Hic Cantat Roma in Aeternam: Two Examples of Great Music Inspired by Roman History

A few days ago, I heard on National Public Radio an interview with Mary Beard, who is a professor of classics at Cambridge.  The occasion was the appearance of her book, SPQR,  (Senatus et Populusque Romanus,  The Senate and People of Rome), in paperback.  (When I read a positive review of the book in The Economist, I obtained a copy and read it straightaway—it is a hard book to put down!  I highly recommend it; its combination of interesting material and good writing is irresistible.)  At the very end of the interview, she was asked which work of fiction or art based of Roman history especially impressed her.  I, Claudius, a BBC adaptation from the 1970s of Robert Graves novel of historical fiction, was her response.  She acknowledged that much in the series was historically inaccurate, but it was fun.  I remember the series well; my wife and I didn’t miss an episode—We completely agree with Professor Beard’s assessment.

Immediately after the interview was over, I began to think of works with Roman themes that fascinate me the most.  I will now present two of them, both from opera.  In contrast to I, Claudius, with its humor and campy elements, these two examples are very serious—and very moving.

First Example: Seneca’s Death Scene from Claudio Monteverdi’s Opera, L'incoronazione di Poppea

L'incoronazione di Poppea, first performed in  1643, is one of the two earliest operatic masterpieces in the repertoire, the other being Orfeo, an earlier work by the same composer, Claudio Monteverdi, (1567-1643).  The scene discussed here  begins after Seneca received the news that Nero has ordered him to commit suicide because of the philosopher's objections to the emperor’s plan to abandon his current wife and make the ambitious Poppea empress.  (Seneca was indeed ordered to commit suicide in 65 CE, but the order had nothing to do with Poppea; Nero suspected Seneca's  participation in a plot to assassinate him.  L'incoronazione begins a long tradition in opera based on historical events, a tradition which emphasizes dramatic effect over historical accuracy.)

The Russian bass Denis Sedov gives a moving performance of Seneca in the YouTube clip which I have provided.  Seneca,  a stoic philosopher, was expected—by himself and by his students—to face death with equanimity.  In Sedov’s interpretation, it is clear that Seneca will not demure—nevertheless, impending death fills him with anguish.  It will not be easy, even for him. Seneca relates that the anguish of death is brief, and that the soul will fly to Olympus, its true home.  But Sedov's facial expression indicates that Seneca doubts whether this is true, which gives the interpretation a modern aspect.  A beautiful voice and great acting skills--just what is needed here. This singer delivers--how touching, for instance, is his depiction of Seneca silently saying farewell to life, first by picking up a piece of fruit off the ground and kissing it, and then by lovingly touching one of his beloved books. The quiet dignity of Monteverdi's music and the quality of this performance are remarkable. The bass’s voice and acting abilities significantly help to make this a masterful performance.  (The only criticism I have is that the youthful Mr. Sedov should have been made to look older—Seneca was in his late sixties—a veritable old man by Roman standards—at the time of his death.  A 'youthful Stoic philosopher,' at least when depicted on stage, strikes me as being something of an oxymoron.)

What I find most riveting about this music is the “Non morir, Seneca” section, sung by Seneca’s pupils.  Its ascending chromaticisms have a searing effect on the listener.  I would translate "Non morir, Seneca" as “Please don’t die, Seneca”.  This “Please don’t die” motif strikes me as being universal, an appropriately poignant "unheard" accompaniment to all those please-don’t-dies that have been said at the deathbed of loved ones over the centuries.  But die they do.

Thank you very much, Mr. Sedov, for putting your stellar performance on YouTube!

Second Example: Act 1, Scene 7 from Handel’s Giulio Cesare

The prolific George Frederick Handel, (1685-1759), wrote forty-two operas from 1705 until 1742.  (By 1742, the enthusiasm for Italian opera had  waned in England; Handel, as we all know, thereupon turned his attention to the composition of oratorios in English.) Giulio Cesare was composed in 1724; it was a success then, and is arguably the most successful Baroque opera in the current repertoire.

Handel was a first-rate melodist, a first-rate instrumentalist, and, as this example so amply proves, a first-rate dramatist as well.  In Handel’s day, beautiful singing was given precedence.  The dramatic action often occurred off-stage and was summed up in recitatives.  The singer would then express his or her reaction and then walk off the stage, whereupon another performer, or combination of performers, would do the same.  Not very dramatic. In addition, the A B A form of the arias which entails an elaborate da capo repeat of the first section, makes for great singing--at the expense of dramatic action.  In this example, which runs only a few minutes, the dramatic flow from beginning to end is uninterrupted by florid singing.  The result is superb. One can only imagine what Handel could have composed if he had lived in a time when operatic conventions had changed.  Verdi would have quite possibly have met his match.  Don’t get me wrong, what Handel composed is beautiful and effective in its own right, although modern audiences may need some time to adjust to the conventions of Baroque opera. 

The text, adapted from an earlier work by Handel’s friend, Nicola Francesco Haym, is very effective, a good poem in itself.  The original Italian version follows, along with my translation:

Alma del gran Pompeo,

Che al cenere suo d’intorno

Invisibil t’aggiri,

Fur’ombre i tuoi tronfei,

Ombra la tua grandezza, e un’ombra sei.

Così termina al fine il fasto umano.

Ieri che vivò occupò un mondo in guerra,

Oggi resolto in polve un’urna serra.

Tal di ciascuno, ai lasso!

Il principio è di terra, e il fine è un sasso.

Misera vita ! Oh, quanto è fral tuo stato !

Ti forma un soffio, e ti distrugge un fiato.

My prose translation :

Soul of great Pompey, who are invisibly

Encircling his ashes, your triumphs were shadows,

Your grandeur a shadow, and now you are

A shadow (shade) as well.

This is how human pomp ends--

Yesterday who, while alive, kept a world

At war, today is reduced to ash which an urn encloses.

Thus everyone’s beginning

Is of earth, and the end, alas! is a stone.

Miserable life!  Oh how frail is your state—

A breath forms you and a breath takes you away.

Handel was very much up to the task of putting these heartrending words to music—to truly unforgettable music. I know of no other excerpt in the entire history of opera in which the vanity and frailty of human existence, suddenly reduced to ash by death, is expressed more poignantly than it is here.

I provide two performances.  Although the original tessitura of the music for the title role was in the alto range, I think the gravitas of the text is best interpreted by a bass.  I will never forget Normal Treigle’s performance; his appearance in the opera alongside Beverly Sills was a great success—which occurred a few years before I, Claudius first appeared on TV.  Treigle had a great voice and possessed consummate acting skills as well; he delivered a very nuanced interpretation of this scene.  If his version were on YouTube, I would have selected it.  The bass Boris Christoff, however, gives a very admirable performance here.  I also include a version sung by the countertenor, Alfred Deller, which gives one a better idea of the original tessitura. The quality and purity of tone of Deller’s voice is amazing.  One gets the impression, however, that he was much more interested in beautiful sound rather than in dramatic phrasing,  a disadvantage in the performance of this piece of music, which demands both.

Conclusion

These two examples of great music with a Roman flair are unforgettable.  We can be grateful that Roman history–albeit an admittedly bowdlerized version thereof—inspired the librettists and, especially, the composers to create these masterpieces.  Hic cantat Roma in aeternam!  I hope this little article has inspired you, figuratively at least, to sing along.