Voice of Destiny

by JH Fletcher

  Siciliani listened courteously but she sensed she had not won him. Instinctively she turned to the mad scene from I Puritani.

  She saw his expression change and knew she had done it.

  When she had finished, the director grabbed a phone, rang Florence and began to shout excitedly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Forget Butterfly! You hear me? I have found the most amazing soprano and we shall open the season with Norma.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  1

  High priestess Norma, her virginity sacred to the gods, leads the Gauls in their resistance to Rome.

  Unbeknown to the clan, however, Norma has fallen in love with Pollione, the Roman commander, by whom she has had two children.

  Adalgisa, Norma’s young assistant, confesses she has fallen in love with a man. Norma, mindful of her own guilt, is willing to forgive the sacrilege but, when she discovers that Adalgisa’s lover is Pollione, her attitude changes.

  Pollione is captured by the Gauls. Norma makes him an offer: renounce Adalgisa and she will let him go.

  He refuses and she declares war against Rome. She reminds Pollione that the fate of both himself and Adalgisa is in her hands. However, when she comes to make the accusation against the young priestess who has betrayed her vows, her guilt overwhelms her and she names herself instead. The tribe demands vengeance for her betrayal: death by fire. Her own father denounces her but she persuades him to take pity on her children. She and Pollione mount the funeral pyre together, hoping to find in the flames expiation for their sacrilege.

  2

  There was a challenge here. The role of Norma required a dramatic soprano of prodigious agility, able to sing unsupported far above the stave and with enough power and technique to convey in both musical and dramatic terms the essence of the character. Yet even this was not enough. The role of Norma — the priestess guilt-ridden by her own sacrilege, the betrayed woman, the wronged and vengeful mother — was so central to the action that it was upon the quality of its interpretation that the success or failure of the entire opera depended.

  Lucia knew it would be the greatest challenge she had faced. Triumph, and the world of opera would be hers. Fail, and she might as well retire.

  She was not ready to retire.

  She decided to gamble. It was a role where sweetness of tone had traditionally taken preference over dramatic impact; she made up her mind she was going to change that. Drama would come first; the harshness of her furious denunciations of the man who had betrayed her would take the place of the saccharine sweetness that might be traditional but made neither impact nor sense. Norma was a woman in love; she was victim, mother, friend and, at the last, the priestess who could not escape the implacable demands of her faith. To turn such a character into a simpering concert performance of dulcet notes was unthinkable.

  No; Lucia would be a dramatic, singing actress or she would be nothing.

  Which it would be, the public would have to decide.

  3

  The ever-loyal Gazzettino blared triumph.

  A performance beyond parallel brought to last night’s audience a level of dramatic interpretation seldom before seen on this or any stage.

  The critic of La Nazione was less certain.

  Although Visconti has a powerful and secure voice, particularly in the upper register, her phrasing and vocal colour are unusual and will not appeal to all.

  Il Mondo also had its doubts about what it called a disturbing reading of the part.

  The critics were all very well but it was the public’s verdict that mattered. Sick with apprehension, Lucia waited; there had been applause but she had sensed the audience’s uncertainty at being confronted by something new and unexpected. Her interpretation had challenged them. The traditionally inclined would not have liked it, that was certain, but she would not allow herself to be discouraged. The future — her own as well as art’s — lay with those willing to think, to embrace the new.

  As always at times of crisis, she fled to Parma and the consoling arms of Marta Bianci. Only here would she permit her inner doubts to surface.

  ‘What shall I do if they didn’t like it?’

  Marta did what she could to comfort her. ‘Of course they liked it. You read what they said in Il Gazzettino, didn’t you?’

  She told herself that Marta was right; she would be brave. She put as good a face on it as she could. She went to smart restaurants, she caught up with friends, she smiled, radiant with confidence, at those who seemed to recognise her, as well as those who did not. For three days she heard nothing. Everything hung in the balance. Then the dam burst in a flurry of offers.

