Dreaming with Open Eyes: Opera, Aesthetics, and Perception in Arcadian Rome 9780520970403

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Dreaming with Open Eyes

ROTH FAMILY FOUNDATION

Imprint in Music

Michael P. Roth and Sukey Garcetti have endowed this imprint to honor the memory of their parents, Julia and Harry Roth, whose deep love of music they wish to share with others.

Dreaming with Open Eyes Opera, Aesthetics, and Perception in Arcadian Rome

Ayana O. Smith

UNIVERSIT Y OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

The publisher and the University of California Press Foundation gratefully acknowledge the generous support of the Roth Family Foundation Imprint in Music, established by a major gift from Sukey and Gil Garcetti and Michael P. Roth.

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Oakland, California © 2019 by Ayana O. Smith

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Smith, Ayana O., 1973- author. Title: Dreaming with open eyes : opera, aesthetics, and perception in Arcadian Rome / Ayana O. Smith. Description: Oakland, California : University of California Press, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: lccn 2018027390 (print) | lccn 2018029613 (ebook) | isbn 9780520970403 (ebook) | isbn 9780520298156 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: lcsh: Opera—Italy—17th century. | Opera—Italy—17th century—Philosophy and aesthetics. | Symbolism in opera. | Pollarolo, Carlo Francesco, approximately 1653–1723. Forza della virtù | Scarlatti, Alessandro, 1660–1725. Statira. Classification: lcc ml1733.2 (ebook) | lcc ml1733.2 .s65 2019 (print) | ddc 782.109456/3209032--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018027390

Manufactured in the United States of America 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For Alaena Ellen Cimmer

c ontents

List of Figures List of Musical Examples Acknowledgments Introduction part one. the image of truth

ix xi xiii 1 15

1. Founding Arcadia: The Aesthetics of Verisimilitude and Buon Gusto

17

2. Performing L’Endimione: A History and Reappraisal of Guidi’s Favola pastorale

39

3. Reading the Classics: Intellectual and Cultural Resonances in Gravina’s Discorso sopra l’Endimione

75

part two. the truth of representation

101

4. Reconciling Icon, Mythos, and Tupos: The Role of Images in L’Endimione

103

5. Believing in Opera: Visual Modes in Alessandro Scarlatti’s La Statira

126

6. Deceiving the Eye: Mirror, Statue, and Stone in Carlo Francesco Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù

173

Epilogue: Constructing Gender and Politics; Queen Christina’s Image Notes Bibliography Index

210 225 283 301

figures

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Giovanni Battista Falda, Nuova pianta et alzata della città di Roma 5 Claude Lorrain, View of the Campo Vaccino 6 Falda, Farnesi Gardens, Li giardini di Roma 7 Lodovico Sergardi, Satire di Q. Settano 70 Roman marble sarcophagus with the myth of Selene and Endymion 109 Annibale Carracci, Diana and Endymion 110 Guercino, Sleeping Endymion / Endimione col telescopio 111 Nicolas Poussin, Selene and Endymion / Diane et Endymion 113 Antonio Tempesta, Spring, from The Four Seasons 135 Francesco Trevisani, Apelles Painting Campaspe 148 Willem II van Haecht, The Studio of Apelles 149 Titian, Venus Anadyomene / Venus Rising from the Sea 158 Il Sodoma, Darius’s Mother before Alexander 160 Pietro da Cortona, The Battle of Alexander against King Dareios / The Battle of Issus 168 Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great. Relief with battle scene 169 Giovanni Bellini, Young Woman at Her Toilet / Lady with a Mirror 188 Libretto frontispiece, La forza della virtù 207 Sebastien Bourdon, Queen Christina of Sweden 220 Alexander the Great as Helios 221 Sebastien Bourdon, Queen Christina of Sweden, on horseback 222

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musical examples

F R OM A L E S S A N D R O S C A R L AT T I , L A STAT I R A ( R OM E , 1 6 9 0 )

