LA CLEMENZA DI TITO

Or How to Realize One’s Potential for Nobility

Some of my opera-going friends are fixated on the flamboyant, blood-and-guts works of Italian composers like Verdi and Puccini. Consequently, inviting them to attend a performance of La Clemenzadi Tito would be tantamount to suggesting that they come to an early morning worship service. While they might agree that the experience would be good for their souls, they would probably feel they could spend the time much more profitably in bed. Even lovers of Mozart’s most popular operas such as Le Nozze di Figaro, DonGiovanni, and Cosi would probably groan in dismay if I made the same suggestion.

When I informed a very dear friend who adores The Magic Flute that I was going to give a series of chats on La Clemenza di Tito, she reacted by saying, “But Léonard, it’s so bo-o-o-ring!” These reactions reflect the bad rap this last opera of Mozart has received over the centuries. The adverse publicity started when Maria Luisa, the wife of Emperor, Leopold II, in whose honour La Clemenza di Tito was being mounted in Prague in 1791 to celebrate his coronation, dismissed it as “una porcheria tedesca,” which, translated bluntly into English, means German pigswill. For a while, especially in the 19th century, it did enjoy considerable popularity. But it was more or less ignored in the 20th century until the early seventies when imaginative productions by directors such as Jean-Pierre Ponnelle made opera lovers realize just what they had been missing. Even today, detractors of La Clemenza di Titoinvoke all kinds of arguments to downgrade the work. I would like to examine these arguments with you, refute them, and demonstrate to you why Mozart’s last opera ranks among his finest accomplishments.

The first series of objections leveled against this work deal with the circumstances surrounding its production. Detractors argue that Mozart was physically exhausted when he composed the opera and had little more than three weeks to write it. Not only was he racing to complete the score in time for the coronation in Prague, he was also supervising the première of The Magic Flute which would soon take place in Vienna, and trying to write the Requiem as well. Moreover, La Clemenza di Tito was commissioned by the new Emperor himself, meaning that it would have to be an exercise in outrageous flattery, since Leopold II would be compared to the legendary Roman ruler, Titus. If that were not enough, his detractors added the fatal malady that would soon claim the composer’s life was already eating away at his creative energy. Under these adverse circumstances, they insisted, Mozart couldn’t possibly give this final opera his best shot.

All the aforementioned objections would be perfectly valid if we were discussing just about any “normal” composer. But we are talking here about one of the most prodigiously gifted musical creators of all time. Granted, given the time factor, Mozart probably delegated the writing of many of the harpsichord-accompanied recitatives to hispupil, Sussmeyer. Had Mozart been able to compose this opera at a less breakneck pace, he would most likely have orchestrated many more of these recitative passages in order to intensify their impact. In this sense alone, yes, I will concede, La Clemenza di Tito is a somewhat flawed masterpiece. Yet a masterpiece it is nonetheless, and if the detractors of this work studied the score attentively instead of letting themselves be swayed by their prejudices, their attitude might change radically.

The most significant arguments they invoke relate to the dramatic structure of the work itself. La Clemenza di Tito, they emphasize, just like Idomeneo written ten years earlier, is an opera seria, meaning an opera situated on a lofty moral and spiritual level of unrelieved seriousness. To make matters worse, they say, the drama unfolds without much action. The characters simply stand and pour out their various emotions. Mozart, they maintain, had moved away definitively from this operatic genre; he preferred infinitely the music dramas where comedy and potential tragedy intermingled, like Cosi or Don Giovanni. He was forced against his will by a royal commission to create a work in a style that his audiences considered irreversibly “passé”.  It’s obvious that in their vehement opposition to the concept of opera seria, these detractors equate it with lethal boredom. To justify their judgment even further, they point to the libretto that was thrust on the composer. It had been devised by the Italian poet Metastasio nearly sixty years earlier and had served as a vehicle for operas by at least forty other composers, including Gluck. The new librettist with whom Mozart was collaborating, Caterino Mazzolà, tried to breathe new life into this creaky old format, but, according to Mozart’s critics, succeeded only partially.

