Madrid - La forza del destino - 21 February 1863

Giuseppe Verdi was not, by nature, a man of journeys. He preferred the stillness of his home, the quiet discipline of work, the familiar rhythm of creation. Yet there were places powerful enough to draw him away from Italy, places where destiny itself seemed to call. Russia was one. Spain was another.

For Russia, he wrote La forza del destino, an opera born almost against his own will. Verdi had sworn he would compose no more. It was Giuseppina Strepponi—his wife, his muse, the great soprano who had once given voice to Nabucco when his name was barely known—who persuaded him otherwise. To her, we owe not only this opera, but the continuation of Verdi’s creative life. And so, guided by her faith, Verdi traveled to Saint Petersburg, where the opera finally premiered in 1862 to overwhelming success.

Spain soon followed.

The Teatro Real of Madrid, a symbol of ambition and elegance, wished not only to present La forza del destino, but to welcome Verdi himself. The theatre had waited decades to fulfill its destiny: conceived in 1818, delayed by history and hesitation, finally completed by royal command in 1850. Modeled in spirit after San Carlo in Naples and La Scala in Milan, it had become the gathering place of Madrid’s aristocracy, where music, power, and society met in equal measure.

Verdi arrived in Madrid on January 10, 1863, accompanied by Giuseppina. He lodged just across the street from the theatre, close enough to feel its pulse day and night. He devoted himself entirely to rehearsals, declining social invitations, avoiding salons and aristocratic soirées. This reserve earned him a certain coolness among Madrid’s elite, but Verdi did not mind. What mattered was the music—and the music was thriving. He admired the orchestra, the chorus, the staging. Everything was ready.

And then came the night.

Saturday, February 21, 1863.

Madrid shimmered under winter lights as carriages rolled toward the Teatro Real. The city knew it was about to witness history. Inside, the theatre glowed—velvet, gold, whispered anticipation. The royal box awaited its most distinguished guest.

At last, Queen Isabella II arrived, her presence commanding silence and reverence. Moments later, another figure took her seat among the audience: Rosalía de Castro. Poet, voice of Galicia, pioneer of modern Spanish literature, author of Cantares Gallegos, she carried within her the same longing and melancholy that lived in Verdi’s music. Though they came from different worlds, that night they shared the same destiny.

Verdi himself conducted the premiere.

From the first notes, the theatre was transformed. Passion, fate, love, violence, and redemption unfolded on stage with irresistible force. The audience was spellbound. When the final chord faded, the applause erupted—long, thunderous, unrestrained. Madrid had embraced La forza del destino as its own.

The opera was performed many more nights, but Verdi departed only days later, deeply satisfied. Giuseppina, more social by nature, delighted in Madrid’s life and warmth, even as her husband returned gladly to his quiet.

From Madrid, La forza del destino traveled the world: New York, Vienna, Buenos Aires, Rome, London, Mexico City. Later, Verdi returned to the score, reshaping it for Milan, adding the majestic overture now celebrated in concert halls everywhere. Yet the original “Russian version” lives on in Saint Petersburg, performed year after year—a reminder of the opera’s first destiny.

And still, on that winter night in Madrid, with a queen in her box and a poet listening in silence, destiny revealed itself not as a force of tragedy alone, but as a meeting of art, history, and human will—irrevocable, luminous, eternal.

Spain was a shining exception for Giuseppe Verdi.

He wasn't a man inclined to travel or social life, but Madrid—and later Andalusia—managed to open a crack of curiosity, wonder, and ultimately, enjoyment within him.

Verdi arrived in Madrid on January 10, 1863, accompanied by Giuseppina Strepponi. The Teatro Real, still young but already the epicenter of the capital's musical and social life, wanted more than just the premiere of La forza del destino: it desired the composer's presence. And Verdi accepted.

He stayed opposite the theater, literally steps from the stage. From there, focused and meticulous, he directed the rehearsals with his characteristic severity. He wasn't fond of receptions or aristocratic soirées, and he declined many invitations from Madrid's high society. He preferred work, silence, and the intimacy of his wife. That reserve earned him some antipathy, but Verdi wasn't in Madrid to please: he was there so his work would sound as it should.

Rehearsals progressed smoothly. Verdi was very pleased with the orchestra, the chorus, and the staging. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

And then night fell.

Saturday, February 21, 1863.

The Teatro Real was resplendent. Madrid society filled the hall: aristocrats, politicians, journalists, opera lovers. In the royal box, Queen Isabella II presided over the evening. Among the audience was also Rosalía de Castro, an essential voice in modern Spanish literature, author of Cantares gallegos, a foundational work of contemporary Galician literature. That night, music and poetry shared the same historical space.

Verdi personally conducted the opera.

From the very first bar, La forza del destino captivated the audience with its intensity, its drama, and its profound moral message. When the curtain fell, the success was resounding. Long, insistent, and heartfelt applause. Madrid had experienced a historic night.

The opera was repeated several times, but Verdi left a few days later, deeply satisfied. Giuseppina, more sociable, had enjoyed the Madrid atmosphere, even those aspects her husband usually avoided. For both of them, their stay in Madrid remained a happy experience.

After the triumph, Verdi allowed himself something unusual: a vacation.

He traveled south, and it was in Granada that something changed. There, he embraced a social life. Now far removed from the pressure of the premiere, he was entertained by his friend, the great baritone Giorgio Ronconi, who acted as his host. Verdi genuinely enjoyed those days. He visited the Alhambra, which left him utterly fascinated. Years later, he would recall that it was what impressed him most during his entire trip through Spain, even more than El Escorial, which he admired but which, in comparison, left him cold. The Alhambra, on the other hand, captivated him.

From Granada, he traveled to Córdoba, where the Mosque-Cathedral amazed him with its beauty and harmony, and then to Seville, a city that made a lasting impression on him. The cathedral overwhelmed him with its grandeur, and the Museum of Fine Arts awakened in him a particular enthusiasm. Verdi deeply loved painting, and in Seville, he took a special interest in the work of Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, whom he admired with attention and respect.

In those rooms, among Baroque canvases and Andalusian light, the composer found a different kind of beauty: silent, visual, contemplative. Spain offered him not only an operatic triumph but a complete aesthetic experience.

Thus, La forza del destino not only marked one of the most memorable nights at the Teatro Real in Madrid, but also one of the most unexpectedly happy journeys of Giuseppe Verdi's life. A journey in which fate, for once, was generous.

Giuseppe Verdi n’aimait ni les voyages, ni l’exil, ni les routes interminables qui l’éloignaient de l’Italie. Il était un homme de la terre, du travail silencieux, de la création enracinée. Quitter son pays lui coûtait, et pourtant, le destin — ce même destin qu’il allait mettre en musique — l’obligea à regarder vers le Nord, bien au-delà de tout ce qu’il connaissait.