1. Act 2, sc. 11: Statira, “Quei sospir chi sparsi al vento” (aria), mm. 5–22 and 48–60 133 2. Act 2, sc. 7: Campaspe, “Resista chi può al dardo d’amore” (aria) 136 3. Act 2, sc. 2: Apelles, “Esser potrai crudele” (aria) 151 4. Act 1, sc. 1: Oronte, “Notte, notte serena” (accompanied recit.) 161 5. Act 1, sc. 2: Alexander, “Invitti guerrieri” (opening ritornello) 163 6. Act 1, sc. 2: Sinfonia di trombe 165 7. Act 1, sc. 3: Oronte, “Crudo cielo, empio fato” (accompanied recit.) 166 F R OM C A R L O F R A N C E S C O P O L L A R O L O, L A F OR Z A DE L L A V I RT Ù ( V E N IC E , 1 6 93 )

8. Act 1, sc. 3: Fernando, “Vado à bearmi il core” (aria) 178 9. Act 2, sc. 1: Clotilde, “Fernando è il mio sposo” (aria) 182 10. Act 3, sc. 3: Fernando, “Che leggo, o Dio! . . . Io sento, il dico” (recit.); “Per darti guerra” (aria); act 3, sc. 4: Fernando, “Se non amo Clotilde” 184 11. Act 1, sc. 5: Anagilda, “Lusinghe vezzose” (aria) 186 12. Act 1, sc. 5: Anagilda, “Sin da’i Gallici campi . . . In compormi le trecce” (recit.); “Queste d’or crespe lucenti” (aria) 189 13. Act 2, sc. 14: Anagilda, “Il giubilo danzi” (aria) 199 14. Act 3, sc. 11: Clotilde, “Pensieri addio” (aria) 204 xi

acknowled gments

With tremendous gratitude for all those who have supported me in this work. My especial thanks go to research assistants, who gave much time and effort in preparing musical examples and figures: Chelsey Belt, Ben Fowler, and Julian Michael Morris; early on in the research process, I received assistance from Elizabeth Elmi, Daniel Rogers, David Rugger, and Laura Stokes. To the many colleagues who read early versions of this book and offered valuable advice: Robert Holzer, Vernon Hyde Minor, Massimo Ossi, and Ellen Rosand. To the libraries and institutions who offered support and use of materials: the American Academy in Rome and the Indiana University Libraries. I also thank my editorial team at University of California Press, especially Elena Bellaart, Andrew Frisardi, Raina Polivka, and Francisco Reinking, whose expertise and guidance were invaluable. To the funding agencies and institutes who offered financial and material support: the Institute for Advanced Study at Indiana University, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Woodrow Wilson Junior Career Enhancement Grant, and the Mellon-Mays Fellowship (“once a Mellon, always a Mellon”). And for the incredible moral support from family and friends: Cortland Virgil Carrington, III; Barbara Vaughan and Marcello Lenci, Maya Mesola, Brenda McNellen, Marilyn Keiser, Kristen Strandberg, Marga Furrò, and Joyce McCall. I could not have done this without you.

xiii

Introduction

On July 2, 1691, there was a special cultural event in Rome. Alessandro Guidi’s (1650–1712) pastoral favola L’Endimione, enchanted its prestigious audience, the Accademia degli Arcadi, or Arcadian Academy. After the play the philosopher Gianvincenzo Gravina (1664–1718) delivered a milestone lecture, the Discorso sopra l’Endimione. It was a defining moment for everyone involved. The occasion celebrated Guidi’s official entrance into this august society, under the pastoral pseudonym Erilo Cleoneo. L’Endimione initiated a new literary style counteracting the mannerisms of earlier seventeenth-century poetry; Gravina’s Discorso expounded upon L’Endimione’s merits and established a new literary analytical method. Extolled throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, L’Endimione became Guidi’s most famous work, while Gravina’s Discorso denotes a transition between early modern and Enlightenment thought. Music and images connect both works. L’Endimione was intended as a music drama; never set to music, it remains a spoken play. Guidi’s new literary style, imitating the vivid poetic manner of Pindar and Chiabrera, incorporates images at its core. The Discorso uses visual modes as metaphors for perceiving truthfulness in representation. Gravina’s literary philosophy, applying ideas central to early modern art theory, converts Guidi’s imagery into analytical method. Though we can never hear L’Endimione as a musical performance, and Gravina’s Discorso never discusses musical aesthetics, I argue that analyzing Gravina’s commentary on Guidi’s text illuminates a critical framework for interpreting opera and other forms of music drama from a historical perspective. Mining Gravina’s Discorso for its visual theories, I clarify how seventeenth-century audiences perceived truth in representation through musical performance. Applying 1