  Brünnhilde in Walküre; Kundry in Parsifal; Leonora in Trovatore. Aïda, Nabucco, Macbeth. And Norma, Norma, Norma …

  Lucia, to the sound of trumpets and clashing cymbals, had arrived.

  4

  For weeks, as she tried to come to terms with her new situation, Lucia felt she was walking through the world on charmed feet. Sunlight warmed her; even the air had a golden aura. Despair had become a thing of the past. She told herself that from now on tranquillity and purpose would be the measure of her days. She would rehearse, meticulously. She would work with the other singers, with directors, conductors and designers to produce before a succession of delighted audiences works of art eclipsing anything they had known before. Each performance would be a triumph. Her vision, clear and free of doubt, was of a path running towards a future as clear and serenely beautiful as a lake. Things didn’t work out like that. Afterwards, she told herself she was a fool for ever having imagined they might.

  5

  In 1951 she was under contract to sing Walküre in Venice. She had been working on it for several weeks. One morning she had an appointment with Serafin at his apartment but when she got there the conductor was out. It was unlike him to miss an appointment and his wife apologised, explaining that he was at his wit’s end with anxiety. He was scheduled to conduct a performance of I Puritani the following week and his lead singer had gone down with acute laryngitis.

  ‘There must be someone else‚’ Lucia said.

  ‘To sing the role of Elvira?’

  It was true that the part, with its demands far beyond the scope of most coloratura sopranos, was one of the hardest in opera. ‘Tullio says there isn’t anybody.’

  Lucia looked thoughtful. ‘Is that so?’

  She prowled, each step taking her closer to the piano that stood in the corner of the large drawing room.

  ‘Perhaps …’

  Closer still.

  ‘… he hasn’t been looking …’

  Now, as though by chance, her hand was resting on the piano.

  ‘… in the right place?’

  She lifted the lid. Idly, she struck one or two notes, seemingly at random. Chords formed, became a melody. Softly, Lucia sang.

  ‘O rendetemi la speme, o lasciatemi morir …’

  Oh give me back my faith or let me die … Her voice touched the last word delicately, the sound drifting in the air like the gift or promise of beauty.

  Lucia smiled. ‘Forgive me for this. I must go. Please tell the Maestro I called.’

  Lucia was asleep. The phone woke her. She stared groggily at the time. Seven o’clock? She thought of letting it ring but the incessant jangle jarred her nerves and she snatched the receiver, prepared to blast the caller to hell.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Serafin …’

  At once her mood, and her voice, moderated. ‘Maestro? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Are you dressed?’

  ‘I’m in bed.’

  ‘Put some clothes on and come around here right away.’

  ‘I’m not ready. I —’

  ‘Never mind prettying yourself up! You’re pretty enough already. It’s your voice I want.’

  Crash went the phone. She scrubbed her face with a flannel, brushed teeth and hair, rushed lipstick, slung on clothes. She was out of there in ten minutes, calling for a taxi, telling him
to hurry, roaring through the empty streets. All the way she sang, notes and trills, crescendos and rallentandos, increasing both the range and volume until, voice thoroughly warmed up, she was letting fly with everything she had as the taxi swerved around the final bend, almost clipping the pavement, the driver watching her in part amazement, part awe, in the mirror.

  He screeched to a standstill. He kissed his fingers. ‘Beautiful! Magnificent!’

  ‘Wish me luck!’

  She thrust notes into his hand, giving him her most brilliant smile. She ran stumbling across the street and rang the bell. She turned; the taxi was still waiting. She waved to the driver who again kissed his fingers to her. Behind her the door opened.

  ‘Come in!’

  There were three people in the drawing room: Serafin and his wife and Dominico Allesandro, the opera impressario who was responsible for staging I Puritani and who stood to lose most if the performances had to be cancelled.

  Serafin wasted no time. ‘My wife tells me I should listen to your Elvira.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know. I’m not sure …’

  Signora Serafin said: ‘Sing him what you sang yesterday.’