Saint-Pétersbourg l’appelait.

À contrecœur, Verdi accepta l’invitation impériale pour écrire une nouvelle œuvre destinée au grand Théâtre impérial. Il avait même pensé ne plus composer. Mais Giuseppina Strepponi, son épouse, sa confidente, son inspiratrice, le persuada une fois encore. Grâce à elle, La forza del destino commença à prendre forme, pensée pour la Russie, pour ses voix, pour son public — et pour son hiver.

Le premier voyage eut lieu en 1861.

Verdi dut affronter un froid qu’il n’avait jamais connu. Les rues de Saint-Pétersbourg semblaient figées sous la neige, la lumière pâle, les distances infinies. Il supportait mal ce climat, lui qui détestait déjà le déplacement. Et pourtant, il travaillait avec une rigueur implacable, concentré, exigeant. Tout était prêt pour la création… mais le destin frappa une première fois : la soprano tomba gravement malade. La première fut annulée.

Verdi dut repartir.

Un an plus tard, en 1862, il revint à Saint-Pétersbourg. Une seconde traversée, un second hiver, plus rude encore. Deux voyages vers une ville qu’il n’aimait pas, à une saison qu’il redoutait, par devoir envers la musique et par fidélité à son œuvre. Peu de compositeurs auraient accepté une telle épreuve.

Cette fois, rien n’arrêta la première.

Lorsque La forza del destino fut enfin donnée, le succès fut éclatant. Le public russe accueillit l’opéra avec enthousiasme, bouleversé par cette musique où le hasard, la fatalité et la passion semblaient se refléter dans la vie même de son créateur. Verdi, réservé par nature, laissa transparaître une satisfaction profonde. L’effort avait trouvé son sens.

Ironie du sort : cette œuvre, née dans la neige et le froid, marquée par l’attente et l’épreuve, devint l’un des opéras les plus joués au monde. Et aujourd’hui encore, à Saint-Pétersbourg, la « version russe » originale est représentée chaque saison, fidèle à l’esprit de sa première destinée.

Verdi ne se rendit jamais en Russie par plaisir. Il y alla par nécessité, par loyauté, presque par sacrifice. Deux fois. En plein hiver. Et c’est précisément là, au bout du monde et du froid, qu’il donna naissance à une œuvre où le destin, implacable et sublime, règne en maître.

Milano attendeva La forza del destino come si attende un ritorno solenne.

Non era una semplice prima: era una rinascita.

Dopo il successo della versione russa, Verdi sentì che l’opera non era ancora giunta alla sua forma definitiva per il pubblico italiano. La partitura lo soddisfaceva profondamente, ma il dramma — così cupo, così implacabile — appariva a molti eccessivo nella sua violenza. «Dobbiamo trovare il modo di evitare tutti questi morti», scrisse al suo librettista Francesco Maria Piave. Non era un ripudio dell’opera, ma un atto di lucidità teatrale.

Il destino, ancora una volta, intervenne: Piave si ammalò, e l’incarico passò ad Antonio Ghislanzoni. Il libretto venne profondamente rielaborato. Il finale fu trasformato: nella prima versione Don Álvaro si suicidava gettandosi da un dirupo; ora, al suo posto, Verdi cercò una redenzione possibile, una luce oltre la tragedia. Cambiarono il terzo atto, alcune scene cruciali, e soprattutto l’equilibrio morale dell’opera.

Verdi, intanto, tornò sulla musica.

Sostituì il breve preludio con una nuova, ampia ouverture: una vera architettura sonora, costruita sui motivi principali dell’opera, oggi tra le più celebri e riconoscibili della storia del teatro musicale. Aggiunse anche una nuova scena finale nel terzo atto, dopo il duello tra Carlo e Álvaro, rafforzando la tensione drammatica.

Così nacque la seconda versione di La forza del destino — quella che il mondo avrebbe conosciuto, amato e registrato per sempre.

La prima ebbe luogo il 27 febbraio 1869, al Teatro alla Scala di Milano.

Quella sera, la Scala visse una delle sue notti più felici e memorabili. Il teatro era colmo, vibrante di attesa. Verdi, notoriamente severo, diffidente verso i teatri — e in particolare verso la Scala, con la quale aveva avuto rapporti spesso difficili — osservava tutto con attenzione estrema. Era esigente fino all’eccesso, inflessibile sulle prove, sulla precisione, sulla verità teatrale.

Eppure, quella sera, tutto funzionò.

L’orchestra rispose con forza e chiarezza. Il coro fu compatto, drammatico, parte viva dell’azione. La scena servì la musica senza tradirla. L’opera avanzava con una potenza nuova, più equilibrata, più consapevole, senza perdere la sua anima tragica.

Al termine, l’accoglienza fu travolgente.

Il successo fu fabuloso.

Per Verdi, non fu solo un trionfo pubblico, ma una vittoria intima. Era soddisfatto — davvero soddisfatto — e questo, per chi lo conosceva, era il segno più alto di approvazione. Se Verdi era felice, significava che la Scala aveva lavorato bene. Molto bene.

Quella notte, Milano non assistette soltanto a una prima d’opera. Assistette alla nascita della versione definitiva di La forza del destino, e a uno dei momenti più luminosi della storia del suo teatro. Un’opera segnata dal fato trovava finalmente il suo equilibrio, e il suo autore, uomo difficile e grandissimo, poteva riconoscere — con raro sorriso — che il destino, almeno quella sera, era stato dalla sua parte.

España fue para Giuseppe Verdi una excepción luminosa.

No era un hombre inclinado al viaje ni a la vida social, pero Madrid —y luego Andalucía— lograron abrir en él una grieta de curiosidad, de asombro y, finalmente, de disfrute.

Verdi llegó a Madrid el 10 de enero de 1863, acompañado por Giuseppina Strepponi. El Teatro Real, joven aún pero ya convertido en epicentro de la vida musical y social de la capital, había querido algo más que el estreno de La forza del destino: deseaba la presencia del propio compositor. Y Verdi aceptó.

Se alojó frente al teatro, literalmente a unos pasos del escenario. Desde allí, concentrado y meticuloso, dirigió los ensayos con la severidad que le era habitual. No era amigo de recepciones ni de veladas aristocráticas, y rechazó muchas invitaciones que la alta sociedad madrileña le hizo llegar. Prefirió el trabajo, el silencio, la intimidad con su esposa. Aquella reserva le valió cierta antipatía, pero Verdi no estaba en Madrid para agradar: estaba allí para que su obra sonara como debía.

Los ensayos avanzaban con solidez. Verdi quedó muy satisfecho con la orquesta, con los coros y con la puesta en escena. Todo parecía alinearse.

Y entonces llegó la noche.

Sábado, 21 de febrero de 1863.

