Several decades after opera was born in Venice’s private theaters, the Venetian public enjoyed the first commercial opera at the Teatro San Cassiano in 1637. Over the next few decades, the pace of opera production varied significantly, often

corresponding to the number of foreign nobles visiting Venice. Early operas were often produced to celebrate a particular

festival, wedding, or treaty. But by the mid-17th century, many public theaters in Venice offered regular opera performances, chiefly during the period between the Monday before St. Luke’s feast day (18 October) and Lent. Powerful families built and owned the city’s eight or nine main opera houses, offering them additional ways to display their power and prestige. Operatic performances became one of the attractions that brought huge numbers of visitors and pleasure-seekers to Venice during the famous Carnival season, where high- and low-born could mingle freely – behind the anonymity of their masks.

These early operas often featured historical subjects or allusions to recent events. Venetians generally favored equal numbers of male and female characters in their operas, although ancient writers had included comparatively few women in their dramas. Librettists in Venice often created new roles for women, while treating women with as much respect (or contempt) as the men in their plots – and Messalina is typical in that respect. 

At the time, it was quite uncommon to portray marital infidelity on stage, even though such behavior was commonplace

among the operagoing nobility – who often conspicuously exercised the notorious droit de seigneur by dallying with courtesans who frequented the bacchanalian parties at Venice’s numerous palaces. Consequently, Messalina is altogether atypical for its time. While it is true that audiences sometimes debated about which opera productions were the more lascivious, most subject matter tended to be rather prudish. Thus Messalina stands out as one of the few baroque operas to delve frankly into the subject of infidelity. The topic still had to be treated carefully however, to avoid censorship by the ever-watchful Venetian civic authorities.

Produced at one of the leading Venetian houses – the Teatro San Salvatore – Messalina opened on 30 December 1679. Like most operas of the time, it ran for only one season. A second Messalina libretto – with a prologue for Eternity and Poetry, and three additional balli – is dated 28 December 1679, making Messalina one of the few documented cases of an opera being revised during its production run. Messalina’s composer, Pallavicino, was in quite high demand, having previously written ten operas, and he was to compose fifteen more. He and the librettist, Francesco Maria Piccioli, had

already worked together: Just a month and a half before Messalina, the two had collaborated on Le amazzoni nelle isole

fortunate (The Amazons in the Fortunate Isles) which Ars Minerva presented in 2016.

The story of Messalina harkens back to ancient times, when the corrupt Roman court was witness to numerous titillating

intrigues. Messalina’s constant infidelities do not go unnoticed by Emperor Claudio – but she has a talent for turning her fortunes around rapidly and forcefully, throwing Claudio’s own weaknesses back in his face. At the same time, a parallel story plays out in which Erginda (disguised as Alindo) tracks down her unfaithful fiancé, Tergisto.

The opera presents several highly compromising scenes, starting at the very beginning where Messalina flirts with her

lover Caio. There are also several scenes that transpire in the women’s baths. This plot element was so commonplace by

1680 that settings in the Turkish baths had become an operatic cliché. One of the most disturbing elements of Messalina

involves scenes of attempted rape: While sexual acts were never portrayed on the Venetian stage, provocative gestures

or poses were common. The Italian verb “rapire,” which appears in Messalina, can mean abduction, but also rape. In

Messalina, it is possible to trace an evolving trajectory around the threat of using force to satisfy one’s desires. After Floralba rejects his violent advances, Claudio imprisons her, saying, “Where love cannot go, force will arrive” (Act 3, Scene 4). However, shortly thereafter Caio remarks about “royal” force, “Where love cannot avail, neither does force” (Act 3, Scene 9). To a disturbing degree, the threat of violence provides a lurid and troubling backdrop to this opera.

Perhaps one of the most puzzling aspects of Messalina centers around the title character’s final aria (Act 3, Scene 17). The almost comically hypocritical words of a faithless, deceitful wife echo in our ears: “Faithless men, take a lesson from

women in how to adore…” This is perhaps meant to be as ironic as it seems, for Messalina sings just a few lines later, “Your sighs and tears are always meant to deceive.” But here we come up against one of the most fascinating elements of Venetian opera, writ large: Established conventions of the genre required some resolution in order to end with the customary “festivities.” In this respect, the dark character of Messalina cannot really endure, because the allegory of Peace

reigns over the score’s concluding pages. 

The music of Messalina is consistently excellent: One contemporary writer found it to be “admirable.” Scored for a compact ensemble, Pallavicino’s music often alternates between recitative and aria – a trait of more advanced operatic composition. Virtuosic elements frequently occur in the vocal writing: Lengthy melismas [many notes sung to one syllable] and rapid dialogue challenge even the experienced singer. There are also many touching musical moments, such as the gentle scene where Tergisto, after his literal and figurative fall off a cliff, finally awakens to behold his wife’s name lovingly spelled out before him with branches and leaves.

In the end, Messalina perhaps suggests that the pain, suffering and disappointment in love might not be so great if we were only able to exert self-control over our passions. Caio sings (Act 3, Scene 18), “Love’s power can be bent by the will, but not by force,” a line that is consistent with the enlightenment idea of using reason and self-control to temper violent emotions. Venetian opera gave audiences a space in which they could momentarily suspend their use of reason – while indulging their imaginations as everything from erotic trysts to gravity-defying stage mechanisms reigned supreme. Embedded here is a not-so-subtle warning for the present day: If we cannot control the evertempting consumption of information from the omnipresent portable theaters carried in our purses, pockets and bookbags, we may never leave the world of the imagination. Our view of reality is so easily warped by what we experience in digital space that we may

not be able to tell right from wrong. When the final curtain comes down on the opera and we applaud the players (now removed from the roles they have embodied), we are reminded that a world of reality still exists outside of the theater that swirls continually in the airwaves all around us.