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Introduction

Gravina’s visual theories to Guidi’s L’Endimione, and to other musical dramas, I provide new insight into late seventeenth-century opera. AC C A D E M IA D E G L I A R C A D I

Our story necessarily begins with the founding of the Accademia degli Arcadi. The Accademia degli Arcadi (known as “Arcadia” in its own time and as the “Arcadian Academy” in most English-language scholarship today) comprised illustrious scholars, patrons, and practitioners of letters, arts, and sciences. The academy intended to reform Italian literature, by creating a new lyricism contrary to the Baroque mannerisms established by poet Giambattista Marino (1569–1625) and his imitators earlier in the seventeenth century. By eliminating metaphors, conceits, and eccentricities, the Arcadians sought to establish a new literary “good taste,” or buon gusto (see chapter 1). As the story goes, the founders of the Arcadian Academy had belonged to the late Queen Christina of Sweden’s (1626–89) Accademia Reale, or Royal Academy. These scholars of Christina’s intellectual circle continued meeting informally, until one day, in 1690, one member stood up, declaring, “It seems that today, we have re-created Arcadia.” In reality, the two academies encompassed few overlapping members; yet the Arcadians named Christina as basilissa, roughly translating to “queen” or “princess,” here signifying honorary patron.1 The Arcadians also designated the infant Jesus as nominal figurehead. In so doing, the group made an important statement. The academy would be governed neither spiritually nor financially by any living person through patronage, but rather, the group upheld the aesthetic, moral, and pastoral symbolism implied by its figureheads: Christ and Christina. The society’s first leader, or custode generale, Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni (1663–1728), records the academy’s official founding date as October 5. So began the era’s most influential academy, the longest-running in Italy’s history. Conceived as a “democratic republic,” with each member “masked” under a pastoral pseudonym, the academy’s influence spread quickly; subsequent “colonies” sprang up in cities throughout Italy and beyond the peninsula.2 The core Roman group met in various pastoral retreats, initially gathering in the Prati di Castello, an open field behind the Castel Sant’Angelo along the Tiber River, from which vantage point one could see Saint Peter’s Basilica and the base of the Janiculum Hill.3 At first, gathering outside was likely a necessity, a result of having no established patron with lavish indoor accommodations; outdoor locales were a public option. Their environs soon instilled their collective identity and informed their aesthetics. Upon organizing as an official academy, the group convened in various places, including the garden of San Pietro in Montorio on the Janiculum Hill, Queen Christina’s former garden behind the Palazzo Riario (now Corsini) in Trastevere, and the Farnese Gardens on the Palatine Hill.4 These were

Introduction

3

among the best-known green spaces within the continually encroaching structures of the city. Several Arcadian sites were monumentalized by artists seeking to portray the contrasts of modern life in realistic printed cityscapes and idealized painted landscapes.5 As the Arcadians inhabited these pastoral locations, they simultaneously drew symbolic strength from their surroundings, and projected their aesthetic priorities as extensions of their environment. They brought the aristocratic practice of leisurely villeggiatura into the confines of the city, and into academic life, creating intellectual productivity in otherwise uninhabited spaces.6 Seventeenth-century Rome possessed many urban sites of abandonment, whether used for aristocratic gardens or for public grazing of animals. Rather than occupying these sites in the manner of the most and least advantaged members of society, that is, either for aristocratic visual pleasure and physical entertainment, or for quotidian food production, the Arcadians struck a middle ground. The leisurely otium of the hillside retreat developed into a practice, not of indulgence, but of scholarly structure. The physical productivity of the land became that of intellectual rigor, transforming ideas into performance and publication.7 For the Arcadians, the good taste of aristocratic villeggiatura demanded much more than ornamental display or outward gesture; rather, the Arcadians reframed villeggiatura as an aesthetic that shaped intellectual culture. Performing scholarly discourses within the urban pastoral, advocating classical ideals while advancing modern dialectics, the Arcadians recreated the idealized bucolic past as enlightened criticism. The Arcadian ideology echoed concurrent shifts in the genre of landscape painting in seventeenth-century Italy. Late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century landscape painting had a close affinity to mapmaking and draftsmanship, due to the genre’s realistic depiction of topographical elements, especially among Netherlandish artists. Disregard for such technical practicalities, comprising duplicating rather than imagining a place, prompted the devaluation of landscape painting among French and Italian artistic academies. Gradually, influenced by Renaissance pastorals and classical mythology, artists in Rome began distinguishing landscape painting from mere topographical depiction, creating idealized countryside vistas.8 We might understand the academy’s Arcadian impulse as an outgrowth of this artistic genre, which reemerged in the works of artists such as Annibale Carracci (1560–1609), Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665), Claude Lorrain (1600–1682), and Salvator Rosa (1615–73). Though not all Italian, these artists were all active in Rome and legitimized for Italy the genre of pastoral landscape as a serious endeavor.9 Among these artists, two contrasting notions of the pastoral emerged: one wild, inhospitable, and chaotic, exemplified by Rosa, the other either bucolic and ideal, or heroic and monumental, typified by Claude and Poussin.10 Yet both pastoral types embrace a juxtaposition between ancient and modern, ideal and quotidian, heroic and bucolic. Collectively, these artists contributed an idealized, classicized, and heroic

