Arts & Manners: Caballé’s Norma

Deep in the Druid wilderness, women and warriors of ancient Gaul gather at midnight under the holy oak at the altar of their war god, Irminsul. With bated breath, they await the arrival of Montserrat Caballé, new to the forest as Norma, the Druid high priestess. Her predecessors in this terminal role (like most opera heroines, Norma does not survive the final act) have left mighty footprints to fill. In 1890 the hefty Wagner soprano Lilli Lehmann stepped out of her usual surroundings for a foray into the less familiar territory of Gaul. Later Metropolitan Opera audiences have seen Gina Cigna, Zinka Milanov, Maria Callas, and, most recently, Joan Sutherland, whose overwhelming interpretation has undoubtedly provided the heaviest vocal imprinting of all.

Caballé, apparently undaunted by so glorious a heritage, materialized gracefully in the midst of the tribal gathering. Chiding those Gauls clamoring for instant battle with Rome (that city, she wisely points out, will fall soon enough by itself) Caballé cuts the magic mistletoe and addresses the moon goddess with the well-known “Casta Diva.” As with Radames’ opening “Celeste Aïda,” a superlative rendition is essential to the future well-being of the singer. Aware of her grave situation, Caballé bathed the lyrical aria in appropriately silver pianissimi. Then, as her thoughts turned to less pleasant things, i.e., the proconsul Pollione, a particularly effete example of Rome’s decline, the cabaletta coloratura became exact and biting.

MH

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Manuela Hoelterhoff

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Deep in the Druid wilderness, women and warriors of ancient Gaul gather at midnight under the holy oak at the altar of their war god, Irminsul. With bated breath, they await the arrival of Montserrat Caballé, new to the forest as Norma, the Druid high priestess. Her predecessors in this terminal role (like most opera heroines, Norma does not survive the final act) have left mighty footprints to fill. In 1890 the hefty Wagner soprano Lilli Lehmann stepped out of her usual surroundings for a foray into the less familiar territory of Gaul. Later Metropolitan Opera audiences have seen Gina Cigna, Zinka Milanov, Maria Callas, and, most recently, Joan Sutherland, whose overwhelming interpretation has undoubtedly provided the heaviest vocal imprinting of all.

Caballé, apparently undaunted by so glorious a heritage, materialized gracefully in the midst of the tribal gathering. Chiding those Gauls clamoring for instant battle with Rome (that city, she wisely points out, will fall soon enough by itself) Caballé cuts the magic mistletoe and addresses the moon goddess with the well-known “Casta Diva.” As with Radames’ opening “Celeste Aïda,” a superlative rendition is essential to the future well-being of the singer. Aware of her grave situation, Caballé bathed the lyrical aria in appropriately silver pianissimi. Then, as her thoughts turned to less pleasant things, i.e., the proconsul Pollione, a particularly effete example of Rome’s decline, the cabaletta coloratura became exact and biting.