the score for the scene and that the version in

the Munich performing score contains horns, clarinets and bassoons (but no trombones)

indicates that he may not have won the disagreement, or at the very least had to make

28 Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle,” 30.

29 Wood, “Orchestra and Spectacle,” 32.

30 Clive McClelland, "Ombra." In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/51808 (accessed June 7, 2012). See also his taxonomy of ombra characteristics listed as Appendix A in McClelland, Ombra: Supernatural Music in the Eighteenth Century (United Kingdom: Lexington Books, 2012), 225. McClelland’s book is discussed in Chapter 3.

31 Anderson, Letters, 706. Mozart wrote to his father: “In addition to many other minor rows with Count Seeau I have had a desperate fight with him about the trombones. I call it a desperate fight, because I had to be rude to him, or I should never have got my way.”

138 other arrangements if the extra expense was not feasible in every performing context.

Although there are four different versions of Neptune’s music for Act three, scene

ten, all of them are slow and in the key of c minor, and most if not all the features in

each version suggest an oracle scene:

No. 28a (using the numbering in NMA) is the shortest, without Leopold’s suggested dynamic effects, but with a dotted rhythmic pattern rather than the sustained single chords in the other versions. The vocal line is a straightforward recitation on either tonic or dominant for most of the time, but ending on the raised median for a very ecclesiastical tierce de Picardie, complete with a 4-3-2-3 suspension. This ornamental suspension also appears in No. 23b at bar 21, but not in the last two. Nos. 28b,c, and d are of greater length, substantially so in the case of 28c, which is the setting of Varesco’s full text that Mozart felt was too long. These longer versions produce more variety in the vocal line, but this is achieved mainly because of the modulations. Within each key, the voice adheres principally to the notes of the tonic triad, and leading-notes are significantly absent. As far as the harmony is concerned, nearly all the chords are in root position, as though to add greater authority to the words of the deity. The only dissonances are provided by the occasional suspension and diminished seventh chord. This is the only scene in any of Mozart’s operas that can be classified as an oracle scene, but there are allusions to this style of writing in his mature operas, where some “oracle” characteristics appear in different contexts.32

In examining the version No. 28d, it is clear that, as McClelland says, the oracle scene

can be considered a subset of the ombra style, but a significant difference lies in the melodic content in oracle scenes.

Object 5-2. Orchestral score, Idomeneo, Act 3 scene 10, No. 28 (Oracle scene)

Vocal melodies are chant-like and frequently are limited to a monotone but are

composed in such a way as to produce an awe-inspiring effect, particularly when

combined with dark instrumentation, low tessitura and dynamic changes.33

32 McClelland, Ombra, 79-80.

33 McClelland, Ombra, 81.

139 Tempête Scenes in Idomeneo

Varesco followed Campra/Danchet’s French version by including two storm

scenes in Idomeneo: the first is placed at the end of the first act and the second, more

complex scene is found at the end of the second act. The latter scene is similar to the

French version: Idomeneus is attempting to send his son Idamante away on a ship in

order to avoid having to sacrifice him and fulfill his promise to Neptune. As the ship

prepares to embark, however, a tempest breaks out and a terrible sea-monster

appears. The instrumental Piú Allegro sets the scene before the chorus enters with

repetitive and frenzied sixteenth-note patterns in the strings that are reinforced by the

forte chords on each beat of the measure in the winds (Object 5-2, page 181). The

sixteenth-note oscillations are continued into the No. 17 chorus (Object 5-2, page 182) where the opening figure in the strings is also a sixteenth-note oscillation between two half-steps. They are punctuated by sustained chords in the winds in the third and fourth measures, while the second violins play a syncopated pattern underneath. The chorus

enters and exclaims “What new terror! What hoarse roaring! The gods' fury has whipped

up the sea. Neptune, have mercy!” Daniel Heartz describes the terror of the scene:

Neptune, goaded beyond measure by human subterfuge, finally rises to the occasion. Mozart's sixteen-measure orchestral storm may seem too slight to accomplish the peripeteia, but remember its accomplices: the wave machine, thunder drum, and reflector lamps to make lightning. Entering with a shriek on its diminished seventh chord, the chorus informs us at once that this disturbance is going to make the previous one seem tame by comparison. The storm increases in fury, and a sea monster appears accompanied by the hair-raising substitution of b-flat minor for an expected c minor. The flesh creeps at this new sign that "the time is out of joint." Three times, in a sequence of descending seconds, the people cry out for the person guilty of provoking Neptune's wrath to reveal himself; their wail is echoed and amplified by the massed winds. At this almost unbearably tense juncture, Idomeneo steps forward and names himself. The effect is electrifying. (Note how Mozart links Idomeneo's recitative with the preceding chorus by continuing the descending bass line so that the

