Before He Even Speaks

The soldiers enter.

They march across the stage. We are seated on the opposite side, in comfortable red velvet seats.

We watch attentively as L’elisir d’amore comes to life before us. Little by little, the music rises from the orchestra pit and takes up all the space it needs, slipping into every crevice of the theatre.

It has a very precise task: to announce Belcore, a baritone and comic military figure. Only then can the game begin.

Before continuing, listen.

What kind of Belcore does this music make you imagine, before he even begins to sing?

Donizetti reveals the sergeant’s exuberant personality before Belcore has even opened his mouth. The orchestral pages that precede his entrance aria, Come Paride vezzoso, are entrusted with presenting the soldier’s character.

The martial rhythm skips from bar to bar and, supported by the sound of the drums, creates a proud, decisive momentum. The music is celebratory, perhaps excessively triumphant.

I can almost picture the plump gentleman, complete with moustache and uniform; I can “see” the hint of a belly. In my mind he is already on stage: by now we know each other, all that remains is to see him with my own eyes.

The music awakens the imagination and we begin to draw: we sketch the soldier’s face, choosing colours just as Donizetti chose his instruments.

Everything connects: music and mind merge and enter into a silent, delicate relationship. The further the melody unfolds, the clearer the protagonist’s features become in my mind.

Here we are.

And now, as the soldier is about to make his solemn entrance, I wonder whether the music has managed to capture the image that has formed in my mind.

And there is Belcore, self-assured and full of himself, almost comic.

The dialogue begins.

I look to the stage for answers, perhaps for confirmation.

Donizetti tailors the music to him and, note by note, the singer slips into the melody, merging with it until he becomes one with the instruments.

The writing of the Bergamo-born composer allows different shades of Belcore’s character to emerge while always giving him a clearly defined imprint. This leaves the singer free to explore the sergeant’s different behavioural nuances, secure in the knowledge that the music will always support him.

He can afford the luxury of dancing within it as he pleases, while remaining anchored to the score.

The music has won.

The portrait is precise: the sketch I had imagined has finally taken shape on stage. It is him, there is no doubt.

The initial portrait, drawn purely in melody, is confirmed by the performer: in his movements, in the use of his voice, in his gestures. There is a remarkable coherence between music and character: each completes the other, and everything moves together.

Belcore’s theme brings us to something that often happens in human relationships.

Gestures, body language and movement are like notes and dynamic and expressive markings written into a score and, just as with the soldier in L’elisir, they seem to whisper something about a person’s character before the other has even opened their mouth.

Donizetti already knows the character: Belcore is his creation. We do not.

And yet, from a blank page, we too construct a melody, a piece of music around another human being. We choose certain notes and imagine their sequence, their pitch, their arrangement.

The possible tone of voice becomes a set of dynamic markings: forte, piano, whispered. We assign the character a tempo instead: moderato, adagio, allegro.

We build page after page of music, imagine the overture, develop the acts, define an ending before it has even begun. And all of this from a single glance.

We are composers before we are listeners.

Then the other person speaks.

Sometimes they confirm the portrait we had begun to construct. Other times they crack it open.

An unexpected voice, a word, a hesitation, a way of telling their story forces us to listen again to what we thought we had already understood.

Belcore can afford to enter the stage accompanied by his own music.

In human relationships, however, what we think we have already heard may be nothing more than our own prelude.

But what happens when, sitting in those same red velvet seats, we think we have already understood someone before we have truly listened to them?

Now listen again to Come Paride vezzoso

After reading the piece, does this music make you imagine the same Belcore?