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Let
us start from the two basic dates. Giuseppe Verdi was born in Roncole
di Busseto, in the Parma province, on 10 October1813: his father, Carlo,
was an innkeeper; his mother, Luisa Uttini, was a spinner. Verdi died
in Milano, at the Hotel de Milan, on 27 January 1901. This year, therefore,
is Verdi’s centenary, and it would take too much space to list all the
activities that are being organised for the occasion.
La
Scala has opened the season with “Il Trovatore”, an opera composed in
1853, but here, in the “Lunario”, I would like to talk about the opera
which 9 years earlier, on 9 March 1842, consecrated Verdi’s genius.
I am referring to “Nabucco”, whose topicality, for the reasons I shall
be mentioning further on, exceeds that of acknowledged masterpieces,
such as “Aida”, “La Traviata”, “La forza del destino”, “Rigoletto”,
“Otello”, “Don Carlos”, “Falstaff” and “La Messa da Requiem”, composed
for Alessandro Manzoni’s death. “Nabucco” immediately calls to mind
the chorus.
When
the librettist, Temistocle Solera, wrote the line of verse “Va’, pensiero,
sull’ali dorate”, he certainly did not imagine the glorious future destiny
had in store for those words. Solera (1815-78) was not a man with lofty
ideals, but an adventurous and unreliable character.
Like
other clever versifiers, every so often Solera hit on a memorable opening.
Verdi was powerfully struck by it. The manager Bartolomeo Merelli had
just given him the libretto which, thrown on the table with bad grace,
for some mysterious reason landed open at the page where the crucial
“Va’, pensiero” line appeared.
There
was an immediate feeling of climax as during the main scene on stage.
Verdi was a reader of the Bible and he recognised the spirit of one
of the Psalms, Psalm 137 for the record. After these introductory remarks
which have absolutely nothing to do with the Italian Risorgimento spirit,
we can complete the picture by mentioning that Verdi dedicated the opera,
whose initial title was “Nabucodonosor”, to Adelaide, Archduchess of
Austria. How can the endless popular enthusiasm and the undying patriotic
power of “Va’, pensiero” be therefore accounted for?
Solera’s decasyllables contain one of the most powerfully emotional
ingredients of poetry and song: the exile theme, which leads to elegiac
emotions such as nostalgia and to strong feelings such as irredentism.
Irredentism worked in conjunction with the Second War of Independence,
in 1859, after which the equation between exile and nostalgia remained
as the most distinct feeling. Emigration is also a form of exile and
it is quite natural for a nation, which has scattered so many people
around the world, to recognise in this immortal chorus a fragment of
its own history.
It
should also be mentioned that, during World War II, that song also rose
from the huts of the prisoner camps. Evening brought “Va’, pensiero”
together with its shadows, and the voices recalled familiar and faraway
scenes of a home, street or courtyard. As we have already mentioned,
the chorus can be traced back to the Psalm 137.
The
moment of the invocation “Arpa d’or dei fatidici vati / perchè muta
dal salice pendi?”, when the whole chorus reaches out as if in an effort
to grasp a vague vision and then swiftly withdraws into a desolate whispering,
almost seems the translation of the Bible verses which say: “Ai salici
di quella terra / abbiamo appeso le nostre cetre”. Here is a confirmation.
The
opening poem “Giorno dopo giorno” by Salvatore Quasimodo, which calls
back, with flashing views, memories of the civil war in Italy, of the
corpses abandoned in the squares and of the “piede straniero sopra il
cuore” [the foreign foot upon the heart], closes with: “Alle fronde
dei salici, per voto, / anche le nostre cetre erano appese, / oscillavano
lievi al triste vento”.
As
regards modern times, we cannot forget that “Va’, pensiero” has become
the advertising slogan for a well-known fountain pen. It was destined:
and, after all, this is a privileged destiny, if you consider the fact
that the Gospel has been used for a jeans trademark and Leonardo’s Gioconda
for a mineral water. But it would not be right to close with this bitter
remark. I would rather recall the evening of 7 December 1986 (I was
an eyewitness), when the opera season at La Scala was opened with “Nabucco”,
conducted by Riccardo Muti.
During
the third act, after exactly three minutes of applause and hearty cheering,
Muti threw up his hands.
On
the stage the chorus, whose members where dressed in white tunics and
veils, set against a pale blue light which could have been dawn or dusk,
resumed singing: “Va’, pensiero, sull’ali dorate, / va ti posa sui clivi
e sui colli...”. An encore had been given, an absolutely exceptional
event for La Scala, ever since the prohibition made in 1898, by Arturo
Toscanini, “for reasons of order and art”, to repeat pieces during the
show. The rule had been broken.
Everybody
was touched. If nostalgia means “suffering for the return home”, that
evening more than ever did we realise where “Va, pensiero” acts: in
that vague realm of the impossible, of the lost seasons, of that part
of us which no longer exists.
A
realm of which we all are, consciously or unconsciously, citizens, with
our memories and with our heart. (traduzione Interpres sas-Giussano)
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