140 moment of revelation becomes a harmonic resolution.) He alone is guilty and only he should be punished; if Neptune insists on an innocent victim, then, says Idomeneo, addressing the deity directly: "You are an unjust god! You may not have him!"34

The activity in the strings changes noticeably when the chorus sings “The gods’ fury has whipped up the sea”—the second violins play quarter notes with tremolos on each beat while the first violins have quarter notes that leap over two octaves between pitches, both figures representing the agitation of the sea (mm. 11-17). After the chorus

mentions the agitation of the sea, the violins play a well-known figure that hearkens back to Rameau’s own tempête scenes: the thirty-second note rapid flourish of an ascending scale (mm.17-18). The chorus pleads for Neptune to have mercy and the strings begin to play ascending and descending scale figures in sixteenth-notes, perhaps figures meant to represent the undulating motion of the sea (mm. 21-24). This is followed by three measures of repeating chromatic descents accompanied by decrescendos, again in the strings (mm. 25-27).

The depiction of the monster rising out of the depths in Idomeneo is very similar to Campra’s music for Idoménée: the strings and bass begin a two-measure chromatic ascent that ends in the beginning of a syncopated figure (Object 5-2, mm. 30-32). The chorus begins a new phrase with this change in musical texture: “What hate, what anger

Neptune shows us! What is our sin, that heaven rages? Who is the guilty one?” The people demand to know the identity of the guilty person who so greatly angered the gods. The syncopated figure in the strings reflects the agitation and fear of the chorus, while the winds play sustained pitches. During the lines reading “What is our sin, that heaven rages?” the vocal lines are remarkably static in their repetition of the same

34 Heartz, “The Genesis of Mozart’s Idomeneo,” 24-25.

141 pitches. The chorus then repeats “Who is the guilty one?” over and over, with some

striking harmonies foreign to the key area of C minor (mm. 48-60).35

Idomeneo finally confesses that he is the one who has angered the gods. He offers up himself for their sacrifice, but refuses to give them his son saying that if the gods demand Idamante, they are unjust and cannot claim him. This leads the chorus into arguably the most frightening and frenzied chorus in the whole of the work,

“Corriamo, fuggiamo.” In a brisk 12/8 meter, the winds begin with eighth notes off the

beat while the timpani has a sustained trill (Object 5-2, page 193). Everything begins

very quietly, as if the whole scene is blanketed in a hushed horror, and indeed it is, as

the chorus is shocked to hear that their King is responsible for such outrageous activity:

The people, understanding little or nothing of such irreverent defiance, must nevertheless suffer its consequences. The storm continues, says the libretto, and the people take to flight, expressing their terror in dramatic pantomime while singing the chorus ("Corriamo, fuggiamo") so that "the whole formed an analogous action, closing the act with the accustomed Divertimento." Terror-stricken by the violence of the scene, the audience hardly needed this reminder that there would be no further "entertainment" until Act Three. One spectator at the rehearsal of Act Two reported to Leopold (Dec. 25) that the storm choruses "were so forceful that they would turn anyone ice cold, even in the greatest summer heat."36

The chorus enters in the fifth bar where there is an obvious break in orchestral activity

and quietly, but frantically sings “Let us run, let us fly from that pitiless monster!” Their

statement is immediately followed in mm. 7 with forte rapid descending and ascending

scale activity in the winds and strings, representing the agitation of the chorus, the

35 Several scholars have discussed what is known as the “Idamante motive”—a motive that appears recurrently throughout the opera, is associated with that character, and lends greater dramatic detail and layers of meaning to the narrative. For more on the appearance of motives in Idomeneo, see Daniel Heartz, “Tonality and Motive in Idomeneo,” The Musical Times 115, no. 1575 (May 1974), 382-386 and Julian Rushton, “’La vittima è Idamante’: Did Mozart Have a Motive?” Cambridge Opera Journal 3, no. 1 (March 1991), 1-21.

36 Heartz, “The Genesis of Mozart’s ‘Idomeneo,’” 11.

142 storm, and fear of the approaching monster.

