"The Refuge" for June 29, 2025

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When a Diva Develops a Sore Throat

Over the course of a 33-year career buffeted by near-constant scandal, the controversy that erupted over an appearance at the Teatro dell’ Opera di Roma by the American-Greek soprano Maria Callas in January of 1958 has become legendary.

She’d agreed to open the theater’s season on January 2nd with one of her signatures: the title role in Vincenzo Bellini’s 1831 opera Norma. It would be her first appearance in Italy in two years; the Italian Prime Minister Giovanni Gronchi was expected to attend, and the performance was slated to be broadcast throughout Europe via RAI, the state-run radio network.

On New Year’s Eve, she sang the opera’s beloved aria Casta diva (Chaste Goddess) on Italian television, then celebrated with a bit of champagne at a Rome Nightclub. She awoke voiceless the following morning, but recovered sufficiently by the afternoon to participate fully in the dress rehearsal. Callas was then examined by an otolaryngologist that evening; his assessment was worrying enough that she informed the opera’s Director that a substitute should be lined up, just in case.

This was impossible; the public had been promised a Callas gala, a cultural event of such significance that the President would be in attendance. The notion that there could be a substitute was absurd. Every ticket in the house had been sold, patrons utterly undeterred by the confiscatory prices charged to attend the occasion. She would sing. She had to. And indeed, her voice was fine the next morning.

It didn’t remain that way. By the afternoon, Callas was sounding edgy, and her high notes sometimes cracked. She’d have to summon every bit of her considerable ability to hide such vulnerabilities if she hoped to get through the performance without embarrassment.

If a soprano isn’t “in good voice”, the role of Norma is particularly brutal. Shortly after her first entrance in Act I, she faces the make-or-break challenge of singing Casta Diva, seven-and-a-half minutes of sustained bel canto pyrotechnics that every lover of Italian opera knows in intimate detail. This roller-coaster has to be navigated with an implacable calm that requires other-worldly breath control. Any hint of struggle is completely out of place. And when she’s done, there’s still another 75 minutes of opera to sing.

Callas managed her way through the aria, and most of the audience responded with warm applause. There were a few catcalls heard from the galleries, the usual chauvinistic cries of “Viva l’Italia” and “Viva le cantanti italiane” (“Long live Italian singers”) being the most recognizable. All par for the course. But as the opera continued, the soprano’s voice increasingly showed signs of strain; by the time Act I drew to a close, it was clear that something was wrong.

She retreated to her dressing room and told her husband she couldn’t continue. He should inform the management that she was done for the evening. The conductor, the set designer and the director came by, each in their turn, begging Callas to reconsider. Her refusal would be widely misunderstood over the following days and weeks. She hadn’t withdrawn out of pique; her voice was gone. As she later explained to the press, “If boos from the galleries could cause any emotion in me, I would have retired from the stage long ago.” But given her long record of temperamental outbursts, few would believe her.

In the hall, people began to wonder why the intermission was running so long. Suddenly, an aide to Prime Minister Gronchi rushed into his box and with a message. Perhaps sensing the storm that would shortly be unleashed, the premiere and his wife got up from their chairs and left. A loudspeaker was set up at the front of the stage. Then the announcement: “Owing to circumstances beyond our control, the performance is suspended.”

A massive chorus of boos, jeers and hisses descended upon the house. Callas supporters and detractors attacked each other physically, and the police had to be called in to restore order and empty the hall. Meanwhile, the soprano was spirited back to her suite at the nearby Hotel Quirinale through an underground passage. Within a few minutes, a mob of screaming protestors had beseiged the place, whistling and shouting Non Vogliamo Callas a Roma! (We don’t want Callas in Rome!) and chanting Viva Tebaldi!, a reference to her celebrated rival. The police had to use clubs and truncheons to get the demonstrators to disperse.

The coverage in the Italian press was merciless. Il Giorno thundered:

"This second class Greek artist, Italian by marriage, Milanese only by virtue of unjustified admiration from certain sections of the Milanese public, international because of her allies in the press, has for some years been following the path of melodramatic excess. This demonstrates that Maria Callas is an unpleasant artist who lacks the most elementary sense of discipline and acceptable behavior."

Callas’ supposed affront to the Prime Minister was raised in the Italian Parliament, where a Deputy introduced a motion that would bar her from appearing at any state-subsidized opera house. In fact, the soprano had already spoken with Gronchi’s wife, who assured her that she and the Premiere appreciated her indisposition.

The scandal’s ultimate beneficiary was the Rome opera, which had always been overshadowed by La Scala in Milan, the Teatro Felice in Venice, and the Teatro San Carlo in Naples. Roman opera lovers noted with barely-disguised delight that the house hadn’t received this much attention since the days when partisans of Verdi and Wagner were settling disputes with their fists.

Noble Folly

From the March 11, 1882 issue of Punch magazine, a cartoon of the future King Edward VII (then the Prince of Wales) leading a disgruntled-looking orchestra. It was accompanied by the following caption: "Harmony; or, the Prince of Wales's Royal Minstrels, Who Will, We Hope, Perform Out of St. James’ Palace Hall".

The pleasure-loving Prince was extremely fond of music and had a prominent role in establishing the Royal College of Music that year by Royal Charter. The high cost of the initiative is referred to in the conductor’s score by the replacement of the usual clef signs with the symbol for Pounds Sterling . Prime Minister William Gladstone is seated at the lower right, the look of displeasure on his face indicating his frustration over what he sees as yet another vain expenditure by an entitled Royal.

Mozart’s Heir

Mendelssohn not only shared Mozart's prodigal brilliance. He possessed the same extraordinary understanding of how simple changes in harmony and texture can transform the psychological affect of a musical phrase. The 2nd movement of his 4th Symphony (“Italian”), an exquisite evocation of a religious ceremony in a Neapolitan Cathedral, provides a wonderful example.

The movement’s principal tune is a slow march tune that suggests a priestly procession. The melody has two phrases, with each phrase being repeated, i.e. an

AABB form. Each is initially given a sparse setting that conveys the proper aura of solemnity: no harmonization, just a tune and a bass line. But listen to how Mendelssohn transforms the atmosphere in the phrase repetitions. He doesn’t simply add harmonies; he chooses a particularly rich harmonic style, filled with suspensions and other dissonances that express a deep sense of pathos. And in a masterstroke, he gives the harmonization to a pair of flutes playing in the lower range of the instrument, creating an effect that’s at once vulnerable and sensuous. What was previously austere now glows with a melancholy warmth:

The knack of genius.

Liquid Fortification

The Surrealist French Composer Erik Satie (1866-1925), having reached the point at which he’s ready to beat the next Wagnerian he meets senseless.