CASTRATI IN LITERATURE
CASTRATI IN CAESAR'S COURT
James Reiss
I. Remus
Of all court singers Caesar loves me best.
He makes me sing to him in his atrium.
after festivals and Senate meetings.
Away from his bodyguards,
he reclines on cushions.
I set a stool beside him and begin:
"Hail, Caesar, godlike, indestructible."
The higher my voice soars
the more his features soften.
"Give me your paw, Remus," he murmurs,
guiding my hand to his head
where I finger his thinning curls
and stroke his forehead smooth.
II. Gracchus
He treats me like a jester.
Fat Bacchus, he calls me.
I once was a sullen boy soprano, thin
as an olive pit, well-known in Etruria.
The day his envoy entered the temple
and summoned me to him,
I knew years of learning to treat
my voice like a vestal virgin
would cost me my manhood.
Now I hide behind smiles
and fast no longer as I did back home.
At dawn I enter Caesar's wine cellar
with a key he gave me
and drink my fill, with honeyed bread.
III. Caius
Whenever he boasts about the wars
or makes me chant hymns
to Caesarion his son,
I feel his sword between my legs.
I am young; I will never again see home.
Yet I have sung with the best musicians
in the Republic, while my mother and sister
live on sesterces I send them.
In Umbria, where spring comes late
to the mountain passes, I picture them
hard by a fire whose wood I provide for,
my mother carding wool,
my sister spinning.
IV. Septimus
I am old, yet my skin is still soft,
clear as it was when his legions
stripped my countrymen of their rags
and bundled me off in a cart
as a prize capon from the provinces.
In Gaul I sang for shepherds
and begged better fare as a minstrel
than I do at his banquets in Rome.
How many cities sacked and villagers taxed
to pay for his evening repast.
Caesar never patted my knee
or called me his Gallic cantor.
The gods will set him straight
when I sing at his funeral.
A CASTRATO SINGER
ADDRESSES HIS WIFE
London 1730
Jerry Craven
It remains unchanged since that slight
alteration in a Roman clinic when I was ten,
yet my voice commands doctor, saint, and king.
It is all I have.
It gives us this villa, the Raphael in the hall,
the silk dress and purse and gold you love
to jingle before your cousin, who trades
his presence and his absence for rose gold coin.
I offer words of love but not in trade.
I can offer only my voice -
it is all I have.
My words cast forth in song can shatter glass
and break hearts of lovers ardent for tones
of a woman's passion sung with love
and power as no female soprano can produce.
Take the gold enclosed in silk and go from me,
if you must; go to the cousin for passion that lives
in darkness, in glands inconstant and hungry;
seek love in throbbing flesh, if you must, and
go from me. I offer other rhythms
with my voice, beauty an army
of cousins cannot comprehend.
If it is love you seek in the night beyond
our villa, try turning back to me, to my art
to the gift left by the ravages of the Roman clinic;
listen to my song, to my words;
look to my male soprano voice,
for it is all I have.
THE LAST LIVING CASTRATO
Jennifer Grotz
Difficult to believe, a knife ensures the voice,
soprano notes proceed intact while chest hair and beard
accompany the new lower octaves, the voice expanding
beyond sex, limited only by lung. And now whole
operas composed for castrati are abstract and
unperformable, now whole species of off-humans who
were sacrificed for air, for air sinking and rising
in their throats, are extinct, now facsimiles
reproduce for our ears what is digital mastery,
bleeding soprano and countertenor. Except for
the brief miracle of Edison's recording:
the last living castrato's voice brimming through
static and hiss. Technology at its beginning and
old-school opera at its decline, that cusp
between where a voice spanning five octaves sang to
give us proof of the voice, and of how
we doctored it to make it more whole, to widen
emotion's aperture. He held it in his mouth.
Audiences would beg for the aria to be sung
over and over, interrupting the story, which was only
an excuse for the voice. The voice is how, rising,
rising, so as to dive, and he held it in his mouth
releasing our cruel sacrifice, our gratitude
to hear it fall, driven to where the voice takes us:
silence, applause.
CASTRATI
Anonymous
Who needs angels when I can sing;
When I can hear my own voice ring?
Call me vain but you're insane,
If you don't yearn to hear this voice.
They received my heavenly echoes
Just yesterday; and no they didn't oppose
My excellent dream. So they deemed
That I should make the choice.
I should hear my joyful notes,
And as a Soprano be devote,
To blessing you all with my jubilant call.