But is it really true that by 1791 Mozart disdained the genre of opera seria? Many noted critics like Jean-Victor Hocquard, GérardCondé, and David Cairns doubt this. According to them, Mozart did not write any other opera seria between 1781 and 1791 because his Viennese and Prague audiences clamoured for works like Le Nozze di Figaro. He tried very hard to revive Idomeneo, making important revisions in order for the work to be more acceptable, and was very disappointed when his endeavours did not bear fruit as he had hoped.

As for the criticism that the action in La Clemenza di Tito is static, this betrays an unwillingness to approach the work on its own terms. The libretto of this opera bears an unmistakable resemblance to the great French tragedies of the 17th century, especially the ones written by Pierre Corneille and Jean Racine. Here the action is essentially psychological. It is based on the interplay of the various characters, the clashes of their different interests, and the repercussions these clashes have on their personalities, which leads in turn to further interaction between them. This is the kind of libretto Mazzolà whipped up for Mozart, and the great composer was not displeased by the result. In fact, he declared publicly that his librettist had produced for him a genuine operatic script. Indeed, when one ventures beneath the surface of LaClemenza di Tito, one realizes that this so-called static work is fairly heaving with volcanic passions. It also evokes a vision of our human condition that is both moving and exalting. This is obvious in the spiritual journey taken by our three main protagonists, the emperor Tito, his close friend, the tormented youth, Sesto, and the driven lady, Vitellia, who nearly turns the opera into a bloody tragedy.

There is an aura of tender melancholy surrounding the Emperor Tito. Before the opera begins, he has sent back to Judea the only woman he has ever really loved, the Jewish queen Berenice, in order to respect the will of his Roman subjects who would never accept a foreign consort. He will never fall in love again. His whole potential for self-giving will be transferred to the Roman people. As some commentators have pointed out, he does not appear virile, if one defines virility as a will to conquer and dominate. Nor is he a complex psychological figure. But why should he be? Opera excels in using music to evoke dominant tendencies within our human nature. It holds up to us a magical rather than a faithfully reflecting mirror. It magnifies certain traits of character and allows them to expand, untrammeled, to their full extent, either for good or evil. In Tito, we have an exemplary figure that represents the triumph of compassion and generosity over vindictiveness and brutality.

Mozart’s Roman Emperor never invokes a Supreme Being to explain his conduct. (The gods he refers to are just for local colour.) He does not perform acts of virtue the way one would pile up Brownie points that can be “cashed in”, so to speak, and exchanged for eternal life in a realm beyond death. He is engaged in an unceasing struggle against the paleolithic brute we all carry within the abyssal depths of our beings because he fervently believes that this is the kind of commitment every individual must make in order to ensure that humanity becomes continuously more human. Tito lives as though every one of his actions had cosmic repercussions.  In his first stirring aria, “Del più sublime soglio,” (The sole reward of the most splendid thrones), he declares that the only joy a ruler knows consists in alleviating the suffering of others and rewarding virtue. In the final act, after he forgives Sesto’s treachery and tears up the death warrant, he sings a magnificent aria “Se all’impero” (If a hard heart is necessary to rule), in which he vows to win the loyalty of his subjects through love. Some critics have stated that the fiendishly difficult coloratura passages here are out of place. I would beg to differ. Tito has just won a tremendous victory over himself. It is natural that the unbridled jubilation surging through him at this moment finds expression in the music he sings. He is celebrating the triumph of his will over his vindictive impulses. He is exulting in its power. He is fully, gladly assuming his function as Emperor of his people, and his aria reflects this newly found fulfillment.

At the end of the opera, then, Tito revels in his all-conquering strength of character. The two other protagonists, Sesto andVitellia, also win victories over the dark forces seething within them. But their trajectories are far more harrowing. Sesto must deal with his passion for Vitellia, a passion that has him besotted and bedeviled. The attraction he feels towards her resembles a malignant tumour. It feeds off his flesh, blood, and emotions. It is inseparable from his being. Yet it seems to have acquired an independent existence within him, driving him to make decisions that he knows will degrade him as a human being. Vitellia exploits his slave-like devotion in order to wrest from him the terrible promise to assassinate Tito, a man whose integrity, generosity, and selflessness he venerates. As though under a spell, he makes himself believe that Vitellia is perfectly justified in wanting to murder Tito because she is the daughter of the former Emperor of Rome, Vitellius, who had been dethroned and assassinated by Tito’s father. This, however, is just a hypocritical rationalization on her part. Every time Vitellia believes she has a chance of becoming Empress, she orders Sesto to postpone the assassination plot. Her hatred of Tito results solely from having been spurned as his consort.