El Teatro Real resplandecía. La sociedad madrileña llenaba la sala: aristócratas, políticos, periodistas, aficionados a la lírica. En el palco real, la reina Isabel II presidía la velada. Entre el público se encontraba también Rosalía de Castro, voz esencial de la literatura española moderna, autora de Cantares gallegos, obra fundacional de la literatura gallega contemporánea. Aquella noche, música y poesía compartían un mismo espacio histórico.

Verdi dirigió personalmente la ópera.

Desde el primer compás, La forza del destino atrapó al público con su intensidad, su dramatismo y su hondura moral. Al caer el telón, el éxito fue rotundo. Aplausos largos, insistentes, emocionados. Madrid había vivido una noche histórica.

La ópera se repitió en varias funciones, pero Verdi partió pocos días después, profundamente satisfecho. Giuseppina, más sociable, había disfrutado del ambiente madrileño, incluso de aquello que su marido solía evitar. Para ambos, la estancia en Madrid quedó marcada como una experiencia feliz.

Tras el triunfo, Verdi se permitió algo poco habitual en él: vacaciones.

Viajó hacia el sur, y fue en Granada donde algo cambió. Allí sí hizo vida social. Ya lejos de la presión del estreno, fue agasajado por su amigo, el gran barítono Giorgio Ronconi, quien ejerció de anfitrión. Verdi disfrutó sinceramente de aquellos días. Visitó la Alhambra, que lo dejó profundamente fascinado. Años después recordaría que fue lo que más le impresionó de todo su viaje por España, incluso más que el Escorial, que admiró pero que, en comparación, le dejó frío. La Alhambra, en cambio, lo cautivó.

Desde Granada viajó a Córdoba, donde la Mezquita lo maravilló por su belleza y su armonía, y luego a Sevilla, ciudad que le causó una impresión duradera. La catedral lo sobrecogió por su grandeza, y el Museo de Bellas Artes despertó en él un entusiasmo particular. Verdi amaba profundamente la pintura, y en Sevilla se interesó de manera especial por la obra de Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, a quien admiró con atención y respeto.

En aquellas salas, entre lienzos barrocos y luz andaluza, el compositor encontró una forma distinta de belleza: silenciosa, visual, contemplativa. España le ofreció no solo un triunfo operístico, sino una experiencia estética completa.

Así, La forza del destino no solo marcó una de las noches más memorables del Teatro Real de Madrid, sino también uno de los viajes más inesperadamente felices de la vida de Giuseppe Verdi. Un viaje en el que el destino, por una vez, fue generoso.

London - Anna Bolena - 8 July 1831

His Majesty's Theater - London  - Interior of His Majesty's Theater London, 1808.

A ballet perfomance ( drawing by Auguste Pugin and Thomas Rowlandson ) 

One of the most important operas in the history of opera is undoubtedly Gaetano Donizetti's masterpiece, Anna Bolena. Anna Bolena was premiered at the Teatro Carcano in Milan on 26 December 1830, and from its very first night it was a triumphant success. The title role was sung by Giuditta Pasta, the most famous soprano of her time, while Elisa Orlandi sang Jane Seymour. This opera was the 29th in the catalogue of Gaetano Donizetti, the composer born in Bergamo. Remarkably, although Donizetti had already written no fewer than twenty-eight operas, it was Anna Bolena that finally propelled his fame across Italy and throughout Europe.

Among those who attended the premiere was Donizetti’s teacher, Johann Simon Mayr, who travelled to Milan especially for the occasion. Deeply moved, Mayr famously told his former pupil: “You are a master!” — words of great significance, coming from a composer who himself had been a student of Mozart.

Today, the role of Jane Seymour is usually sung by a mezzo-soprano, but originally it was conceived for a soprano voice. Shortly after completing Imelda de’ Lambertazzi (his 28th opera), Donizetti travelled to Milan to finalize the details of his new work. The commission came not from La Scala, as is often mistakenly believed, but from the Teatro Carcano, which at the time was La Scala’s great rival. Determined to surpass its prestigious competitor, the Carcano demanded a grand opera — and it achieved exactly that.

Crucially, Giuditta Pasta, the reigning diva of the era, agreed to sing the title role. She even invited Donizetti to stay at her villa on Lake Como, where much of the opera was composed. Anna Bolena can truly be described as an opera written to measure, like a bespoke haute-couture gown. Pasta sang the arias as Donizetti wrote them, suggested changes according to her vocal instincts and dramatic taste, and Donizetti refined the music accordingly. The invention was unquestionably his, but Pasta undeniably helped shape and polish the final result.

The score was completed on 10 December 1830, and rehearsals began immediately. The premiere became the musical sensation of the year. All of Milan gathered at the Teatro Carcano — not at La Scala — to hear Giuditta Pasta in this new opera. The success was historic. Overnight, Donizetti became the most famous composer in Italy and one of the most celebrated in the world.

Even so, Donizetti was not entirely satisfied and continued to revise the opera after the premiere. Once these refinements were complete, Anna Bolena conquered Italy and soon travelled to London, Paris, and gradually all of Europe.

After its Italian success, Anna Bolena received its London premiere on 8 July 1831 at the King’s Theatre, only a few months after the Milan debut. This theatre — which no longer exists in its original form — was one of the most impressive opera houses in the world. It was both the opera theatre and the theatre of the monarch, and at the time the reigning king was William IV, King of the United Kingdom and Hanover.

William IV had ascended the throne in 1830, the same year Anna Bolena premiered in Milan. His coronation took place in September 1831, just two months after the London premiere of Donizetti’s opera. In this sense, Anna Bolena entered history as the opera that celebrated the beginning of William IV’s reign, shortly before the long era of Queen Victoria.

When King George IV died a few months before the Milan premiere, his successor William IV was already 64 years old. These were years of splendour at court, with gala performances at the King’s Theatre, the most prestigious operatic venue in London. In Donizetti’s time, the theatre was a magnificent Italian-style opera house, as shown in historical images, and attending performances there was a true social event. Life in the boxes and the intervals was almost as important as the opera itself.

The King’s Theatre had already hosted an extraordinary succession of historic premieres. Works by Handel and Haydn were performed there, and Don Giovanni was first heard in London in this very theatre. Later, it also presented Carmen by Bizet and Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Over time, the theatre changed its name according to the reigning monarch — His Majesty’s Theatre or Her Majesty’s Theatre. During the reign of Queen Elizabeth II it was known as Her Majesty’s Theatre, and today, under King Charles III, it once again bears the name His Majesty’s Theatre.

After a devastating fire in 1789, a second theatre was built on the site — the one depicted in historical illustrations. It became the largest theatre in England and one of the most magnificent in the world. It hosted the English premieres of Mozart’s La clemenza di Tito, Così fan tutte, and The Magic Flute, shortly after the composer’s death, as well as Don Giovanni in 1816. London thus became, for a time, a truly Mozartian city.

