After Pietro Mascagni punched the operatic world in the face with his brutal, singleact
Cavalleria Rusticana in 1890, he became an instant sensation, the type of “overnight success” that an artist dreams of. After being expelled from the Milan Conservatory in his second year in 1885 he had supported himself by playing double bass, teaching piano and conducting operettas with a small company. Indeed, he was unsympathetically referred to in a Neapolitan newspaper as a “bandmaster.” But in 1889 he entered a contest held by the Sonzogno publishing house and won with Cavalleria, creating a one-man revolution in Italian opera that ushered in the Verismo movement. Verismo is practically synonymous with overkill — overkill in volume, fervor, quick and frenzied musical numbers, violent moodswings and passion; the outcome is invariably murder or suicide. Understatement has no place in the formula. Six months after its premiere, Mahler conducted Cavalleria in Budapest, and within three years it was one of the world’s most popular operas. “I was crowned before I was king,” Mascagni would later say.
Based on a short story and play by Giovanni Verga, much of the critical and popular credit for Cavalleria’s success was given to its brutal story. Stung, Mascagni decided to compose a work that would be judged solely on its musical value, and indeed, the libretto he chose is about as bland as humanly possible. He wanted, as he explained to his publisher, a “simple libretto where the action is tenuous and inconsistent.” Verdi called it “silly, action-less and characterless.” But as James Clutton, producer of London’s prestigious Opera Holland Park, recently told me after a successful run of performances, “Yes, the plot is thin, but I don’t agree with Verdi’s sentiments. I believe L’amico Fritz to be unbelievably underrated as an opera.”
L’ami Fritz was an 1864 French comic novel by Emile Erckmann and Alexandre Chatrian that was adapted for the stage in 1872. Mascagni’s opera opened to great acclaim in Rome in October of 1891; at the first performance, several numbers were encored and the curtain calls went on at length. Within a year it was popular all over Europe, with Gustav Mahler leading the Hamburg premiere in 1892. Both he and Eduard Hanslick, the critic who was the bane of Wagner’s existence, thought that the musical language in Fritz was more advanced and sophisticated than that of Cavalleria. And though the Musical Times reported at the opera’s 1893 premiere at Covent Garden that “all London did not rush to see [Mascagni], the house being half empty when he stepped into the conductor’s seat,” the paper went on to say that the opera was nevertheless warmly received. And so it has been. When it is presented, which is not frequently, it is loved.
The idyllic setting is a small village in Alsace. Fritz is a wealthy, landowning overthirty-
five-year-old. It is his birthday and he is sitting with friends, celebrating. Enter young, pretty Suzel, daughter of Fritz’s steward, bearing flowers for Fritz. His friend, the Rabbi David, is a strong believer in matrimony and thinks Suzel should marry, but Fritz says she is too young. Fritz announces his own lack of interest in marriage but David bets him that he will be married within a year. The second act finds Suzel in the garden picking cherries; Fritz joins her in a duet. David and some friends arrive, and Fritz and Suzel discuss the story of Abraham, Isaac and the taking of a wife. David realizes that Suzel loves Fritz and, to make Fritz jealous, tells him that he will look for a husband for Suzel. Alone, Fritz realizes that he loves Suzel; he panics and takes a waiting carriage into town. Suzel discovers him gone and bursts into tears. The third act finds Fritz’s love in full bloom. David tells him he has found a husband for Suzel and that they need Fritz’s approval since he is the feudal lord. He refuses. Suzel enters and sings of her unhappiness — her father wants her to marry a stranger — and Fritz finally declares his love for her. All rejoice in the power of love. (Note the merry relationship between Protestants and Jews; after 1933 Rabbi David suddenly became a wise neighbor. The Fascist Mascagni had no problem with such an alteration.)
And so: If Mascagni wanted to prove that a libretto did not a great opera make, he proved it. Whereas Cavalleria’s success is rooted in concise, brutal action, here we are picking cherries and discussing the Bible. This is to say nothing of the presence of a gypsy violinist named Beppe (a trouser role, no less) who shows up on occasion to supply, well, gypsy violin music. Cavalleria has characters who do everything wrong, so the conclusion, inevitably, is shattering. Fritz is full of gentle, awakening emotions and sensible discussions aiming towards a mellow May-December marriage.
But it works because it contains Mascagni’s most beautiful music. Though scored for full orchestra, the brass and percussion are rarely and judiciously applied. As insipid as
the character of Beppe is, his violin music is, in fact, pretty. Strings and winds — flutes, a lovely, plaintive oboe — are highlighted. There is a chorus, but it never appears on stage; it is used as a type of Alsatian ambience, singing softly about love, wafting in on a breeze.