Conclusions

Idomeneo and Idoméneé demonstrate similar approaches in creating the image

of the sea monster in text and music: Campra and Mozart both used choruses and

instrumental music in and around the scenes relating to the monster. On a broad level,

my findings have been similar in all of the works I have examined. The fact that the

“dramatic symphonie” developed largely in Campra’s musical style is significant, since his work took place between the periods of Lully and Rameau, the monumental figures in French opera from its origins up to the late eighteenth century. Campra’s efforts to incorporate both choruses and dramatic symphonies into the drama has not received the attention it merits, perhaps because of the emphasis on Rameau’s own extensive use of them in his works. On their way to becoming a convention, storm scenes specifically used the orchestra in innovative ways and effectively put the orchestra at the center of the drama. This was different from what had been happening in the previous century, where instrumental music was mainly used to cover up noise from the stage machinery. In addition to storm scenes with specific musical features, oracle and ombra scenes, particularly the oracle scene in Idomeneo, indicate a growing preoccupation with the supernatural in opera and musical means to depict it. As is indicated in Wolfgang Mozart’s extended communications about the oracle scene with his father and the multiple versions of the score form the scene, how the audience aurally experienced the scene was a significant concern. Along with Rameau’s

Hippolyte et Aricie and Dardanus, Idoménée and Idomeneo contain perhaps the most vivid and convincing portrayals of the sea monster in opera of the eighteenth century.

Furthermore, sea monsters had been largely dwelling in the realm of French opera. As

143 a French-Italian synthesis, Idomeneo’s incorporation of French elements were not limited to chorus and dance, but also provided an ample opportunity to utilize musical styles audiences would recognize. The integration of an oracle scene with ombra-style music and the further addition of tempête scenes effectively created the atmosphere of another world; a world where monsters are just as real as the gods who send them.

144 CHAPTER 6 THE MEANING OF THE MONSTER

Until this point, the focus has been on individual works based upon myths that

include the appearance of a sea monster and how the monster was displayed to the

audience, the reaction of the audience to it, and how the music accompanying the

monster aided its efficacy. In this chapter, the focus will shift to a consideration of what

the monster means, not only what it meant to contemporary audiences, but what it could

mean to us presently in a different cultural context. I will examine several of the

individual works that have already been discussed and provide possible interpretations

for the monster’s meaning in each based upon its context and contemporary accounts

but also based upon what modern scholars have written about them and about horror

and monsters in general. Before considering the individual works, however, some of the

secondary literature on the difference between horror and terror and the meaning of

monsters in various cultures and forms of media provides a necessary context.

Horror vs. Terror and the Role of Monsters

Why can sea monsters, or any monsters for that matter, be considered horrifying? An argument can be made that horror should be considered to belong to the genus of the fantastic-marvelous, or in terms of seventeenth and eighteenth-century

European spectacle, meraviglia. I would propose that although horror may in general be considered to exist under the umbrella of the marvelous, it also constitutes a distinctive species. The concept of the marvelous simply does not go far enough and is not specific enough in referring to the particular affect that the horror genre is predicated upon. Philosopher Noël Carroll discusses the fact that genres are quite often named by the very affect they are designed to provoke: “Like works of suspense, works of horror

145 are designed to elicit a certain kind of affect. I shall presume that this is an emotional

state, which emotion I call art-horror.”1 He also argues that the presence of monsters is

a good way to distinguish horror from terror, “for horror appears to be one of those

genres in which the emotive responses of the audience, ideally, run parallel to the

emotions of characters. Indeed, in works of horror the responses of characters often

seem to cue the emotional responses of the audiences.”2 As a genre, horror creates

what can be considered a mirror-effect in its audiences: “Our responses are supposed

to converge (but not exactly duplicate) those of the characters; like the characters we

assess the monster as a horrifying sort of being (though unlike the characters, we do

not believe in its existence). This mirroring-effect, moreover, is a key feature of the

horror genre.”3 The very word “horror” means to stand on end or to “bristle,” and it is

associated with something that is so uncomfortable that it is linked to a physically

agitated state.4

1 Noël Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror or Paradoxes of the Heart (New York: Routledge, 1990), 15. On page 13, he writes, “’Art-horror,’ by stipulation, is meant to refer to the product of a genre that crystallized, speaking very roughly, around the time of the publication of Frankenstein—give or take fifty years—and that has persisted, often cyclically, through novels and plays of the nineteenth century and the literature, comic books, pulp magazines and films of the twentieth.”

2 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 17. “The emotional reactions of characters, then, provide a set of instructions or, rather, examples about the way in which the audience is to respond to the monsters in the fictions—that is, about the way we are meant to react to its monstrous properties.”

3 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 18.

4 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 24. Thomas Downing has also discussed the difference between horror and terror in relation to eighteenth-century theatrical aesthetics: “In his Code de musique pratique (1760), Rameau mentions the trio and explains that he had used ‘the enharmonic genre...to inspire repulsion and horror’.... Almost a century earlier, La Mesnardière had explained the distinction between horror and terror, the latter being the affect that the spectator of tragedy should ideally experience. Horror was a violent and visceral reaction and was to be avoided in tragedy; terror, however, was grounded in an intellectual identification with the tragic characters that had, at least potentially, salutary moral consequences. As John Lyons writes, ‘horror has always been linked to the body’ and is derived from the Latin horrere, meaning ‘to bristle.’ Whereas terror produces lessons upon which one can base future actions, horror paralyzes the spectator in the present, stranding him in his body and its reaction to the event on stage. The distinction between horror and terror remained in place in the Encyclopédie of

