“I remember the first rehearsal of
the full band, Mozart was on the stage with his crimson pelisse and gold-laced
cocked hat, giving the time of the music to the orchestra. Figaro’s son, “Non piu andrai, farballone amoroso…”
Bennuci gave with the greatest animation and power of voice.
I was standing next to Mozart, who,
sotto voce, was repeating, “Bravo!
Bravo! Bennuci!” and when Bennuci came to the fine passage, “Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla Gloria
militar” which he gave out with Stentorian lungs, the effect was
electricity itself, for the whole of the performers on the stage and those in
the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated Bravo! Bravo! Maestro! Viva, viva grande
Mozart! Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased
applauding, by beating the bows of their violins against the music desks. The
little man acknowledged, by repeated obeisances, his thanks for the
distinguished mark of enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him…”
No more, you amorous butterfly,
Will you go fluttering round by night and day,
Disturbing the peace of every maid,
You pocket Narcissus, you Adonis of love,
No more will you have those fine feathers,
That light and dashing cap,
Those curls, those airs and graces,
That rosy womanish cheek.
You’ll be among warriors, by Bacchus!
Long moustaches, knapsack tightly on,
Musket on your shoulder, saber at your side,
Head erect and bold of visage,
A great helmet, waving plumes,
Lots of honor, little money,
And instead of the fandango,
Marching through the mud.
Over mountains, through valleys,
In snow and days of listless heat,
To the sound of blunderbusses,
Shells and cannons
Whose shots shall make your ears sing
On every note.
Cherubino, onto victory,
Onto Military Glory!
(Cherubino, alla vittoria
This is one of the most famous (and fun!) arias in all of opera. Set to Mozart’s most stirring martial music, it is mockingly
sung to Cherubino, the teen would-be lady-killer, by the older servant, wily Figaro. The Count
who rules them all has just caught the boy hanging around once too often, first
with his wife, and just now with Susanna, the pretty maid whom the Count is hot to seduce. As Cherubino is his ward and of noble blood, he can’t just murder him, (much as he'd like to,) so he's ordered him into the army.
The military is still the classic solution for
boys who suffer from a chronic overload of testosterone and who are causing
problems around your house—or on the street. Written in the late 18th
Century, when war still had a cloud of romance hanging round it—no machine
guns, tanks, drones or poison gas just yet—it’s straight on the mark. “Glory” is
meant ironically. Figaro is sobering the boy up, saying that soldiering means real
danger, exhaustion and suffering. So get
ready, kid!
It’s a nice example of DaPonte’s
nuanced writing, words that inspired Mozart to write his most famous scores. Figaro first sings mocking praises—“Pocket Narcissus” has to
be one of the best put-downs ever. Then he gets tougher. There will
be no further perfumed romps in My Lady’s chambers. Your new bosom companions, my son,
will be hardened soldiers--and your 60 lb. knapsack. No more dances, only
marching, almost always in the worst weather. In the 18th Century, too, armies were
often chronically without pay, not only because of the usual bad planning, but
because wrecking havoc on civilians was (and, heck, still is) traditionally part of
the game. DaPonte and Mozart, both freelance artists, know only too well that
honor without the cash to back it up was a hollow thing indeed.
For the coup de grace,
Figaro describes the pain which bombs and gunshots will cause your ears. It’s a
misery particularly singled out by DaPonte and Mozart for Cherubino, a musical boy
who writes beautiful love songs for all his girlfriends.
No more honey-dripping
for you, Punk! From now on, your ears will “sing” to you of war!
