WHY OPERA IN TRANSLATION?

by Donald Pippin
(2004)

            “I, too, dislike it,”  declares Marianne Moore in the opening line of her much anthologized poem entitled ‘Poetry’.   But she then goes on to say what poetry could and should be.  This matter of opera in translation -- so often clumsy, insipid,  lifeless, or archaic -- certainly invites the same response.     And yet,  and yet . . . what if?

            Consider the long line of great lyricists from our own theatrical tradition, such as   Porter, Gershwin,  Hart,  Hammerstein,  and Sondheim.  And what about going back further,  to the great Elizabethan song writers?   Have they not proven that English is an eminently singable language?   And could not similar skills be applied to the operatic theatre?  Imagine the rewards!  The removal  of a barrier that alienates a large potential audience in this mostly English-speaking country of ours.    Direct communication  in a language unmatched for agility,  variety of texture and range of color, everyday words that go straight to the heart,  that pull one into the drama by making it vivid, comprehensible.  and perhaps even close to home.    In short,  a language that evokes and resonates as only ones own language can.

            A good translation provides a fresh look at libretti that, on the whole, tend to be under-rated and under-appreciated.   While remaining essentially true to the original,  it  both clarifies and illuminates.    In doing so,  it reaffirms the mar-riage of words and music that engendered opera in the first place.  Bearing in mind that it was the words that inspired the composer to soar,  it is up to the translator to reverse the process:   let the music inspire the words.

            Cio-Cio-San ecstatically envisions the  return of her American husband:   “On the day I dream of . . . ” (1)

            On the operatic stage that I dream of,  the Queen of the Night unleashes her  fury:   “The fire of hell has made my heart a furnace.” (2)  And Lucia’s madness gives way to a moment of heartbreaking clarity:   “Scatter my grave with roses;  weep when I wake no longer.”  (3)

            Don Giovanni woos Zerlina:   “Melting in soft surrender,  your pretty hand in mine.” (4) And Zerlina succeeds in melting  jealous Masetto:   “Battle,  battle, o brave Masetto!   Wage a war on your Zerlina.” (5)  Donna Anna reassures her long suffering lover:  “Far,  oh far from cold and cruel . . .” (6)

            Figaro takes on the Count:   “On with the dance!   Allow me the pleasure.” (7)  The Count responds:   “That I should pine and suffer, and see my servant pros-per!” (8) And the Countess seeks for solace:  “Source of love,  console my sorrow.” (9)

            Old Don Pasquale preens himself before  meeting his new bride:   “Wrinkles and dentures plague me no longer.  Ripe for adventures,  I go forth to conquer.” (10)  But he soon discovers that this  ‘marriage’ is more than he bargained for:   “As total disaster what wife has surpassed her?”  (11)

            Dandini sizes up Cinderella’s less than perfect half-sisters:   “Hard as nails,  cold as ice,  silly,  shallow,  vain and vicious -- otherwise they’re very nice.” (12)

            Arrogant Eugene Onegin dismisses his critics:  “The barnyard cackle of public opinion!” (13)   But his tone changes after being rejected by the person he has finally come to worship:   “Alone!  I’ve lost!   Only the dark is left . . . ” (14)

            Norma,  crazed by hurt and jealousy,  turns the tables on the lover who has abandoned her:  “I shall feast upon your anguish .... your despair will equal mine.” (15)

            Scarpia defines himself:   “Hungry,  I see what I want and pursue it.”   (16) Tosca looks down at Scarpia’s dead body:   “Before him once the high and mighty trembled.”  (17)

            Disdainful Adina scoffs at the notion of a love elixir:   “What potential in the potion for the awkward and the shy!   Jungle passion,  raw emotion from a bottle you can buy.”  (18)  Nemorino spots a tiny, furtive sign of hope:  “Only a tear I barely saw . . .”  (19)

            Perichole,  the street singer, becomes impatient with the male sex:  “You men!  You men!   My God, you men are dense!”  (20)   Guglielmo returns the compliment:    “You’re my favorite of the sexes but the problem that perplexes is to find the reason why.”  (21)

            Manon Lescaut surveys the newly  acquired luxury for which she cast aside true love:  “Here,  soft and silken tapestries, gilded chairs,  Persian carpets, yet a silence like the chill of death and the stillness of a frozen winter.”  (22)

            The merry wives of Windsor plot to get even with Sir John Falstaff:  “We’ll find the appetizing bait to lure the fellow to his fate.   Together we shall hatch a plan to spring a trap and catch a man.”  (23)

            In this pulsating world there is no need to go searching for strained concepts to make opera fresh and vital.