146 Terror, in the eighteenth century, increasingly began to be associated with the

aesthetic notion of the sublime, as is evident in the writings of philosophers such as

Immanuel Kant and Edmund Burke. Writing in 1759 on the aesthetic of the sublime,

Burke stated the following:

Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling. I say the strongest emotion, because I am satisfied the ideas of pain are much more powerful than those which enter on the part of pleasure.5

As Elaine Sisman has pointed out, the “disinterested” contemplation that was essential

to the formation of aesthetics in the eighteenth century “powerfully described a sublime

of the supernatural, dark, disordered, painful, terrifying sort.”6 This idea of the sublime

was meant to be terrible; it also had the capacity to please, but only if whoever was

beholding it was at a certain distance and certain modifications were observed. For

example, a storm at sea is sublime if one observing it is not in a boat caught in its midst.

Carroll argues that the presence of monsters is exclusive to the horror genre and

is another mark of difference between horror and terror.7 But there must also be a

Diderot and d'Alembert: terreur, Jaucourt wrote, is a poetic and intellectual response based on moral identification; d'Alembert observed that horreur, however, causes a physical response (‘trembling’) which can be described medically.” See Downing A. Thomas, Aesthetics of Opera in the Ancien Regime, 1647- 1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 166.

5 Edmund Burke, A philosophical enquiry into the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful: with an introductory discourse concerning taste, and several other additions (Montrose: D. Buchanan, 1803), 58- 59.

6 Elaine Rochelle Sisman, Mozart, The “Jupiter” Symphony, No. 41 in C Major, K. 551 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 16-17.

7 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 14. David Gilmore offers a different interpretation of monsters; one that says they embody both terror and horror: “For monsters contain that numinous quality of awe mixed with horror and terror that unites the evil and the sublime in a single symbol: that which is beyond the human, the superhuman, the unnameable, the tabooed, the terrible, and the unknown.” See Gilmore,

147 further distinction, because monsters often appear in other genres such as myths and

fairy tales. One way to separate them is to observe that in horror, monsters are extraordinary creatures in an ordinary world; in myth, they are ordinary characters in an

extraordinary world.8 In horror, the responses of characters in the drama often seem to

cue the emotional responses of the audience, thus the reactions of the characters

provide a set of instructions or examples about the way in which the audience is to

respond to the monsters in the fiction (the mirror-effect). There exists a wide variety of

what can be considered a monster, and not all of them are meant to be feared. For

example, the way we as audience members are supposed to react to what Regan

becomes when she is possessed by the demon in The Exorcist is different than how we

are expected to react to the beast in Beauty and the Beast. In the former, we know from

the responses of the other characters in the story that the demon is an abomination; is

not of this world, should not exist, does not fit into the categorical distinctions by which

we understand and perceive objects in the world, and so we fear it as do the characters

in the book and film. Furthermore, the fact that the demon is using Regan’s body to

communicate and act provides even more confusion as it is a violation of categorization.

Regan’s family and friends do not know how to help her, for the demon is acting through

her body, and so any violent actions toward the demon would likely result in damage to

Regan as well. In Beauty and the Beast, widely regarded as a fairy tale, the initial

response to the beast is fear, but the more we witness his interactions with Beauty, the

less dangerous and monstrous he seems to her and by extension to us.

Monsters: Evil Beings, Mythical Beasts, and All Manner of Imaginary Terrors (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press, 2003), 10.

8 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 16.

148 Another aspect of monsters, discussed by anthropologist Mary Douglas, deals

with the transgressive nature or “violation of schemes of cultural categorization” that

monsters often represent; what she and Carroll both refer to as “interstitial” beings.9

This can mean that an entity is impure or considered to be unnatural if it is categorically

interstitial, categorically contradictory, incomplete, or formless.10 To this I would add

creatures whose shape is unclear or appear to be impossibly large but are obscured by

their surroundings (in the case of a sea monster, the ocean surrounding it). The key to

this idea and to monsters in general is their transgression of nature:

They are un-natural relative to a culture’s conceptual scheme of nature. They do not fit the scheme; they violate it. Thus, monsters are not only physically threatening; they are cognitively threatening. They are threats to common knowledge. Undoubtedly, it is in virtue of this cognitive threat that not only are horrific monsters referred to as impossibly, but also that they tend to render those who encounter them insane, mad, deranged, and so on. For such monsters are in a certain sense challenges to the foundations of a culture’s way of thinking.11

This is further supported by the fact that monsters are often viewed as having an origin in a place that is typically unknown or outside the realm of human the world—places such as outer space, deep beneath the surface of the earth, in other dimensions of time or space, or the ocean’s depths.