The theatre also introduced London audiences to the works of Mozart’s great rival, Gioachino Rossini. Here, London saw Il barbiere di Siviglia, Elisabetta, regina d’Inghilterra, and Tancredi, all with great success, followed later by Semiramide.

Giuditta Pasta, the heroine of this story, first appeared in London in 1817, singing Cimarosa’s Penelope at the King’s Theatre — without much success. Still young and relatively unknown, she was not well received. Determined to improve, she studied relentlessly, and by 1822 she achieved true stardom in Paris as Desdemona in Rossini’s Otello. When she returned to London in 1824, she was transformed: her performance of Semiramide was a sensational triumph. She was now a superstar across Europe.

Pasta was also scheduled to sing Rosina in Il barbiere di Siviglia, but illness forced her to withdraw, and she was replaced by the celebrated Maria Malibran. Later, Pasta sang Anna Bolena, Norma, and Semiramide in St Petersburg, among other cities. Curiously, although Anna Bolena was the opera that secured her immortal fame, she did not sing the title role at the King’s Theatre in London; on that occasion, the role was performed by Marietta Brambilla.

On 30 December 1947, Anna Bolena was performed at the Gran Teatre del Liceu in Barcelona to mark the theatre’s centenary — a fitting tribute, since the Liceu itself had opened in 1847 with Anna Bolena.

Today, this masterpiece remains one of Donizetti’s most frequently performed operas worldwide, alongside L’elisir d’amore and Don Pasquale, a lasting testament to the moment when a Bergamasque composer, a rival theatre, and a legendary soprano changed the course of operatic history.

December 26, 1830: The Night Anna Bolena Was Born

On the evening of December 26, 1830, Milan is enveloped in a biting winter cold, but the atmosphere outside the Teatro Carcano is incandescent. Carriages crowd together, boxes fill, the entire elegant and musical city of Milan converges on that theater that, for one night, overshadows even La Scala. This is no ordinary premiere: it is the world premiere of Anna Bolena, a new opera by a still-young composer, Gaetano Donizetti, a thirty-three-year-old from Bergamo.

Donizetti arrives at this evening after years of feverish work, of works written in rapid succession, of successes alternating with disappointments. He has already composed twenty-eight operas, but he knows this is different. He senses it from the very first rehearsals. Anna Bolena is not just a new title: it is a challenge, a definitive test. For the first time, he feels he has in his hands a drama capable of speaking with a new, intense, modern voice.

In the audience sits a man who means more to Donizetti than many critics: Johann Simon Mayr, his teacher, who came especially from Bergamo. It was he who recognized the talent of the young Gaetano, who trained him, and who guided his first steps. Now he is there, in the stalls, ready to witness the moment when the student might surpass the master. It is not a gesture of simple curiosity, but of profound participation: Mayr knows that that evening the artistic destiny of his former student will be decided.

The Teatro Carcano, a direct rival of La Scala, has strongly desired this opera. It wants to establish itself as the theater of boldness and modernity, and to do so, it is banking everything on an exceptional event. The vast and splendid auditorium is packed. In the boxes, people don't just gaze at the stage: they observe, comment, and judge. It is a social evening, but also a historic one.

And then there is her: Giuditta Pasta. When she enters the stage, the theater holds its breath. She's already a living legend, Europe's most celebrated singer, at the peak of a career that, paradoxically, is now nearing its end: just five years after this evening, she will retire from the stage. But in that December of 1830, she is still at the height of her artistic and dramatic powers.

Anna Bolena is written for her, modeled on her voice, her temperament, her musical intelligence. Every phrase seems to spring from her breathing, every accent from her stage experience. Pasta doesn't play Anna Bolena: he embodies her. The abandoned, betrayed, condemned queen comes to life before the audience's eyes with shocking emotional truth.

As the opera progresses, something rare happens: attention doesn't wane, it doesn't fade. The audience is captivated, drawn into the drama. At the end, the explosion is inevitable. Endless applause, calls to the stage, unreserved enthusiasm. The success is immediate, resounding, unmistakable.

At that moment, Mayr stands up. He approaches his former student and utters words destined to go down in history: "You are a master." It is not a polite compliment, but a solemn recognition. Donizetti is no longer just a promising composer: he has entered, on that Milanese night, into the ranks of the greats.

December 26, 1830, therefore, is not just the date of a theatrical premiere. It is the night when Donizetti becomes Donizetti, when the Teatro Carcano wins its challenge against La Scala, and when Giuditta Pasta, already an absolute legend, gives history one of the most powerful female portraits in Romantic opera.

From that evening, Anna Bolena no longer belongs only to Milan. She begins her journey toward Europe, but her soul remains forever tied to that winter night, to that theater, and to that unrepeatable encounter between a young composer, her master, and a diva on the verge of entering eternity.

Anna Bolena : naissance d’un mythe belcantiste et triomphe d’un nouveau théâtre européen

Avec Anna Bolena, Gaetano Donizetti ne se contente pas d’obtenir un succès éclatant : il redéfinit en profondeur sa place dans l’histoire de l’opéra italien et inaugure une nouvelle manière de concevoir le drame belcantiste, fondé sur l’introspection psychologique, la noblesse du chant et l’expressivité vocale poussée à l’extrême.

Lorsque l’opéra voit le jour au Teatro Carcano de Milan le 26 décembre 1830, Donizetti est déjà un compositeur prolifique, mais encore perçu comme un artisan talentueux plutôt qu’un maître. Anna Bolena marque une rupture décisive : pour la première fois, le drame ne repose pas seulement sur l’enchaînement des numéros vocaux, mais sur une construction dramatique continue, où les conflits intérieurs des personnages — en particulier celui d’Anne Boleyn — deviennent le moteur de la musique.

Le choix du Teatro Carcano n’est pas anodin. Loin d’être une salle secondaire, il est alors le grand rival de La Scala, et son ambition est claire : s’imposer comme le théâtre de la modernité. En commandant Anna Bolena, le Carcano mise sur une œuvre capable de rivaliser avec les grandes tragédies lyriques européennes. Le pari est gagné : Milan reconnaît immédiatement la portée exceptionnelle de cette création.

L’élément central de ce succès réside dans la collaboration étroite entre Donizetti et Giuditta Pasta, incarnation parfaite de l’idéal vocal romantique. Sa voix, réputée pour son étendue inhabituelle, sa couleur sombre et sa capacité à unir puissance dramatique et souplesse belcantiste, permet à Donizetti d’explorer une écriture vocale d’une audace nouvelle. Anna Bolena est pensée non comme un simple rôle de virtuosité, mais comme un portrait vocal, où chaque aria, chaque cabalette et chaque ensemble expriment l’évolution psychologique de l’héroïne.