I'll take my place uniform to a gelding or a mare.
I'll let them rip parts from my body,
And pay the price to be haughty.
I'll let them take my man's estate and right to mate.
Do this I dare?
Do I attempt to sacrifice posterity?
And do I do this merrily?
Yes I do; I'll say adieu,
To the gift between my legs.
ON NICOLINI'S LEAVING THE STAGE
Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
Begin, our Nation's Pleasure and Reproach!
Britain no more with idle Trills debauch;
Back to thy own unmanly Venice sail.
Where Luxury and loose Desires prevail;
There thy Emasculating Voice employ,
And raise the Triumphs of the Wanton Boy.
Long, ah! too long the soft Enchantment reign'd,
Seduc'd the Wise, and ev'n the Brave enchain'd;
Hence with thy Curst deluding Song! away!
Shall British Freedom thus become thy Prey?
Freedom, which we so dearly us'd to Prize,
We scorn'd to yield it - But to British Eyes.
Assist, ye Gales; with expeditious Care,
Waft this prepost'rous Idol of the Fair;
Consent, ye Fair, and let the Trifler go,
Nor bribe with Wishes adverse Winds to blow:
Nonsense grew pleasing by his Syren Arts,
And stole from Shakespear's self our easie Hearts.
THE LAST OF THE GREAT CASTRATI
Robert Storm
The curtain fell an hour ago
I changed the clothes and came home
Now I wonder what to do
Should I go back to the theatre?
Should I sing the whole night through?
Everything has changed round me
I'm still the boy I used to be
It was not so long ago
It was in some different world
And that makes me so confused
All the people that I meet
In the palace, in the street
They do those filthy things that I
Never even dream of
Because I'm pure, so goddamn pure
The theatre's now already closed
I am restless and alone
Should I throw up or go abroad
When everybody in this world
Is going home and getting bored
When the curtain rises and
When the music starts to play
And when I start to sing
Everybody's listening
Listening to only me
And I'm the one
The only one
Sometimes I just stay in bed
Sometimes I wander by the lake
Sometimes I'd like to stop breathing
I don't think I ever will
Because then I couldn't sing
With these ladies by my side
I always start to wish that I
Could feel those filthy things and
Have some of those fantasies
That our time is famous for
When I see myself backstage
I'm almighty and afraid
Charming in a scary way
But then the curtain rises and
The music starts to play
And I'm the one
The only one
Now the music starts to play
And the curtain rises and
I come up to the stage
And then I start to sing
That's when I feel that thing
It's like the sun
For everyone
For this moment,
for this night
I am the one
The only one
ON HEARING A RECORDING BY THE LAST CASTRATO
(Alessandro Moreschi, 1858-1922)
Kenneth Wolman
[1]
This is how they must have done it: heard his voice
in church on a Sunday, the sweet boy-soprano
rising toward the ceiling as toward Heaven,
and saw in that Heaven the crown of thorns turned to gold,
metal vibrating in the air like a celestial harp,
the promise of glory brought to earth in
the fossilized voice of a little boy:
and went to his parents, poor farmers, whose life
was a misery of late rents and stillbirths,
and showed them God in their son's unchanging voice:
and his father wept, took the gold pressed like nails into his hands,
prayed his son would not know, but knew that he would,
prayed he would forgive them, but knew he was not God:
and knew that the dessicated honey-laden voice
that would rein its fury in Mozart's golden scales
from the stages in Rome or Vienna or Milan
would be his son's revenge, would come to him by night,
to breed in his nightmares, and would spurt forth the seed
of dreams, in molten rage, in the voices of his never-born grandchildren.
[2]
The voice on the wax cylinders shatters the barrier
of time and of sex: its conjured face is of the ancient infant
in a painting by the Douanier Rousseau:
benign, delicate, the skin pink-wrinkled with age,
suspended in babyfat, forever a child.
What is behind its eyes that stare blankly outward?
What is the man who grew behind the woman's voice
whose soaring scales cut like the knife that maimed him?
What did he hear when he heard his voice played back
through a horn, but eternity granted, eternity lost?
For only the voice grew: not down but outward,
its never-broken scales filling a massive chest,
throbbing inside it like a shivered scream.
OPERA LIONS
Joseph Addison, The Spectator, (No. 13 - Thursday, 15 March 1711)
Dic mihi, si fias tu leo, qualis eris?