Monsters, particularly the sea monster, can be said to possess the ability to trigger “enduring infantile fears, such as those of being eaten or dismembered, or

9 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 31. He references Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1966). Examples of interstitial beings those that are said to be both living and dead: zombies, vampires, ghosts, werewolves, etc.

10 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 32.

11 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 34.

149 sexual fears, concerning rape or incest.”12 Anthropologist David Gilmore argues that

since monsters are undoubtedly connected to childhood fancies, we should explore the

psychoanalysis of childhood in order to understand what they represent.13 In addition to

children viewing their parents as physically imposing because they are larger, there is

also the trope of “colossal mouth as an organ of predation and destruction.”14 According

to him, this trope “betrays a universal obsession with oral aggression,” and along the

same lines, cannibalism. In the monster narrative, where one is attacked by a monster

with the intent to consume, there is an incorporation of both a primary aggressive

impulse onto an external object and at the same time, a demonstration of guilt or

victimization; “the fantasist is both subject (eater) and object (eaten). The dual fantasy

implies both a cannibalistic urge and wish to be eaten (that is, physically punished, torn

apart, mutilated).”15 In many of the operas discussed in previous chapters that involve a

sea monster, the mouth or jaws is one of the focal points of contemporary descriptions.

In Chaveau’s engraving of the climax of Corneille’s Andromède (1650 and 1682)

(discussed in Chapter 3), Perseus dives on his winged-horse toward the threatening

monster with jaws agape below. The livret from 1682 reports that the monster “comes

toward the unhappy Andromeda to swallow her up.” Furthermore, recall the quote from

a contemporary spectator of a court revival of Lully’s Persée (1682) given in Chapter 3:

Every sea monster, for example, should be at least 18 feet long by 6 feet wide with an aperture in its head that could gobble up a twenty-year-old;

12 Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, 43.

13 Gilmore, Monsters, 175-176.

14 Gilmore, Monsters, 176-180.

15 Gilmore, Monsters, 184.

150 how ridiculous a monster seems if it is reduced to snapping like a common guard dog. That is truly ignoble.16

Clearly, the oral threat of the monster and the imposition of its mouth as a large, gaping,

devouring image was a significant component in its efficacy at provoking terror from the

audience. Finally, the only contemporary account of the production of Rameau’s

Hippolyte et Aricie (1733) stated that the sea monster “belches forth fire and smoke,”

which lends further credence to the significance of the monster’s oral aspect.17

The Monster as Divinity

Fear is arguably the expected reaction to the threat of a monstrous entity. Yet

there is more to it than fear. Philosopher Stephen Asma has observed that humans are

curious about the unknown—there exists a simultaneous repulsion and attraction to

things we fear:18

One aspect of the monster concept seems to be the breakdown of intelligibility. An action of a person or thing is monstrous when it can’t be processed by our rationality, and also when we cannot readily relate to the emotional range involved.19

This statement resonates with Kant's concept of the sublime. Kant thought of the

sublime as an experience that embodied contradictory pleasure but that could also

become psychologically complex, or too much to take in. Because the sublime

experience is based on formlessness, it cannot be understood, and it makes demands

upon the imagination and exceeds the organizing capacity of the mind. This could

16 Banducci, “The Opera Atelier Performance.” 17 Rameau, Bouissou, and Pellegrin, Hippolyte et Aricie, “The 1733 Paris Performances.” Original source: Mercure de France, 1733, October, 2245. See Chapter 4.

18 This resonates with Carroll’s notion that experiencing horror causes a “paradox of the heart.”

19 Stephen T. Asma, On Monsters: An Unnatural History of Our Worst Fears (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 10.

151 happen in two ways: the first by magnitude or extent, what is known as the

“mathematical sublime,” and the second by power or force—the “might of nature” or

“dynamical sublime” (based on Edmund Burke).20 The recurring image for the latter

between the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was a thunderbolt. Kant gives

as an example of the “mathematical” sublime the “starry heavens” because it is

impossible for us to count all the stars in the sky or contemplate how many there are.

After all, “Nature is therefore sublime in those of its phenomena, whose intuition brings

with it the Idea of their infinity.”21 Linking the monster to such vast natural spaces—the

heavens, the sea, outer space—suggests a correlation between the monster and a

divine entity or deities. It also suggests that the monster is in some way sublime due to

its origins and our inability to comprehend its magnitude.