Cette conception « sur mesure » explique aussi certaines particularités de la distribution originale. Le rôle de Jane Seymour, aujourd’hui confié presque systématiquement à une mezzo-soprano, est à l’origine écrit pour soprano, afin de permettre un véritable duel vocal entre les deux femmes, fondé moins sur le contraste de tessiture que sur la tension dramatique et expressive.

Dès sa création, l’opéra dépasse le cadre italien. Sa diffusion rapide en Europe témoigne d’un changement profond du goût du public, désormais avide de grands drames historiques portés par des voix d’exception. À Londres, Anna Bolena est donnée le 8 juillet 1831 au King’s Theatre, haut lieu de la vie musicale et mondaine britannique. Cette salle prestigieuse n’est pas seulement un théâtre d’opéra : elle est aussi un espace politique et symbolique, étroitement lié à la monarchie.

La représentation londonienne coïncide avec une période charnière de l’histoire britannique. William IV, récemment monté sur le trône, n’est pas encore couronné, et la saison d’opéra de 1831 prend des allures de célébration officieuse de son règne. Le King’s Theatre, qui changera de nom au fil des souverains (His ou Her Majesty’s Theatre), incarne alors l’excellence culturelle de la cour et l’ouverture de Londres aux grandes nouveautés continentales.

Il est significatif que Anna Bolena s’inscrive dans une tradition déjà prestigieuse : ce théâtre avait introduit en Angleterre les opéras de Mozart peu après sa mort, ainsi que les grandes œuvres de Rossini, contribuant à façonner un public londonien particulièrement réceptif aux innovations italiennes. Donizetti s’insère ainsi dans une lignée prestigieuse, tout en affirmant une voix résolument personnelle.

Fait révélateur de la circulation des stars lyriques à cette époque, Giuditta Pasta, pourtant indissociable du rôle d’Anne Boleyn, ne chante pas la création londonienne. Le rôle est confié à Marietta Brambilla, preuve que l’opéra a désormais acquis une autonomie suffisante pour survivre au-delà de sa créatrice originelle.

Après son immense succès initial, Anna Bolena connaît une fortune scénique fluctuante au cours du XIXᵉ siècle, avant d’être redécouverte au XXᵉ siècle, notamment dans le contexte de la renaissance du bel canto. Sa reprise emblématique au Gran Teatre del Liceu de Barcelone le 30 décembre 1947, pour le centenaire du théâtre — inauguré en 1847 précisément avec Anna Bolena — symbolise cette redécouverte et la reconnaissance durable de l’œuvre.

Aujourd’hui, Anna Bolena est reconnue comme l’un des piliers du répertoire donizettien. Elle marque le point de départ d’une série de grandes tragédies lyriques consacrées aux figures historiques féminines et demeure une œuvre de référence pour les grandes sopranos dramatiques. Plus qu’un succès de son temps, elle représente un tournant esthétique, où l’opéra italien s’engage résolument sur la voie du drame romantique moderne.

26 décembre 1830 : La nuit de la naissance d'Anna Bolena

Le soir du 26 décembre 1830, Milan est engloutie par un froid hivernal mordant, mais l'atmosphère aux abords du Teatro Carcano est électrique. Les calèches s'entassent, les loges se remplissent, toute l'élégante et musicale ville de Milan converge vers ce théâtre qui, le temps d'une soirée, éclipse même La Scala. Il ne s'agit pas d'une première ordinaire : c'est la création mondiale d'Anna Bolena, un nouvel opéra d'un compositeur encore jeune, Gaetano Donizetti, un Bergamasque de trente-trois ans.

Donizetti arrive à cette soirée après des années de travail acharné, d'œuvres écrites à un rythme effréné, de succès alternant avec des déceptions. Il a déjà composé vingt-huit opéras, mais il sait que celui-ci est différent. Il le pressent dès les premières répétitions. Anna Bolena n'est pas qu'un nouveau titre : c'est un défi, une épreuve décisive. Pour la première fois, il sent entre ses mains un drame capable de s'exprimer d'une voix nouvelle, intense et moderne.

Dans la salle, un homme compte plus pour Donizetti que bien des critiques : Johann Simon Mayr, son professeur, venu spécialement de Bergame. C'est lui qui a reconnu le talent du jeune Gaetano, qui l'a formé et qui a guidé ses premiers pas. À présent, il est là, dans l'orchestre, prêt à assister au moment où l'élève pourrait surpasser le maître. Ce n'est pas un geste de simple curiosité, mais d'une profonde implication : Mayr sait que ce soir-là se jouera le destin artistique de son ancien élève.

Le Teatro Carcano, rival direct de La Scala, a ardemment désiré cet opéra. Il veut s'imposer comme le théâtre de l'audace et de la modernité, et pour cela, il mise tout sur un événement exceptionnel. La vaste et splendide salle est comble. Dans les loges, on ne se contente pas de contempler la scène : on observe, on commente, on juge. C'est une soirée conviviale, mais aussi historique.

Et puis il y a elle : Giuditta Pasta. Lorsqu'elle entre en scène, le théâtre retient son souffle. Elle est déjà une légende vivante, la chanteuse la plus célèbre d'Europe, au sommet d'une carrière qui, paradoxalement, touche à sa fin : cinq ans seulement après ce soir, elle se retirera de la scène. Mais en ce décembre 1830, elle est encore au faîte de son art et de son talent dramatique.

Anna Bolena est écrite pour elle, modelée sur sa voix, son tempérament, son intelligence musicale. Chaque phrase semble jaillir de sa respiration, chaque accent de son expérience scénique. Pasta n'interprète pas Anna Bolena : il l'incarne. La reine abandonnée, trahie, condamnée, prend vie sous les yeux du public avec une vérité émotionnelle bouleversante.

Au fil de l'opéra, un phénomène rare se produit : l'attention ne faiblit pas, elle ne s'estompe pas. Le public est captivé, happé par le drame. À la fin, l'explosion est inévitable. Applaudissements nourris, appels vers la scène, enthousiasme débordant. Le succès est immédiat, retentissant, incontestable.

À cet instant, Mayr se lève. Il s'approche de son ancien élève et prononce des mots qui entreront dans la légende : « Vous êtes un maître. » Ce n'est pas un compliment poli, mais une reconnaissance solennelle. Donizetti n'est plus seulement un compositeur prometteur : il est entré, en cette nuit milanaise, au rang des plus grands.

Le 26 décembre 1830 n'est donc pas seulement la date d'une première théâtrale. C'est la nuit où Donizetti devient Donizetti, où le Teatro Carcano triomphe de La Scala, et où Giuditta Pasta, déjà une légende absolue, livre à l'histoire l'un des portraits féminins les plus saisissants de l'opéra romantique.