4

Introduction

vision of the pastoral landscape, combining mythological and Biblical narratives with natural vistas and ancient monuments. The Arcadians situated their ideology at precisely these aesthetic crossroads, casting their new pastoral sphere as one of generic rebirth, rustic simplicity, heroic gesture, classical monument, and idealized naturalism. As a result, their collective aesthetic generated ostensible inconsistencies between genres (the pastoral and tragic), and periods (the ancient and modern). We may consider such contradictions as analogous to the landscape capriccio (fantasy), which emerged in the last decades of the seventeenth century, rising to prominence in the eighteenth.11 In another parallel to developments in landscape painting, the Arcadians metaphorically rebalanced the pastoral foreground with the buildings typically portrayed at its margins.12 Rather than conceiving the pastoral as the space between the urban and the wild, the Arcadians aligned their priorities equally between the landscape and the edifices embedded in it. Through their critical process, the Arcadians parlayed these shifts into a redefined pastoral literature (see chapter 2). Nestled among monumental structures, whether religious, palatial, or ancient, each Arcadian sphere juxtaposes the idyllic with sophisticated urbanity. The Arcadian reform exploited such mixture; to create a new sense of Italian artistic identity meant to utilize the great monuments of Italy’s cultural heritage in a tasteful manner. The structures surrounding each Arcadian meeting space exemplify physical symbols of the academy’s aesthetic goals. By moving from landscape to landscape, the Arcadians continually redefined their inhabited space as their aesthetic program developed, creating an evolving narrative. The Prati di Castello, through its physical connection to the Vatican and Castel Sant’Angelo, reflected the identities of the aristocratic, religiously connected members who would soon host discussion groups with musical performances in their individual palaces. The next Arcadian space continued the classical and religious symbolisms associated with Prati. Situated high on the Janiculum, the garden attached to the monastery at San Pietro in Montorio conferred several advantages. The space included an amphitheater to support the Arcadian proclivities for performance, and featured access to running water via a natural spring.13 As a structure, the church alongside its monastery provided a quiet retreat, physically manifesting the Christian morality embodied by one of the Arcadian figureheads, the infant Jesus. Furthermore, the famous circular Tempietto by Donato Bramante (1444–1514), which transformed Renaissance architecture by revitalizing ancient ideals, emerges from an archway looking onto the monastery’s cloister.14 Bramante’s interest in perspective, symmetry, and grace resurfaces in Arcadian literature, drama, and stagecraft, via the new lyric poetry founded on classical Renaissance ideals, and the visually stunning perspectival sets by Filippo Juvarra (1678–1736) and his colleagues. Arcadia’s most famous architect and scenographer, Juvarra created stage designs highlighting both pastoral landscape and ancient monument, incorporating elaborate visual feints that deceive the eye.15

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5

figure 1. Giovanni Battista Falda, Nuova pianta et alzata della città di Roma (1676). Detail showing part of the garden behind the Palazzo Riario (left), and the garden and monastery of San Pietro in Montorio (center). Published by Giovanni Giacomo de’ Rossi. Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie, VF-19-PET FOL.