The word “monster” derives from the Latin word “monstrum” which in turn derives

from the root “monere,” which means “to warn.” As Asma writes, to be a monster is to

be an omen or a portent:

The monster could be a display of God’s wrath, a portent of the future, a symbol of moral virtue or vice, or an accident of nature. The monster is more than an odious creature of the imagination; it is a kind of cultural category, employed in domains as diverse as religion, biology, literature, and politics.22

The trope of “monster sent by god to enact vengeance” is seen in several of the operas discussed in this document. In the Andromeda myth (settings discussed in Chapter 3),

the deity Neptune sent the sea monster to punish the kingdom of Queen Cassiopeia

because she had dared to compare her daughter Andromeda’s beauty to the Nereids.

20 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, 2nd ed., trans. J.H. Bernard (London: Macmillan and Company, 1914), Par. 25. 21 Kant, Critique of Judgment, Par. 26.

22 Asma, On Monsters, 13.

152 The oracle then reveals that the only way to save the town is to sacrifice Andromeda to the monster. In Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie (1733) and Traetta’s Ippolito ed Aricia

(1759), due to a misunderstanding, Theseus believes Hippolytus has threatened the honor of his step-mother, Phaedra. Theseus prays to Neptune to punish his son, and a sea monster is sent to devour the unfortunate Hippolytus. In Rameau’s Dardanus

(1739), Neptune sends a sea monster to enact vengeance on the “impious imprisonment” of the titular character, who is a son of Jupiter.23 Dardanus eventually escapes, confronts, and slays the monster. Finally, in Campra’s Idoménée (1712) and

Mozart’s Idomeneo (1781), the King of Crete (Idomeneus) vows to Neptune that if he escapes the shipwreck unharmed, he will sacrifice to the god the first living thing he encounters upon his arrival to the shore. Unfortunately, this turns out to be his son,

Idamante. Idomeneus, in an attempt to save his son from this horrible fate, puts

Idamante on a ship. Before the ship is able to embark, however, Neptune sends a terrible sea monster and a tempest breaks out.

Timothy Beal, a professor of religion, writes about our responses to monsters but also the paradox that goes along with associating terrible creatures with deities. He claims that humans typically respond to monsters in two ways: by demonizing them or deifying them.24 By demonizing them, we align ourselves with God against them, we keep God on our side. A deified monster is “a revelation of sacred otherness:”

Its coming into the world is represented as a heirophany, that is, a revelation of the holy. Here the monster is an envoy of the divine or the

23 Graham Sadler. "Dardanus (i)." The New Grove Dictionary of Opera. Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, accessed August 11, 2014, http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.lp.hscl.ufl.edu/subscriber/article/grove/music/O901257.

24 Timothy K. Beal, Religion and Its Monsters (New York: Routledge, 2002), 6.

153 sacred as radically other than “our” established order of things. It is an invasion of what we might call sacred chaos and disorientation within self, society and world…If demonizing the monster keeps God on our side, then deifying it often puts us in a world of religious disorientation and horror.25

He further adds that often we do not find just demonization or deification, but we respond to the monster as an entity associated with both demon and deity. This leads to an intensified paradox, where the ambiguity between the divine and non-divine is revealed. This concept of divine ambiguity fits not only with the monster, but also with the god most often sending it, Neptune. The gods, though at times merciful, are more often thirsty for vengeance or divine retribution for wrongs done to them by mortals.

Furthermore, the experience of horror in relation to what can be considered monstrous is often described in terms that correspond with a religious experience: fear, simultaneous repulsion and attraction, and sheer awe are typical reactions to both.26

These conflicting emotions happening simultaneously resonate with what Carroll calls

the “paradox of the heart;” as audience members, we are terrified to watch what will

happen, yet at the same time we cannot look away. The audience’s conflicting reactions

to the monster’s presence mirrors the ambiguity inherent in the monster itself. In a more

deeply terrifying way, this reveals the spectator’s similarities with the monster.

Another Kind of Monster: Rameau’s “Monstrous” Opera

Charles Dill’s work on Rameau and his book on the subject of what he calls

“monstrous opera” demonstrates that Rameau’s compositional aesthetic reveals a man

who was obsessed with tradition, music theory, and the expectations of the public when

25 Beal, Religion and Its Monsters, 6.

26 Beal, Religion and Its Monsters, 6-7.

154 it came to his music. At a time when listeners understood and expected lyric tragedy to

be poetic rather than musical, Rameau’s music was profoundly frustrating to

contemporary audiences.27 This led to frequent accounts of his music being described

as “monstrous.” In the eighteenth century, “monstrous” was used as a reference to an

image of deformity and to represent the failure of reason and communication.28 Rameau

tried to answer his critics with theoretical arguments about the role of music in lyric

tragedy, but he also sought to placate them and in doing so revised many of his texts in

later performances.29 These revisions, however, often resulted in the elimination of

some of his most creative ideas and expressive music, as was the case with

Dardanus.30

Dill highlights another important idea: that of reformulated notions of musical

genre along the lines of intelligibility, attributed to Jeffrey Kallberg, who argues that the

importance of genre rests within its community of artists and listeners:

Genre, for Kallberg, functions rather as a socially contingent agreement allowing members of the community to communicate; it is a form of contract between composer and audience. A work’s generic features provide an audience with a means for understanding it, a framework for judging its merit.31

27 Charles Dill, “Preface,” Monstrous Opera: Rameau and the Tragic Tradition (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1998).