Dès ce soir, Anna Bolena n'appartient plus seulement à Milan. Elle entame son voyage vers l'Europe, mais son âme reste à jamais liée à cette nuit d'hiver, à ce théâtre, et à cette rencontre unique entre un jeune compositeur, son maître et une diva au seuil de l'immortalité.

26 dicembre 1830: la notte in cui nacque Anna Bolena

La sera del 26 dicembre 1830, Milano è avvolta da un freddo invernale pungente, ma davanti al Teatro Carcano l’atmosfera è incandescente. Le carrozze si accalcano, i palchi si riempiono, l’intera città elegante e musicale di Milano converge verso quel teatro che, per una notte, oscura persino la Scala. Non è una prima qualunque: è la prima assoluta di Anna Bolena, una nuova opera di un compositore ancora giovane, Gaetano Donizetti, bergamasco di trentatré anni.

Donizetti arriva a questa sera dopo anni di lavoro febbrile, di opere scritte in rapida successione, di successi alternati a delusioni. Ha già composto ventotto opere, ma sa che questa è diversa. Lo avverte fin dalle prime prove. Anna Bolena non è soltanto un nuovo titolo: è una sfida, un banco di prova definitivo. Per la prima volta sente di avere tra le mani un dramma capace di parlare con voce nuova, intensa, moderna.

Tra il pubblico siede un uomo che per Donizetti conta più di molti critici: Johann Simon Mayr, suo maestro, arrivato appositamente da Bergamo. È stato lui a riconoscere il talento del giovane Gaetano, a formarlo, a guidarne i primi passi. Ora è lì, in platea, pronto ad assistere al momento in cui l’allievo potrebbe superare il maestro. Non è un gesto di semplice curiosità, ma di profonda partecipazione: Mayr sa che quella sera si decide il destino artistico del suo ex studente.

Il Teatro Carcano, rivale diretto della Scala, ha voluto questa opera con decisione. Vuole affermarsi come il teatro dell’audacia e della modernità, e per farlo punta tutto su un evento eccezionale. La sala, vasta e splendida, è gremita. Nei palchi non si guarda soltanto il palcoscenico: si osserva, si commenta, si giudica. È una serata mondana, ma anche una serata storica.

E poi c’è lei: Giuditta Pasta. Quando entra in scena, il teatro trattiene il respiro. È già una leggenda vivente, la cantante più celebrata d’Europa, all’apice di una carriera che, paradossalmente, è ormai vicina alla fine: solo cinque anni dopo questa sera, si ritirerà dalle scene. Ma in quel dicembre del 1830 è ancora nel pieno delle sue forze artistiche e drammatiche.

Anna Bolena è scritta per lei, modellata sulla sua voce, sul suo temperamento, sulla sua intelligenza musicale. Ogni frase sembra nascere dal suo respiro, ogni accento dalla sua esperienza scenica. Pasta non interpreta Anna Bolena: la incarna. La regina abbandonata, tradita, condannata, prende vita davanti agli occhi del pubblico con una verità emotiva sconvolgente.

Man mano che l’opera procede, qualcosa di raro accade: l’attenzione non si disperde, non si affievolisce. Il pubblico è catturato, trascinato dentro il dramma. Alla fine, l’esplosione è inevitabile. Applausi interminabili, chiamate in scena, entusiasmo senza riserve. Il successo è immediato, clamoroso, inequivocabile.

In quel momento, Mayr si alza. Si avvicina al suo ex allievo e pronuncia parole destinate a restare nella storia: «Sei un maestro». Non è un complimento di circostanza, ma un riconoscimento solenne. Donizetti non è più soltanto un compositore promettente: è entrato, in quella notte milanese, nel novero dei grandi.

Il 26 dicembre 1830 non è dunque solo la data di una prima teatrale. È la notte in cui Donizetti diventa Donizetti, in cui il Teatro Carcano vince la sua sfida contro la Scala, e in cui Giuditta Pasta, già mito assoluto, consegna alla storia uno dei ritratti femminili più potenti dell’opera romantica.

Da quella sera, Anna Bolena non appartiene più soltanto a Milano. Inizia il suo viaggio verso l’Europa, ma la sua anima resta per sempre legata a quella notte d’inverno, a quel teatro, e a quell’incontro irripetibile tra un giovane compositore, il suo maestro, e una diva sul punto di entrare nell’eternità.

26 de diciembre de 1830: La noche del nacimiento de Ana Bolena

En la noche del 26 de diciembre de 1830, Milán se ve envuelta en un frío invernal gélido, pero la atmósfera fuera del Teatro Carcano es incandescente. Los carruajes se agolpan, los palcos se llenan, toda la elegante y musical ciudad de Milán converge en ese teatro que, por una noche, eclipsa incluso a La Scala. Este no es un estreno cualquiera: es el estreno mundial de Ana Bolena, una nueva ópera de un compositor aún joven, Gaetano Donizetti, un bergamasco de treinta y tres años.

Donizetti llega a esta noche tras años de trabajo febril, de obras escritas en rápida sucesión, de éxitos alternados con decepciones. Ya ha compuesto veintiocho óperas, pero sabe que esto es diferente. Lo intuye desde los primeros ensayos. Ana Bolena no es solo un título nuevo: es un desafío, una prueba definitiva. Por primera vez, siente que tiene en sus manos un drama capaz de hablar con una voz nueva, intensa y moderna.

Entre el público se sienta un hombre que significa más para Donizetti que muchos críticos: Johann Simon Mayr, su maestro, quien vino especialmente de Bérgamo. Fue él quien reconoció el talento del joven Gaetano, quien lo formó y quien guió sus primeros pasos. Ahora está allí, en la platea, listo para presenciar el momento en que el alumno podría superar al maestro. No es un gesto de simple curiosidad, sino de profunda participación: Mayr sabe que esa noche se decidirá el destino artístico de su antiguo alumno.

El Teatro Carcano, rival directo de La Scala, ha deseado intensamente esta ópera. Desea consolidarse como el teatro de la audacia y la modernidad, y para lograrlo, apuesta todo a un evento excepcional. El vasto y espléndido auditorio está abarrotado. En los palcos, la gente no solo contempla el escenario: observa, comenta y juzga. Es una velada social, pero también histórica.

Y ahí está ella: Giuditta Pasta. Cuando entra en escena, el teatro contiene la respiración. Ya es una leyenda viviente, la cantante más célebre de Europa, en la cima de una carrera que, paradójicamente, se acerca a su fin: tan solo cinco años después de esta noche, se retirará de los escenarios. Pero en ese diciembre de 1830, aún se encuentra en la cima de su potencial artístico y dramático.