The desire to remain free of political and religious influence, however, likely motivated the Arcadians’ swift transfer to their subsequent two pastoral spaces: a brief stay in the garden owned by the Duke of Paganica near San Pietro in Vincoli, and by May 1691, a longer sojourn began in the garden that had belonged to the late Queen Christina of Sweden. In the elaborately constructed formal gardens nestled behind the Palazzo Riario, the Arcadians aligned themselves in close physical proximity to their other nominal figurehead. The rear of Christina’s garden bordered on the Arcadians’ earlier meeting space at San Pietro in Montorio, creating symbolic juxtaposition. Christina’s gardens provided a tangible experience of artificial nature; Giovanni Battista Falda’s map of Rome, the Nuova pianta of 1676, shows intricate, geometrical beds continuing up the Janiculum Hill, becoming more forested and “natural” toward the city walls at the back of the garden, which extended from the Porta di San Pancrazio to delimit the space (see fig. 1).16 We might consider the relationship between these symmetrical yet labyrinthine garden paths and the Arcadian definitions of verisimilitude. Early Arcadian criticism demands a literary reality that resembles nature and the natural, yet its essence is not real but fabricated. Defining the tensions between truth, falsehood, and fiction soon became an important locus of Arcadian reform (see chapter 3). The Palazzo Riario, and the activities that Queen Christina sponsored inside it, provided structure, scope, and strategy for the Arcadian program. The academy extended the queen’s intellectual interests, which varied from philosophy to literature, and from science to music and art.17 Moving in 1693 to the Orti Palatini—the vast, intricate Farnese Gardens on the Palatine Hill—consolidated the Arcadian interest in the pastoral and the antique.

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Introduction

figure 2. Claude (Gellée) Lorrain, View of the Campo Vaccino (1636). Musée du Louvre. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

One of the most elaborate, grand, and famous gardens of seventeenth-century Rome, this locus amoenus sits near the site of the city’s earliest historical settlement. From here, the Arcadians could survey the looming ancient monuments of the Roman Forum, of which only the tallest structures were still visible, tucked around and behind the commonly used pasture lands that had filled in and raised the ground level over the centuries—the Campo Vaccino (see figs. 2 and 3).18 Until the Arcadians purchased their own Bosco Parrasio (the Parrhasian Grove, a term they used to refer to all of their meeting sites) on the Janiculum in the early eighteenth century, subsequently constructing a new garden according to their own tastes, the Farnese Gardens on the Palatine perhaps best represented the academy’s philosophical stance through physical projection and proximity.19 Throughout this metaphorical and physical journey from place to identity, the Arcadians participated in a vast culture encompassing religion, philosophy, art, architecture, landscape, literature, antiquarianism, and music. As individual artist members contributed to these arenas, they rearticulated each discipline’s essential values with the stamp of buon gusto and verisimilitude. The letterati of the group enhanced their reputations and circulated their methodologies to even wider

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figure 3. Falda, Farnesi Gardens, Li giardini di Roma (1685). Shows the ornate exit leading

to the staircase which descends into the Roman Forum and the Campo Vaccino on the other side. Marquand Library of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University. Presented by Allan Marquand, Class of ’74.

audiences through publication. The aristocratic patron members replicated and disseminated the symbols of the Parrhasian Grove landscapes and structures by practicing buon gusto in corollary assemblies of the academy, featuring reasoned discussion and musical performance in private palazzi. Cardinals Benedetto Pamphili (1653–1730) and Pietro Ottoboni (1667–1740), and Prince Francesco Maria Ruspoli (1672–1731) were among those Arcadians whose patronage of arts, theater, and music transformed the city’s cultural life.20 Within a short time, an Arcadian vision infiltrated the most prestigious venues of the city. In contrast to an earlier humanistic academic culture that primarily revisited classical sources, the Arcadians defined buon gusto by combining ancient and modern ideas, endorsing criticism and judgment, and harnessing visual modes and materials to create an empirical philosophy. Using these tools, the Arcadian Academy participated in a wide network of scholarship that propelled the new Enlightenment science.21 The impact of the Arcadian Academy cannot be overestimated. Although the movement began from diverse, seemingly local, concerns—continuing Queen Christina’s program of patronage and buon gusto, redefining Italian literature and aesthetics according to Roman pastoral and antiquarian ideals—it soon constructed a unified, extensive, and national intellectual culture. In an age when French scholars were stridently condemning Italian literature, members of the Arcadian Academy provided a much-needed resistance through active publication.22 Within this context, we can understand Crescimbeni’s rigorous historical

