Followup to my post about the language of Italian opera, and how it’s never rendered properly in opera-house translations.
I was listening again to Il Trovatore, and came to the moment when the baritone realizes that the gypsy he’s captured is not only the woman who burned his infant brother alive, but is also his hated rival’s mother. The rival is named Manrico, and, as I listened, I heard the baritone labelling the gypsy with these words: “Di Manrico genitrice.”
Which is very fancy, to the point of silliness. First, it’s backwards poetic phrasing: “Of Manrico the mother.” Except the word used isn’t mother, but something wildly stilted: “Of Manrico the parent,” or (because “genitrice” is far more stiff than that) “of Manrico the begetter.”
But I’m sure it’ll be translated at the opera house, in the titles, as “Manrico’s mother.” When I saw La Gioconda at the Met, there were countless examples of that. The libretto (written by Verdi’s great librettist Boito, under an assumed name) is highly literary. In the last act, the baritone, skulking as usual, observes that night is falling.
Except he doesn’t put it that way. He sings, “Il ciel s’oscura” — “the heavens are darkening,” or something like that. I’ve taken my Italian about as far as it can go, but I know that the normal word for “sky” is “cielo,” not “ciel,” and “s’oscura,” to the best of my knowledge, isn’t common usage. Put the baritone’s words into Google Translate, and it can’t find an English rendering at all.
But the translation on the seat in front of me just said “Night is falling,” which robs the opera of all its melodramatic flair. At least try “The sky is darkening,” like this English translation available online. (You’ll have to scroll far down into Act IV to find the line.)
An exploration of the translation of this phrase —
Oscura as an adjective means “dark”; however, the Italian verb “to darken” is “oscurare” (thus, “oscura” as a third person verb can be translated as “[he, she, it] darkens / is darkening [something]”
Perhaps the librettist made the verb reflexive (oscurarsi) so that “il ciel(o) s’oscura” could be better translated as “the sky darkens / is darkening itself”
Taken even further, the word “cielo” means both “sky” and “heaven” (leaving off the last vowel is not uncommon in Italian poetic and musical works, in my experience), and “oscurare” can also mean “to hide” (as in, to obscure) and “oscurarsi” “to hide oneself”. Therefore — although this may be stretching it, it is interesting to consider — the phrase could have the double meaning of “heaven hides / is hiding itself”. Of course, we need to look in the context of the phrase to see whether this double-meaning translation is warranted.
Either way, this only proves your point that operatic Italian is more fascinating and complex than we can get from the literal translations of opera houses.
Hi, Greg
I liked your post about language. I remember when the Met opened Pique Dame, Lisa was waxing suicidal down by the river at the beginning of Act III and when Gherman showed up and sang something presumably along the lines of “What troubles you?” the English title read: “What’s the matter?” as if she had just stubbed her toe. The audience cracked up, and by the second performance, the title was gone.
But back to Verdi and verismo. You’re absolutely right in your reading of the Italian style, which is almost comically literary, especially when you think about the fact that these operas were written at a time of popular upheaval and rampant bourgeoisification of the audience, and that they were a source of pop hits and village band music. Da Ponte’s librettos, by contrast, still sound modern and direct, even if you allow for certain usage changes.
I wonder, though: would capturing – or imitating – the style of Boito’s librettos really do a service to anyone? How much does it help to translate:
Recondita armonia di bellezze diverse!
È bruna Floria, l’ardente amante mia,
e te, beltade ignota
cinta di chiome bionde!
as
Recondite harmonies of variegated beauty!
She is chestnut-haired – Floria, ardent lover of mine,
and you, o nameless pulchritude,
are swathed in blond locks.
?
I think the audience would barely get a chance to look at the stage.
Incidentally, there’s another peculiarly operatic linguistic habit in late 19th century/early 20th c. opera: The narrative use of the imperfect, which you could faithfully, but preposterously translate with the English gerund. So the first verse of E lucevan le stelle would become:
And the stars were shining,
and the earth was smelling sweet,
the garden gate was scraping,
and a step was brushing the sand.
She was coming in, fragrant,
and was fallling into my arms.
Why did they do this? Not to be true to life – nobody ever spoke this way.
Cheers,
Justin
Hi, Greg –
I missed your first piece on Italian opera translations, but yes, they stuff that is published is often pretty far off the mark.
However – though “cielo” is the complete form of the word, it’s often used without the masculine-determiner “o” – especially as an exclamation: “O ciel!” – which is something along the lines of “Holy shit!” but more polite. And Tatiana was right there – the s’
before the verb is reflexive, the sky darkens itself; a good simple translation would be “the heavens darken” – something which suggests gloomy dark clouds blotting out the sun, blotting out hope.
Not that the Trovatore libretto is particularly poetic. But one must work with what one has. The emotional tone is everything, and it’s important to be as economical with words as possible (as Justin suggests).
Interesting discussion!
Let me just point out that a translated opera libretto and opera supertitles are very different animals. The former should certainly be a complete, literal, and stylistically accurate rendering of an opera’s original-language text and diction.
In sharp contrast, the highest priorities for opera supertitles are clarity and economy, allowing them to be quickly and easily parsed, so that the viewers may remain as focused on the stage action as possible. Of course, the best supertitle writers are able to accomplish this while remaining reasonably faithful to the meaning of, and suggesting the literary flavor and tone of, the original language text.
In the context of supertitles, slavishly literal translation will more often than not distract the audience’s attention from the stage by demanding inordinate time to read and/or provoking unwelcome laughter.
Hi, Greg –
I know you’ve moved past this topic, but I was at the Met’s Traviata dress rehearsal today – really excellent – and I paid attention to the titles, in English and German. I thought they were very good: not intrusive, not too literal (translations should interpretive, not literal, in any case)and quite intelligent. Fine job overall.
I also considered the verbal intelligibility factor. I was seated at the front/center of the Grand Tier – surely prime territory acoustically – a good distance from the stage, so the sounds would blend and carry well. I know Traviata “by heart” – memorized it (and many other operas) as a teenager many years ago (following a childhood during which I memorized reams of lyric and dramatic poetry – some of us are born geeks)so I knew all the words. If I hadn’t known all the words, I would hardly have been able to understand much of the text as it was sung. This was not the fault of the singers. It was, as I suggested before, a combination of elements: the blending of sounds in a large auditorium; the factor of the orchestra; the problem of articulation, especially in rapid passages and/or where the tessitura, the general “lay” of the vocal writing, is high, that is, around the top of the staff. (Whichever staff you’re using)
I think the Met’s titles are a real aid to opera audiences, and they have the virtue of being discreet as well.
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