Ana Bolena está escrita para ella, inspirada en su voz, su temperamento, su inteligencia musical. Cada frase parece brotar de su respiración, cada acento de su experiencia escénica. Pasta no interpreta a Ana Bolena: la encarna. La reina abandonada, traicionada y condenada cobra vida ante los ojos del público con una impactante verdad emocional.

A medida que avanza la ópera, ocurre algo inusual: la atención no decae, no se desvanece. El público queda cautivado, atraído por el drama. Al final, la explosión es inevitable. Aplausos interminables, llamadas al escenario, entusiasmo sin reservas. El éxito es inmediato, rotundo, inconfundible.

En ese momento, Mayr se levanta. Se acerca a su antiguo alumno y pronuncia unas palabras destinadas a la historia: «Eres un maestro». No es un cumplido cortés, sino un reconocimiento solemne. Donizetti ya no es solo un compositor prometedor: ha entrado, en esa noche milanesa, en las filas de los grandes.

El 26 de diciembre de 1830, por lo tanto, no es solo la fecha de un estreno teatral. Es la noche en que Donizetti se convierte en Donizetti, en que el Teatro Carcano vence a La Scala y en que Giuditta Pasta, ya una leyenda absoluta, regala a la historia uno de los retratos femeninos más impactantes de la ópera romántica.

A partir de esa noche, Anna Bolena ya no pertenece solo a Milán. Emprende su viaje hacia Europa, pero su alma permanece para siempre ligada a esa noche de invierno, a ese teatro y a ese encuentro irrepetible entre una joven compositora, su maestro y una diva a punto de entrar en la eternidad.

Prague - Don Giovanni - 29th October 1787

Don Giovanni: The Opera of Operas

Few works in the history of music have attained the mythical stature of Don Giovanni, often hailed as the opera of operas—a summit of dramatic genius where comedy and tragedy, light and darkness, seduction and damnation intertwine with unmatched brilliance.

Its premiere took place on 29 October 1787 at the Estates Theatre in Prague, a city that had already embraced Mozart with extraordinary enthusiasm after the triumph of Le nozze di Figaro. The Bohemian capital, eager for another masterpiece, commissioned a new opera from the composer, who accepted the challenge with both ambition and delight.

Mozart composed the score in Vienna, where he lived with his wife Constanze, working with remarkable speed and intensity during the summer of 1787. In early October he set out for Prague, carrying with him a completed opera and a heart full of expectation. The journey—lasting nearly three days by carriage—was long, uncomfortable, and exhausting, yet the promise of artistic glory surely sustained his spirits.

Rehearsals began upon his arrival, and the premiere was initially scheduled for 28 October. Fate—or perhaps theatrical superstition—delayed it by one day, forever inscribing 29 October 1787 into musical history. Legend tells us that Mozart composed the overture during the night before the premiere, racing against time while copyists waited anxiously, the ink barely dry when the musicians opened their parts. Whether myth or truth, the story perfectly captures the electrifying urgency of that moment—and it may well be true, for such miracles were entirely within Mozart’s nature.

Imagine the scene: the candlelit theatre filled with anticipation, Prague’s aristocracy and music lovers leaning forward in their seats, the orchestra poised, and Mozart himself stepping to the podium. With a gesture—confident, animated, almost theatrical—the first ominous D-minor chords rang out, announcing a drama unlike any the world had known. The audience was captivated from the first notes. By the final curtain, Don Giovanni had secured an immediate and resounding triumph.

The libretto, crafted by Lorenzo Da Ponte, reimagined the ancient legend of Don Juan with extraordinary psychological depth. Da Ponte would later travel to New York and witness Mozart’s opera performed there, recalling with pride in his memoirs how his creation had crossed oceans and generations.

Following its Prague success, Don Giovanni was presented in Vienna on 7 May 1788, slightly revised for local tastes. From there, the opera began its majestic journey across Europe: Frankfurt, Hamburg, Warsaw, Berlin, Munich, Florence—and in 1805, Paris, where it appeared in a French adaptation. By 1826, it reached New York, and in 1849, Covent Garden in London, confirming its place in the international repertory.

The autograph manuscript of the opera—one of music history’s most precious treasures—eventually found its home in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, where it remains preserved as a testament to Mozart’s genius.

Across the centuries, Don Giovanni has inspired legendary interpretations by the greatest singers and conductors. Among the most celebrated recordings are those featuring Edita Gruberová, Thomas Hampson, László Polgár, Hans Peter Blochwitz, Barbara Bonney, and Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Maria Callas never recorded the complete opera, yet her surviving arias offer unforgettable glimpses of her dramatic vision.

More than two centuries after its birth, Don Giovanni remains alive—dangerous, seductive, and profoundly human. It is theatre in its purest form: laughter shadowed by terror, beauty touched by doom, and music that seems forever new. One can still imagine Mozart, smiling slightly, baton raised, drawing from the orchestra the sound of eternity—while the legend of that Prague night continues to echo, as fresh and luminous as the ink on those hurriedly copied pages.

Rares sont les œuvres musicales à avoir atteint le statut mythique de Don Giovanni, souvent salué comme l'opéra des opéras – un sommet de génie dramatique où comédie et tragédie, lumière et ténèbres, séduction et damnation s'entremêlent avec une brillance inégalée.

Sa première eut lieu le 29 octobre 1787 au Théâtre des États de Prague, ville qui avait déjà accueilli Mozart avec un enthousiasme extraordinaire après le triomphe des Noces de Figaro. La capitale de Bohême, avide d'un nouveau chef-d'œuvre, commanda un nouvel opéra au compositeur, qui releva le défi avec ambition et enthousiasme.

Mozart composa la partition à Vienne, où il vivait avec son épouse Constanze, travaillant avec une rapidité et une intensité remarquables durant l'été 1787. Début octobre, il partit pour Prague, emportant avec lui un opéra achevé et le cœur empli d'espoir. Le voyage – qui dura près de trois jours en diligence – fut long, inconfortable et épuisant, mais la promesse de gloire artistique soutint sans aucun doute son courage.

Les répétitions commencèrent dès son arrivée, et la première était initialement prévue pour le 28 octobre. Le destin – ou peut-être une superstition théâtrale – la retarda d'un jour, inscrivant à jamais le 29 octobre 1787 dans l'histoire de la musique. La légende raconte que Mozart composa l'ouverture la nuit précédant la première, dans une course contre la montre tandis que les copistes attendaient avec impatience, l'encre à peine sèche lorsque les musiciens dévoilèrent leurs partitions. Mythe ou réalité, cette histoire saisit parfaitement l'urgence électrisante de ce moment – ​​et elle est fort probablement vraie, car de tels miracles étaient tout à fait dans la nature de Mozart.