            For identification of these snippets and for more extended excerpts,   please turn to the Pocket Opera web site:  www.pocketopera.org.  All are invited to sing along.   Page numbers refer to the Schirmer edition unless otherwise noted.

(1)    Puccini,  Madame Butterfly,  Cio-Cio-san:   p. 170.

                 Un bel di, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo sull’ estremo confin del mare.  E poi la nave appare -- Poi la niave bianca entra nel porto, romba il suo saluto.  Vedi?    E venuto! Io non gli scendo incontro.  Io no. 

           Mi metto la sul ciglio del colle e aspetto, e aspetto gran tempo e non mi pesa, la lunga attesa.   E uscito dalla folla cittadina -- un uomo, un picciol punto s’avvia per la collina.   Chi sara? Chi sara?  E come sara giunto che dira?  Che dira?   Chimera Butterfly dalla lontana.   Io senza dar risposta me ne staro nascosta un po’ per celia, e un po per non morire al primo incontro, ed egli alquanto in pena chiamera, chiamera:  Piccina mogliettina olezzo di verbena,  i nomi che me dava al suo venire.   Tutto questo avverra, te lo prometto.  Tienti la tua paura, io con sicura fede l’aspetto.

On the day I dream of,

We first will see a tiny thread of smoke

On the far horizon,

And then his ship of splendor!

As the flags are waving,

Proudly it enters the harbor

To the sound of cannon fire.

Homeward comes my hero!

I’ll not go down to greet him,  no, no!

I’ll wait here on the hill overlooking.

Too excited,   I’ll  wait, 

Never mind how many hours,

For he remembered.

Emerging  from the distant crowded city,

No bigger than a needle,

I see a man slowly climbing.

Is it he?   Is it he?

And as he draws still closer,

I can hear!   I can  hear

As he cries,  “Butterfly,

My love, where are you?”

Silent, I dare not answer,

But stay a while in hiding,

Though partly teasing,  in part afraid 

To die of joy to see him.

Uneasily he looks around and calls,

“Butterfly!

My  Oriental blossom!

My delicate verbena!”

And other pretty names that I found so charming.

It will happen exactly as I told you.

So put aside your fears,

For my own faith remains

Unshaken!

(2)    Mozart,  The Magic Flute,  Queen of the Night.    P. 99.

            Der Holle rache kocht in meinem Herzen;  Tod und Verzweiflung flammen um mich her!   Fuhrt nicht durch dich Sarastro Todesschmerzen, so bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr.

The fire of hell has made my heart a furnace.

Death to  Sarastro!

In rage and despair your mother cries.

I want him slain,

And turn to you, my daughter,

To plunge the deadly dagger.

By your own hand, this day Sarastro dies,

Or not again shall I call you child of mine.

Ah!   No beloved child of mine.

I cast you off forever.

My one and only daughter I disown.

I cast you off forever.

No more am I your mother,

No more are you my daughter

Till the hated foe is dead.

A stranger, discarded, forsaken,

On the street you’ll beg for bread.

Go unwanted, no beloved child of mine,

Until, until Sarastro’s life is taken.

Rise!  Rise!  Rise!

God of vengeance,

Do as I ordain.

(3)  Donizetti,  Lucia di Lammermoor:         Ricordi,  p. 241

            Spargi d’amaro pianto il mio terrestre velo,  mentre lassu nel cielo io preghero per te.  Al giunger tuo soltanto fia bello il ciel per me.

LUCIA:                        Scatter my grave with roses;