  ‘But that was just playing around … A few notes …’

  ‘Do it!’

  The piano stood open. Serafin marched across and sat down. He struck a hammer blow of chords; energy crackled like flame.

  ‘Sing!’

  And she sang; firstly the brief segment she had sung the previous evening, then she switched to another section before concluding with the ecstatic climax.

  The piano died, the chords faded. Silence, while Lucia stood like a post and three sets of eyes stared at each other.

  Signora Serafin had herself been a noted singer. She said: ‘You’ve found her.’

  Serafin swivelled on the piano stool to look up at Lucia. ‘Are you familiar with the part?’

  So much depended on her answer. It was too important to lie, but she lied anyway. ‘I know it, yes.’

  Allesandro grunted. ‘Even if she doesn’t, she’s the one we want.’

  Talking about her as though she were not in the room. Lucia decided to push her luck.

  ‘My voice is too dark for Elvira, too heavy. Besides, there’s Walküre.’

  ‘She’ll have to do them both,’ said Allesandro.

  Serafin was watching her.

  ‘The voice is fine. To me, there’s only one question: can you be ready in time?’

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘One week.’

  It was crazy; impossible. Never mind what she’d told them; she’d never studied the score at all. What she’d sung here today was all she knew. She said: ‘Of course I’ll be ready.’

  ‘I’ll speak to your manager,’ Allesandro said. ‘Agree terms, that sort of thing. You’ve got work to do.’

  Indeed. A whirlwind of work engulfed her. She hardly slept. She studied the score, she worked for hours every day with the conductor, she slept, dreamed and ate the part. She was Elvira in the bath, walking in the street, sitting in the taxis that she could not afford but that she took anyway to save time. With Elvira, she teetered upon the borderline dividing sanity and madness. She would have lived the part in every waking and sleeping moment but could not, because the demands of Walküre intervened.

  In that frenzied week she sang the role of Brünnhilde twice, each time to wild applause. Now her dreams were invaded by a double image: of herself with spear and helmet amid a mountain landscape, riding out to defend Siegmund in his battle with Hunding; of herself balanced precariously between reason and insanity, fantasy and reality, demonstrating through a dramatic coloratura the fragility that carried her first to one side of the line, then the other.

  The full dress rehearsal of I Puritani took place on the same day as her last appearance as Brünnhilde, by which time she felt that she was about to join Elvira in the wilderness of madness.

  Tension wound ever tighter. It reached the point of fracture. She rounded furiously on the conductor.

  ‘You demand the impossible!’

  Serafin smiled. ‘I know. No-one else could do it. But you can. And you will.’

  It was the best thing he could have said, challenge and encouragement combined. She went home to her hotel, repeating his words again and again to herself.

  You can do it. And you will. You will.

  Three days after Walküre closed, Lucia Visconti opened as Elvira in Bellini’s I Puritani.

  Visconti’s portrayal of Elvira is nothing short of a miracle. The warmth and expressiveness of her interpretation cannot be found in any other Elvira and places her in the highest class of classical actresses. Her limpid tone and impeccable high notes were a revelation made all the more astonishing by the knowledge that this same performer was only three days earlier giving us an entirely convincing portrayal of the great Wagnerian role of Brünnhilde in Die Walküre. Such versatility is nothing short of phenomenal — Il Gazzettino

  Two years later, in a review of Visconti’s emergent career and her recently acquired status as an operatic superstar, the New York critic Harold Sondheim wrote:

  Coupled with her concurrent interpretation of Brünnhilde, it was the Pirandello-like reading of Elvira’s fluctuations between madness and sanity combined with the sheer beauty and inventiveness of her rich melodic line that set Visconti upon the path to her present well-deserved dominance of the operatic stage in the mid-twentieth century.

  A triumph, indeed. Yet the nature of operatic triumph was that it never gave the performer the chance to sit back and enjoy her glory. Within days, with offers coming in by every post, Lucia was on her way, first to Turin, then to Palermo and finally across the Atlantic to South America.