(Were you a lion, how would you behave?)
Mart., xii. 93.
There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater amusement to the town than Signior Nicolini's combat with a lion in the Haymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the general satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of Great Britain. Upon the first rumour of this intended combat, it was confidently affirmed, and is still believed, by many in both galleries, that there would be a tame lion sent from the tower every opera night in order to be killed by Hydaspes. This report, though altogether groundless, so universally prevailed in the upper regions of the playhouse, that some of the most refined politicians in those parts of the audience gave it out in whisper that the lion was a cousin-german of the tiger who made his appearance in King William's days, and that the stage would be supplied with lions at the public expense during the whole session. Many likewise were the conjectures of the treatment which this lion was to meet with from the hands of Signior Nicolini: some supposed that he was to subdue him in recitativo, as Orpheus used to serve the wild beasts in his time, and afterwards to knock him on the head; some fancied that the lion would not pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, by reason of the received opinion that a lion will not hurt a virgin: several who pretended to have seen the opera in Italy, had informed their friends that the lion was to act a part in High Dutch, and roar twice or thrice to a thorough bass before he fell at the feet of Hydaspes. To clear up a matter that was so variously reported, I have made it my business to examine whether this pretended lion is really the savage he appears to be, or only a counterfeit.
But before I communicate my discoveries, I must acquaint the reader that upon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was thinking on something else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous animal that extremely startled me, and, upon my nearer survey of it, appeared to be a lion rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised, told me, in a gentle voice, that I might come by him if I pleased; "for," says he, "I do not intend to hurt anybody." I thanked him very kindly and passed by him, and in a little time after saw him leap upon the stage and act his part with very great applause. It has been observed by several that the lion has changed his manner of acting twice or thrice since his first appearance, which will not seem strange when I acquaint my reader that the lion has been changed upon the audience three several times. The first lion was a candle-snuffer, who, being a fellow of a testy, choleric temper, overdid his part, and would not suffer himself to be killed so easily as he ought to have done: besides, it was observed of him, that he grew more surly every time he came out of the lion, and having dropped some words in ordinary conversation, as if he had not fought his best, and that he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back in the scuffle, and that he would wrestle with Mr. Nicolini for what he pleased, out of his lion's skin, it was thought proper to discard him: and it is verily believed to this day, that, had he been brought upon the stage another time, he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was objected against the first lion, that he reared himself so high upon his hinder paws, and walked in so erect a posture, that he looked more like an old man than a lion.
The second lion was a tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse, and had the character of a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If the former was too furious, this was too sheepish for his part; inasmuch that, after a short modest walk upon the stage, he would fall at the first touch of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, and giving him an opportunity of showing his variety of Italian trips. It is said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colour doublet: but this was only to make work for himself in his private character of a tailor. I must not omit that it was this second lion who treated me with so much humanity behind the scenes.
The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman, who does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He says very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain; that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it, and that it is better to pass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking: but at the same time says, with a very agreeable raillery upon himself, that if his name should be known, the ill-natured world might call him "the ass in the lion's skin." This gentleman's temper is made out of such a happy mixture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes both his predecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have been known in the memory of man.
I must not conclude my narrative without taking notice of a groundless report that has been raised to a gentleman's disadvantage, of whom I must declare myself an admirer; namely, that Signior Nicolini and the lion have been seen sitting peaceably by one another, and smoking a pipe together behind the scenes; by which their common enemies would insinuate that it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the stage: but upon inquiry I find, that if any such correspondence has passed between them, it was not till the combat was over, when the lion was to be looked upon as dead according to the received rules of the drama. Besides, this is what is practised every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each other to pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out of it.
I would not be thought in any part of this relation to reflect upon Signior Nicolini, who, in acting this part, only complies with the wretched taste of his audience: he knows very well that the lion has many more admirers than himself; as they say of the famous equestrian statue on the Pont-Neuf at Paris, that more people go to see the horse than the king who sits upon it. On the contrary, it gives me a just indignation to see a person whose action gives new majesty to kings, resolution to heroes, and softness to lovers, thus sinking from the greatness of his behaviour, and degraded into the character of the London Prentice. I have often wished that our tragedians would copy after this great master in action. Could they make the same use of their arms and legs, and inform their faces with as significant looks and passions, how glorious would an English tragedy appear with that action which is capable of giving a dignity to the forced thoughts, cold conceits, and unnatural expressions of an Italian opera! In the meantime, I have related this combat of the lion to show what are at present the reigning entertainments of the politer part of Great Britain.
