Jules Massenet
Thaïs

In the previous chapter, I mentioned that among Jules Massenet's merits is his decisive contribution to preserving and advancing the stylistic peculiarities of French opera. Coloratura sopranos, for example, were virtuosic voices and absolute protagonists in the times of Mozart and then Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi (up to La Traviata), and in the French sphere, "papa" Meyerbeer; they fell into relative disuse in Italy and Germany in the latter half of the 1800s, but in France, they remained at the center of attention thanks to Offenbach, Gounod, Delibes, and indeed, Massenet, who more than any of these devoted himself assiduously to the theater. Massenet, who, after the success of Werther, completely changes setting and sound, reappearing with a much more opulent opera with an exotic setting, yet equally profound with even more dramatic and symbolic depth: Thaïs, with a stellar protagonist role both in charm and technical difficulty.

Unfortunately, this aspect also has a downside: Thaïs is often considered an opera to be dusted off from time to time as a "showcase" for the soprano's virtuosity, when instead it is a drama that presents the classic, eternal conflict between eros and spirituality in an original manner and with genuine intellectual depth, in addition to being a full-fledged musical masterpiece, intense and rich with twists. The story is set in Egypt, in a historical era often ignored or pretended not to exist, that of the coexistence between the rising Christianity and the declining Greco-Roman religion: on one side the pious, virtuous monk Athanael, on the other Thaïs, actress, prostitute, and priestess of Venus. Or so it seems, because Athanael's "purity" is only superficial: a baritone role, extremely well-conceived, on par with the protagonist, is a character that in many aspects anticipates Jochanaan in Strauss's Salome, with the same empty sectarian arrogance, the same complacency of his alleged moral superiority, the same unnatural self-mortification. His obsessive desire to convert the "sinner" obviously stems from vanity and repressed desire, but unlike Jochanaan, Athanael has a humanity that gradually reveals itself, and for this reason, in addition to very harsh and declamatory passages, the role also abounds with airy melodies, thus requiring an experienced and truly substantial performer.

Among the "pagans," Nicia, Thaïs's lover, should not be forgotten, a hedonistic and libertine character but also magnanimous, generous, and at peace with himself, almost a personification of the Roman mentality of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius's golden age, completely the opposite of the murky and tormented Athanael; Thaïs, for her part, is a seductress devoid of malice, seemingly strong, but actually sweet and vulnerable; all her inner turmoil is expressed in the most famous aria from this opera, "Dis moi que je suis belle", so intense, heartfelt, and voluptuous it sends chills down your spine, thanks also to those high notes that require an absolute technical mastery of the upper register and a crystal-clear timbre to properly function. But the entire opera is a continuous florilegium of melodies, emotionally intense duets, and numerous other splendors; the so-called "Méditation", a poignant melody for orchestra and solo violin, is among the most beautiful operatic interludes ever, the long ballet of the second act, developed on one of the many oriental-themed leitmotifs that fill the opera, a splendid finesse of Grand Opera, followed closely by "Celle qui vient est plus belle", a spectacular three-voice cantata with chamber accompaniment, an anthem to Venus where sensuality and spirituality, the two pillars of this opera, manage to express themselves in an enchanting common language.

Speaking of leitmotifs, the brief prelude to the second scene of the first act, with that enveloping string texture topped by the bold melody of a French horn, is something worthy of the best Richard Strauss, and more generally, all the music associated with "pagan" characters and settings shines with evocativeness, beauty, and inspiration. And then there's that finale: Athanael's crisis, who finally understands the true nature of his bond with Thaïs; he realizes that in trying to "redeem her," condemning her to a life of atonement for her alleged sins, he has brought nothing but pain to both. In the end, before a dying Thaïs, in the throes of a mystical delirium, so far removed from the world that she no longer recognizes him, he tells her, literally: "I lied to you!... Nothing is real but life and love between beings... I love you!". And this is the moment of redemption, for the "saint," not for the "sinner", that redemption through love that unfolds in a way so different from the Manichean, canonical, even banal proposal by Wagner in Tannhäuser. Thaïs is also this, a work with modern and courageous content, and with a truly unique charm of its kind. The fact that it was a perfect "showcase" for the fabulous Beverly Sills, among others, certainly doesn't hurt, but that comes afterward.