28 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 13.

29 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 10-11.

30 See Chapter 4. Graham Sadler, in discussing the difference between the original production and subsequent revisions, has stated “on a purely musical level the original version of Dardanus is, without doubt, one of Rameau’s most inspired creations, encompassing the widest emotional range of all his works.”

31 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 10.

155 In this sense, genre was a channel through which artists and audiences communicated,

but, as Dill observes further, it was also a mark of authority.32 In the eyes and ears of

the audience, the composer was expected to adhere to a given genre’s conventions.

After Lully’s monopoly on lyric tragedy, Rameau was expected to conform to the

standards put into practice by his predecessor. When that did not happen, Rameau’s

work in the operatic genre became problematic. Dill argues that we can locate the

obverse of the generic ideal in a concurrent fascination with monsters. In fact, the

monster of seventeenth and eighteenth-century European culture was an animal or human deformed at birth. The Encyclopédie provides the following description:

[An] animal that is born with a conformation contrary to the order of nature, that is to say, with a structure of parts very different from those that characterize the species of animals from which it departs. There are even several kinds of monsters, according to the arrangement of their structures…One would not give the name monster to an animal if there were only a light and superficial difference, if the object did not astonish.33

To equate the word “monstrous,” then, with something that was seen as unnatural, had

too many or too few parts, and also was so different that it “astonished”—all these

descriptions resonate with how audiences perceived Rameau’s operas. In other words,

violations of genre or works that claimed to fit in a specific genre and then thwarted the

conventions and audience expectations were considered to be monstrous. They

represented the failure of sense and logic. As shown by the contemporary descriptions

Dill provides, the term “monstrous” not only became widely used to criticize opera in

general, but also was applied to Rameau himself.34 The fact that contemporary

32 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 11.

33 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 12.

34 Dill, Monstrous Opera, 13-14.

156 audiences did not always approve of Rameau’s music because it did not fit into a mold

or series of conventions reflects the preoccupation humans have with the need to

classify things. It helps us understand why we see Rameau’s music one way, while

eighteenth-century audiences viewed it another way. Yet our understanding is limited by

the need to classify things, and not considering a piece of music or an opera, or

anything in terms of what it is rather than what we expect it to be can inhibit our

understanding of the work. The way modern musicians view Rameau’s music today is

also complicated and somewhat skewed; he is often discussed or written about as a

radical progressive whose experimentations with harmony were innovative and beyond

his time. This has earned him a place in music history fame, but as Dill shows,

Rameau’s own compositional values and his experiments were frequently sacrificed at

the altar of audience approval. Because he cared about what spectators thought, he

revised several of his works to placate them and extracted some of his most

progressive music.

Conclusions: Ombra and Supernatural Exoticism

Chapter 1 discussed the similarities between the “ombra” musical style, as discussed and defined by Clive McClelland, and the features of musical exoticism, as laid out in a chart by Ralph Locke. Both have similarities in tonality, texture, rhythm, vocal passages, structure, phrasing, instrumentation and technique. In light of these many similarities, “supernatural exoticism” can be considered a new musical category which is an umbrella term for all musical styles that evoke the supernatural, including

“ombra” and storm music. This style is something which, like Locke’s exoticism, depends not just upon music but upon extra-musical factors such as the visual manifestation of a sea monster or other supernatural entities/characters/settings.

157 Furthermore, it depends upon the “cultural preparation” of the audience as well. The audience would have recognized certain musical devices that suggested a storm and the appearance of a sea monster (see Figure 1-4). In cases where there was no visual monster due to high production costs or other factors, the music itself functioned as a type of aural signifier of the supernatural entity/character(s)/setting being evoked. This is particularly exemplified in Mozart’s Idomeneo. Using the sea monster as a lens, this project has demonstrated where music was able to evoke a supernatural entity in different operatic works which may or may not have contained an actual visual reference to that entity. The transformation of the supernatural manifesting itself aurally after having been visually depicted is indicative of the changing aesthetics of the theater over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Chapter 3 demonstrates that seventeenth-century theater in both Italy and France valued the visual manifestations of the marvelous and the supernatural, while eighteenth-century theater in Italy eschewed the visual spectacle due to the Arcadian reforms. The works discussed in detail in the latter chapter, Corneille’s Andromède and Lully’s Persée, not only contained significant spectacle but also contained a similar choral number accompanying the battle with and defeat of the sea monster (“Le monstre est morte”).