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Introduction

and critical approach to Italian literature as a systematic project to rectify perceptions and reconstruct tradition. Crescimbeni’s inclusive historiographical approach evidences the nationalist aspect of his Arcadian project; despite his critical aversion to mannerism, Crescimbeni includes the Italian mannerist poets of the early seventeenth century in his history, recording their popularity and influence, even while assailing their continuing value according to his principles of gusto. In a similar nationalist gesture, Gravina’s early treatises establish a uniquely Italian philosophical tradition that articulates a modern discourse of empiricism, perception, and truth. Gravina minimizes the influences he received from Cartesian thought and French Jansenism by never naming these movements; rather, he advances his own intellectual processes to align himself with his teacher and mentor Gregorio Caloprese (1654–1715) and his colleague Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), who later emerged as one of the defining thinkers of the Illuminismo, or Italian Enlightenment. Although Gravina was the earliest Arcadian member to have strong philosophical proclivities, additional literary philosophers soon added their voices to the movement, including Lodovico Antonio Muratori (1672–1750) and Antonio Conti (1677– 1749).23 Thus, literary history, philosophy, and criticism evolved into the core activity of the academy. The most notable intellectuals in this arena continued to operate within the Arcadian Academy through the eighteenth century and beyond, participating in the vast Republic of Letters. The reach of the academy not only transcended Italian provincial borders, spreading to northern Europe, but also traveled across time. Many famous figures became members over the years, from composers, to artists, playwrights, poets, and novelists, including such beloved figures as the painter Angelika Kauffman (1741–1807), the poet and author Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832), and the fabulist Hans Christian Andersen (1805–75). The Arcadian Academy extended its intellectual impact far beyond publication by incorporating a network of performative genres. If the academy’s enactment of pastoral identity and landscape transformed philosophy and aesthetics through books and readership cultures, its staged and unstaged performances of art, architecture, literature, and music shaped visual and aural cultures, cultivating wide audiences in Rome and beyond.24 The Arcadian influence on music, especially dramatic music—encompassing opera, cantata, and oratorio—is well known by musicologists today. Arcadian librettists created serious, tragic opera according to the new aesthetic of buon gusto; changes in topic, convention, and structure demonstrate new alliances with classical tragedy after the initial pastoral forays. By means of opera, the new Arcadian tragic format circulated widely through popular demand. In contrast, the unsuccessful and maligned spoken tragedies published by Crescimbeni, Gravina, and their colleagues to illustrate and model their commitment to literary antiquarianism, received minimal distribution whether in print or on stage. Although today most scholarship recognizes Apostolo Zeno (1669–1750) and Metastasio (1698–1782) for creating the eighteenth-century con-