  She had arrived, or thought she had arrived.

  Once again, she was wrong. With every step forward, the objective moved further away from her. Fame, glory, above all artistic integrity became elusive targets that she could never capture. The greater her success, the more they evaded her. Slowly she came to realise that the artistic temperament could never, by its nature, be satisfied. Always there would be another hill to climb, beyond that another hill. Beyond what she had believed would be perfection lay the quest for something more. There was no ultimate summit. Like all artists, she was committed to an endless search for the unattainable.

  6

  She sang Elsa in a production of Lohengrin in Vienna, under the conductor von Karajan. After the first rehearsal, she asked to see him privately.

  He agreed, then kept her waiting an hour. When she finally got to see him, he was abrupt to the point of rudeness.

  ‘I’m in a hurry. What is it?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about a scene in the second act.’ She laid the open score in front of him. He stared at it, then at her.

  ‘What about it?’

  She would not have come to see him had she not been convinced she was right; nevertheless he was a world-famous conductor, far above her in the musical world, so she deliberately turned her complaint into a question.

  ‘I wonder whether we aren’t perhaps taking it a little too slowly? From the score, it seems to me that Wagner wanted —’

  ‘That is not your province. That is for the conductor to decide. You are there to sing. Only that.’

  She quaked to her boots but would not give way. Instead she changed her approach; no longer would she speak apologetically when she saw no reason to do so. ‘If you will allow me to explain …’

  ‘Never justify, never explain! You will find it a good rule.’

  He smiled superciliously; he thought he had been too much for her. But she was not beaten yet.

  ‘If we take it so slowly, it drags. It’s impossible to get maximum feeling out of it like that. Everyone in the cast feels the same.’

  ‘So you’re telling me you’re incapable of singing it the way I want, the way I expect? Very well, I shall have to find a better cast.’

  If he’d thought to browbeat her he had anothe
r think coming; the conductor, never mind how famous he was, did not have a monopoly on arrogance. ‘But, Maestro, we are the best.’

  He stared at her, eyes like the Arctic, mouth a thin line. He said: ‘Another thing. I do not wish you to go on attending orchestral rehearsals. It is not the custom and it unsettles the players.’

  Again she stood up to this man who seemed determined to put her in a place that she did not regard as her own. She gave him a look as cold as his. ‘Maestro, aren’t the singers expected to be the first instruments in the orchestra?’

  He would not give a millimetre. ‘That decision is also mine.’

  There they might have left it, had he not raised the issue again at the next rehearsal.

  She was halfway through Elsa’s impassioned appeal for Lohengrin’s protection against Ortrud, when he rapped the podium with his baton, bringing matters to a halt. With extravagant courtesy he asked her:

  ‘Is the tempo right for you?’

  ‘It’s fine, Maestro.’

  ‘You’re sure you can manage it? You don’t find it impossible?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘As I said, it’s fine.’

  He smiled waggishly at the orchestra. ‘You can’t imagine what a relief that is to me. Madame Visconti has told me she has problems with my reading of the score.’

  Fury. ‘I said what everyone else is thinking …’

  Again the staccato crack of the baton. ‘Continue! From the top of the page!’

  The orchestra, schooled in his icy tantrums, obeyed. Lucia suspected he was hoping she would not come in but she did, on key and at the right place. She was not stupid enough to give him the chance of putting her in the wrong.

  Even now the fight was not over. That night she saw him in the famous Apfelgarten restaurant in the middle of the city. He was with a young woman she did not recognise. As a matter of courtesy, she stopped at his table on her way out to say goodnight. He neither looked up nor acknowledged her greeting. Instead he smiled unpleasantly as he spoke confidingly to his companion. ‘Madame Visconti is a singer of the second rank with ambitions to be a conductor. She believes her duties include teaching me how to interpret Richard Wagner.’