The use of the chorus as a collective commentary on such a climactic scene would manifest itself again in Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie, discussed in Chapter 4 and

Mozart’s Idomeneo (Chapter 5). Although French productions for the most part retained the visual spectacle, the salient point is that the supernatural was able to manifest itself to a larger degree through music in the eighteenth century. This was largely because of composers such as Campra and Rameau, whose techniques proved to be increasingly

158 progressive but also drew on past influences such as Lully. Additionally, Italian

composers experimenting with the reintroduction of French elements in opera seria in

the mid-eighteenth century (such as Tommaso Traetta) contributed much to the solidification of aural representations of the supernatural within that genre.

The sea monster, in addition to providing an outlet for visual spectacle in seventeenth-century theater, also had allegorical meaning. This meaning was often related to a foreign threat that needed to be vanquished, particularly in the case of the

Medici family water festivals in Italy and settings of the Andromeda myth in France. Due to the Arcadian reforms of the early eighteenth century, supernatural content including the sea monster was virtually nonexistent in Italy. However, this was also due to a number of practical reasons such as resource and time constraints. Where the sea

monster did appear, in various incarnations of Andromeda, Hippolyte et Aricie, and the

two eighteenth-century works based upon the Idomeneo tale, the monster was a formidable and fascinating spectacle both visually and aurally. The combination of tempête music, to a certain extent ombra music, and choral numbers all contributed to

the success of such scenes, and became widely recognized as conventions associated

with the appearance of sea monsters on the stage. The experimentations with opera

seria in the middle of the century embraced French works with “taboo” subjects such as

murder, suicide, and battles with and appearances of supernatural creatures. The

reintegration of such horrific and “supernaturally exotic” subject material resulted in the

creation of the most programmatic, challenging, and transgressive music written for the

theater. As the sea monster had once functioned as the embodiment of the wrath of the

159 gods upon mankind, music now “transgressed its boundaries” and began to function as an invocation of the supernatural.

In the eighteenth century, operas were typically relegated to two categories: serious and comic. Yet most operas did not fit neatly into one category or the other, and although mixed genres had a place in the theater, modern discussions frequently ignore the theatrical traditions and musical conventions that contributed to the character of these “interstitial” works. Derisive attitudes toward the supernatural and the marvelous as childish, vulgar, or part of low operatic genres originated with eighteenth-century philosophes and remains in much modern scholarship, perhaps because of a tendency to hang onto the views of contemporaries. Furthermore, the unfounded notion that the

Enlightenment stage banished the supernatural in favor of the natural is still a persistent one due to the largely unquestioned ideological polemics of contemporary thinkers such as Diderot, Rousseau and Grimm.35 While it is always important to consider the viewpoints of contemporary writers, thinkers, musicians, and spectators as to how a particular performance was received, these accounts also limit our understanding, provided that they frequently have agendas of their own. That the marvelous in the theater of the eighteenth century often treated oriental tales with their exotic cultures lends further support to the idea that the supernatural and exoticism were not completely exclusive, but could be considered as two sides of the same coin. The fact that many genres in both French and Italian traditions contained instances of the supernatural suggests that genre classifications were not as strict as once thought or as is still suggested in secondary literature. At the very least, the research presented here

35 Buch, Magic Flutes and Enchanted Forests, Preface, xvii.

160 represents a step forward in embracing the inherent ambiguities presented by different

genre classifications in eighteenth-century opera. Although I have merely scratched the

surface, this study will enable a continued exploration into the vastly complex nature of

the supernatural in the theater during the Enlightenment—for where one finds critiques of reason and of magical thinking; there is almost always a reconciliation of these traditionally opposing spheres present in some capacity.

161

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Sarah A. Bushey received a bachelor’s degree in music education from Virginia

Commonwealth University in 2007 and a master’s degree in clarinet performance from the University of Florida in 2009. She regularly performs with the Gainesville Orchestra.

In addition to teaching classes in music and the humanities at the University of Florida, she is a part-time faculty member at Santa Fe College where she teaches Introduction to World Music. Her research interests include eighteenth-century opera, American musical theater, world music, and interdisciplinary arts and humanities. Ms. Bushey has presented her research at conferences in the United States, Portugal, and England. Her book review on Clive McClelland’s Ombra: Supernatural Music in the Eighteenth

Century was published by MLA Notes in December 2013. In March 2014, she was the recipient of the Sterling E. Murray Student Travel Award from the Society for

Eighteenth-Century Music. In April of 2014 and 2015 she served on the planning committee for THATCamp, Gainesville (The Humanities and Technology Camp) and plans to continue her involvement in the digital humanities realm. Ms. Bushey received her doctorate from the University of Florida in the spring of 2015.

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