Sesto is thus constantly oscillating between blind obedience to the woman he adores, and flashes of lucidity that compel him to realize he is about to commit a crime that will cover him in shame. Mozart succeeded beautifully in portraying this tormented youth in his two arias. The first, “Parto…a vendicar io volo” (I go swiftly to avenge you), depicts the fluctuations of Sesto’s soul between fervour and depression. As the aria shows, he simply cannot get hold of himself, and his exaltation at the end reveals the delirium into which he is sinking. The clarinet solo that accompanies him resembles a consoling, fraternal presence. His second aria, “Deh,per questo istante solo” (Ah, for this single moment) represents a profoundly changed man. His assassination plot has failed. In the presence of Tito, he is overcome with guilt and remorse. The love he has never stopped feeling for the Emperor now comes to the foreground. At the same time, his passion for Vitellia persists, which explains why he refuses steadfastly to denounce her as the conspiracy’s prime mover. Sesto knows that he will face a horrible death for his crime. This does not frighten him, however. He has finally managed to gain control over himself. He is beyond hope and fear. He is no longer torn apart between his passion for Vitellia and his friendship with Tito. They now coexist on different levels in his consciousness. The music reflects this newly found serenity and liberation.

Vitellia’s spiritual voyage is equally if not more dramatic. In the first act and her first aria, she projects the image of a coldly calculating, cynically manipulative woman who exploits her great beauty in order to practice emotional blackmail on the young man who worships her. In fact, she appears downright odious. Her political ambition has acquired the dimensions of a pathological obsession. She is willing to sacrifice Sesto to it. However, when she learns that Sesto has remained steadfastly silent about her participation in the conspiracy and will face death as a result, she is overwhelmed with admiration for him. I believe she also begins to feel genuine love for him. The nobility within her nature on which she had trampled up till now finally gains the upper hand. In her magnificent recitative and aria “Non piu di fiori” (No garlands of flowers will I have), she expresses her determination to assume full responsibility for the failed conspiracy and to denounce herself to the Emperor in a courageous attempt to alleviate the punishment that will be meted out to Sesto. Her decision is all the more moving because Tito had chosen her several hours earlier to be his consort. In other words, she will be plummeting from the height of imperial power to the degrading status of a state criminal. In all probability, she will also be sentenced to death. Her aria evokes grippingly the terrible solitude into which she has plunged. This solitude, however, is very different from the one in which she had been trapped at the beginning of the drama. Then, she had appeared as aloof and arrogant, needing no one but Sesto to further her insatiable ambition. Now, towards the end of her trajectory, Vitellia calls out to her fellow man and woman for pity in accents that are insistent, even frightening. Ardent, ascending coloratura passages reflect her yearning to be part of a larger human community founded on compassion. Her aria represents the cry for help welling up from a broken heart. Let us not forget that while Mozart was composing this opera he had also begun writing the Requiem. And that when Vitellia cries out, “Veggo la mortever me avanzar” (I see death advancing toward me), she is also expressing Mozart’s grave apprehensions about his own mortality. He found, then, in Vitellia a kindred spirit, an individual who suddenly acquires an agonizing awareness of the vanity of all the things that most human beings pursue relentlessly.

As was to be expected, in the final scene Tito forgives all of the conspirators. He, just like Servilia, Sesto’s sister, and Annio, Servilia’s fiancé, embody the principle of virtue that both Sestoand Vitellia now gladly acknowledge. This glorification of mankind’s ability to transcend evil reflects Mozart’s own deeply held convictions. As a man of the Enlightenment and a Mason, he fervently believed that our human condition was capable of indefinite perfectibility. What, then, would he have thought of our 20th and 21st centuries? They have witnessed the most hellish explosions of hatred in the whole history of mankind. Would Mozart have succumbed to despair? Given the faith in human nature that he expresses so eloquently in La Clemenza di Tito, I would like to think that the great composer would have preferred to light a candle rather than curse the darkness.