Audiences have often been reproached by writers for the coarseness of their taste; but our present grievance does not seem to be the want of a good taste, but of common sense.
XX. D'UNE ESPECE DE MUTILATION
Voltaire, Commentaire sur le libre des delits et des peines par un avocat de province (1766)
On trouve dans le Digeste une loi d'Adrien qui prononce peine de mort contre les médecins qui font des eunuques, soit en leur arrachant les testicules, soit en les froissant. On confisquait aussi par cette loi les biens de ceux qui se faisaient ainsi mutiler. On aurait pu punir Origène, qui se soumit à cette opération, ayant interprété rigoureusement ce passage de saint Matthieu: "Il en est qui se sont châtrés eux-mêmes pour le royaume des cieux."
Les choses changèrent sous les empereurs suivants, qui adoptèrent le luxe asiatique, et surtout dans le bas-empire de Constantinople, où l'on vit des eunuques devenir patriarches et commander des armées.
Aujourd'hui à Rome, l'usage est qu'on châtre les enfants pour les rendre dignes d'être musiciens du pape de sorte que castrato et musico del papa sont devenus synonymes. Il n'y a pas longtemps qu'on voyait à Naples en gros caractères, au-dessus de la porte de certains barbiers: Qui si castrano maravigliosamente i putti.
One finds in The Digest a law of Hadrian which pronounces the death penalty against the doctors who turn men into eunuchs, either by removing the testicles or by crushing them. This law also confiscated the goods of those thus mutilated. One who might have been punished was Origen, who subjected himself to this operation, having rigorously interpreted the passage in St Matthew: "Those who castrate themselves for the kingdom of heaven." Things changed under the subsequent emperors, who adopted Asian luxuries, especially in the Sub-Empire of Constantinople, where eunuchs became [church] patriarchs and led armies. Today in Rome, it is becoming such a custom to castrate little boys to make them worthy to be papal musicians, that "castrato" and "musico" are becoming synonymous. It wasn't long ago that one saw, in large letters, above the doors of certain barbers: Qui si castrano maravigliosamente i putti. (Here little boys are castrated marvellously well.) [Translation: Karen Mercedes]
Chapter Twelve.
THE OLD WOMAN'S MISFORTUNES CONTINUED
Voltaire, Candide
Abigail was delighted to hear her native language. She told the man of
her misadventures, and then fell into a swoon. He carried her to a nearby
house, where he put her to bed, gave her something to eat, and then left her
to sleep. Later on he waited on her with great care and told her that she was
the most beautiful person he had ever seen, regretting that he could not
restore her virginity to her.
The man was born at Naples, where they castrate two thousand boys a year.
(During this period, musical pieces were written for the castrato voice.
Castratos were children who were castrated to prevent them from attaining
puberty, at which time their voices would change. Thus, a boy soprano might
become a tenor or baritone. A castrated boy soprano would become a castrato.)
Some of the children died, some attained great fame with their beautiful
voices; others became prime ministers. This man had had a successful
operation; he was organist to the Princess of Palestrina.
DEPRIVED
Wallace Stegner: A Shooting Star (New York: The Viking Press - Copyright © 1961, 1989 by Wallace Stegner)
Their waiter was a man with a soft, corrupt face and a voice like a shy girl's. The two boys at the corner table back of Sabrina's kept arguing about him. One was positive he was a castrato, the other thought he was a flit. They bellowed joyfully into the Wagon Wheel's din, a yard behind Sabrina's back.
"I don't give a damn, you understand," said the advocate of the castrato theory. "It's nothing to me. But I can tell the difference between the wrong hormones and no hormones at all. Look at his face - no beard, skin like a owman. And a choir-boy voice."
"The voice doesn't prove anything," Flit said.
"The hell it doesn't."
"What?"
"The hell it doesn't."
"The hell it does."
"The hell it doesn't. How do you account for it, then?"
"You can be born with funny vocal cords. Maybe he's a male alto, or a counter tenor, or something."
"What?"
"Maybe he's a counter tenor!"
Castrato groaned. Into their low-ceiling corner the incomparable clatter of two hundred diners crashed and pounded. "Oh, man," Castrato said as if in pain. "Counter tenor, he says. Under-the-counter soprano, you mean. Man, you don't know anything. This guy's deprived."
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