Imaginez la scène : le théâtre éclairé aux chandelles, empli d'anticipation, l'aristocratie pragoise et les mélomanes penchés en avant sur leurs sièges, l'orchestre prêt à jouer, et Mozart lui-même s'avançant vers le podium. D'un geste – assuré, animé, presque théâtral –, les premiers accords menaçants de ré mineur retentirent, annonçant un drame sans précédent. Le public fut captivé dès les premières notes. Au lever de rideau final, Don Giovanni remporta un triomphe immédiat et retentissant.

Le livret, signé Lorenzo Da Ponte, réinventait la légende antique de Don Juan avec une profondeur psychologique extraordinaire. Da Ponte se rendit plus tard à New York pour assister à la représentation de l'opéra de Mozart, et évoqua avec fierté dans ses mémoires comment son œuvre avait traversé les océans et les générations.

Après son succès à Prague, Don Giovanni fut présenté à Vienne le 7 mai 1788, légèrement remanié pour s'adapter au goût local. De là, l'opéra entama son majestueux périple à travers l'Europe : Francfort, Hambourg, Varsovie, Berlin, Munich, Florence – et en 1805, Paris, où il fut joué dans une adaptation française. En 1826, il atteignit New York, et en 1849, Covent Garden à Londres, confirmant ainsi sa place dans le répertoire international.

Le manuscrit autographe de l'opéra – l'un des trésors les plus précieux de l'histoire de la musique – a finalement trouvé sa place à la Bibliothèque nationale de France, où il est conservé comme un témoignage du génie de Mozart.

À travers les siècles, Don Giovanni a inspiré des interprétations légendaires par les plus grands chanteurs et chefs d'orchestre. Parmi les enregistrements les plus célèbres figurent ceux d'Edita Gruberová, Thomas Hampson, László Polgár, Hans Peter Blochwitz, Barbara Bonney et Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Maria Callas n'a jamais enregistré l'opéra complet, mais ses airs qui nous sont parvenus offrent des aperçus inoubliables de sa vision dramatique.

Plus de deux siècles après sa création, Don Giovanni demeure vivant – dangereux, séduisant et profondément humain. C'est du théâtre à l'état pur : un rire teinté de terreur, une beauté empreinte de fatalité et une musique qui semble toujours nouvelle. On peut encore imaginer Mozart, esquissant un sourire, baguette levée, tirant de l'orchestre le son de l'éternité, tandis que la légende de cette nuit pragoise continue de résonner, aussi fraîche et lumineuse que l'encre de ces pages recopiées à la hâte.

Poche opere nella storia della musica hanno raggiunto la statura mitica del Don Giovanni, spesso acclamato come l'opera delle opere, un'apice del genio drammatico in cui commedia e tragedia, luce e tenebre, seduzione e dannazione si intrecciano con ineguagliabile brillantezza.

La sua prima ebbe luogo il 29 ottobre 1787 al Teatro degli Stati di Praga, una città che aveva già accolto Mozart con straordinario entusiasmo dopo il trionfo de Le nozze di Figaro. La capitale boema, desiderosa di un altro capolavoro, commissionò una nuova opera al compositore, che accettò la sfida con ambizione e gioia.

Mozart compose la partitura a Vienna, dove visse con la moglie Constanze, lavorando con notevole rapidità e intensità durante l'estate del 1787. All'inizio di ottobre partì per Praga, portando con sé un'opera completata e un cuore colmo di aspettative. Il viaggio, durato quasi tre giorni in carrozza, fu lungo, scomodo ed estenuante, eppure la promessa di gloria artistica sicuramente sostenne il suo spirito.

Le prove iniziarono al suo arrivo e la prima era inizialmente prevista per il 28 ottobre. Il destino – o forse una superstizione teatrale – la ritardò di un giorno, iscrivendo per sempre il 29 ottobre 1787 nella storia della musica. La leggenda narra che Mozart compose l'ouverture la notte prima della prima, in una corsa contro il tempo mentre i copisti attendevano con ansia, con l'inchiostro appena asciutto quando i musicisti iniziarono le loro parti. Che si tratti di mito o di verità, la storia cattura perfettamente l'elettrizzante urgenza di quel momento – e potrebbe anche essere vera, perché simili miracoli erano pienamente nella natura di Mozart.

Immaginate la scena: il teatro illuminato dalle candele pieno di trepidazione, l'aristocrazia praghese e gli amanti della musica protesi in avanti sulle poltrone, l'orchestra in assetto e Mozart stesso che sale sul podio. Con un gesto – sicuro, animato, quasi teatrale – risuonarono i primi minacciosi accordi di Re minore, annunciando un dramma diverso da qualsiasi altro il mondo avesse mai conosciuto. Il pubblico fu catturato fin dalle prime note. Al termine della rappresentazione, Don Giovanni si era assicurato un immediato e clamoroso trionfo.

Il libretto, scritto da Lorenzo Da Ponte, reinterpretava l'antica leggenda di Don Giovanni con straordinaria profondità psicologica. Da Ponte si sarebbe poi recato a New York e avrebbe assistito all'opera di Mozart rappresentata lì, ricordando con orgoglio nelle sue memorie come la sua creazione avesse attraversato oceani e generazioni.

Dopo il successo di Praga, Don Giovanni fu presentato a Vienna il 7 maggio 1788, leggermente rivisto per i gusti locali. Da lì, l'opera iniziò il suo maestoso viaggio attraverso l'Europa: Francoforte, Amburgo, Varsavia, Berlino, Monaco, Firenze e, nel 1805, Parigi, dove apparve in un adattamento francese. Nel 1826 raggiunse New York e, nel 1849, il Covent Garden di Londra, confermando il suo posto nel repertorio internazionale.

Il manoscritto autografo dell'opera, uno dei tesori più preziosi della storia della musica, trovò infine dimora nella Bibliothèque nationale de France, dove è tuttora conservato come testimonianza del genio di Mozart.

Nel corso dei secoli, Don Giovanni ha ispirato interpretazioni leggendarie da parte dei più grandi cantanti e direttori d'orchestra. Tra le registrazioni più celebri ci sono quelle con Edita Gruberová, Thomas Hampson, László Polgár, Hans Peter Blochwitz, Barbara Bonney e Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Maria Callas non registrò mai l'opera completa, eppure le sue arie sopravvissute offrono scorci indimenticabili della sua visione drammatica.

A più di due secoli dalla sua nascita, Don Giovanni rimane vivo: pericoloso, seducente e profondamente umano. È teatro nella sua forma più pura: risate offuscate dal terrore, bellezza sfiorata dalla rovina e musica che sembra sempre nuova. Si può ancora immaginare Mozart, con un leggero sorriso, la bacchetta alzata, che trae dall'orchestra il suono dell'eternità, mentre la leggenda di quella notte di Praga continua a echeggiare, fresca e luminosa come l'inchiostro su quelle pagine copiate in fretta.