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ventions stemming from the Arcadian movement, their colleagues were equally influential, including figures such as Antonio Salvi (1664–1724), Silvio Stampiglia (1664–1725), and Paolo Rolli (1687–1765). Collectively, the libretto reforms enacted by these dramatists led to conventional opera seria (serious opera), perhaps the most enduring and widespread of genres in the history of opera.25 The composers who collaborated with this illustrious group of poets established the musical language of eighteenth-century opera, with its focus on symmetrical forms, dramatic characterization, rhetorical gesture, rhythmic and harmonic drive, and emotional appeal. Among these are the composers whose musical excerpts grace our modern vocal anthologies, and whose structural and expressive innovations appear in our music history textbooks, including Alessandro Scarlatti (1660– 1725), Francesco Gasparini (1661–1727), Antonio Caldara (1670–1736), Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741), and George Frideric Handel (1685–1759).26 Not every composer associated with the Arcadian Academy became an official member, due to the stringent rules regarding age and social class. Of the celebrated group listed above, only Scarlatti became an official member; in 1706, Scarlatti, Bernardo Pasquini (1637– 1710), and Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713) became the first composers inducted into the group.27 The resulting flexible line defining composers’ Arcadian identity by affiliation, collaboration, or patronage versus actual membership in the Arcadian Academy problematizes how we define “Arcadian opera.” As I demonstrate in chapters 4, 5, and 6, a more inclusive approach, considering all the academy’s ideological frameworks, not just the formal or structural definitions apparent in its libretto reform, provides a more nuanced understanding of the group’s impact on the arts, and of opera’s reflection of Arcadian visual and intellectual culture. In the fields of literature and aesthetics, the Arcadian movement is known simultaneously as an extension of Renaissance thought, a neoclassicizing influence, and a pre-Enlightenment or even proto-Romantic movement.28 Although the Arcadians certainly borrowed from past models—including both ancient Greek and Roman literature, in addition to pastoral and lyric poetry from the Italian Renaissance—they also instituted many new ideas. Rather than representing the Arcadian ideology as a reversion to the past, a regeneration of an elusive Golden Age, or as a transient nostalgia before the Enlightenment, this book will reveal how the Arcadians created a fresh approach to philosophy, aesthetics, and literary criticism. Ultimately, I will demonstrate how we can use Arcadian intellectual products to formulate new ways of seeing and interpreting late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century Italian opera. D R E A M I N G W I T H O P E N EY E S

It is from the perspective of vision and imagination articulated by both Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni and Gianvincenzo Gravina that I examine late seventeenth-

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Introduction

century opera. Using a variety of Arcadian sources, I rejoin the sister fields of literature, art, and music, by enlarging the discussion to aesthetic ideas affecting all three disciplines simultaneously. I scrutinize not only the Arcadian criticisms of music, but examine their wider literature on literary and dramatic representation. I extract from Gianvincenzo Gravina his visual theory of verisimilitude, trace its relationship to aesthetic concerns in contemporary artistic representation, and expose its use as an analytical strategy in the Discorso. By comparing the visual elements in Guidi’s L’Endimione to Gravina’s rhetoric, and by expanding the analytical framework to music drama, I construct a new vocabulary for understanding Arcadian operatic repertory. I engage today’s reader, hearer, and performer of Arcadian operatic texts to visualize music drama, not in a physical sense, but in an interpretive sense, using the same mechanisms constructed by, and available to, the genre’s seventeenth-century creators and audiences. The ascendancy of the imagination ruled Baroque culture.29 In their search for verisimilitude and buon gusto, Crescimbeni and Gravina both call for a limit to fantasy as a pure device, seeking reconciliation between imagination and rationality. Like the apparent conflicts between pastoral and heroic, the Arcadian ideology projects some ambiguities between the earlier seventeenth-century language of illusion and the new language of reform. While infusing Enlightenment plausibility and rationality into the framework of the Baroque imagination, some critical terminology held over from mannerism remained; but these concepts, such as novelty (novità) and wonder (maraviglia), were redefined, so that they would not be divorced from verisimilitude, but rather, in its service. To articulate the relationships between these various aesthetic strands, I will introduce the primary texts themselves—Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso. As the first scholar to provide a detailed reading of Guidi’s and Gravina’s texts as a single performative event, I will use comparative analysis to fashion both a practical and theoretical model of verisimilitude. My new methodology illuminates the full richness of the operatic works that bloomed during this extraordinary period of reform. The book will unfold in two parts—part 1 will establish the theoretical constructs, and part 2 will apply my resulting method to operatic repertory, with detailed case studies on Alessandro Scarlatti’s (1660–1725) La Statira (1690) and Carlo Francesco Pollarolo’s (1653–1723) La forza della virtù (1693). In one sense, the book structure reverses the sequence that occurred on the original occasion in 1691—the performance of Guidi’s L’Endimione preceded Gravina’s critical commentary in the Discorso, whereas I begin with theory to build a modern, scholarly practice. In another sense, by considering the entire performance— both play and commentary—in its entirety in part 1, I construct a unified aesthetic program that becomes a theory for today’s readers, followed by a performative reading, so to speak, of Arcadian opera.

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Dreaming with Open Eyes is about opera, but it is not only about opera. This book is about how opera engaged early modern cultural and intellectual history, interacting with classical reception, literature, aesthetics, philosophy, gender, and art. It is also about specific figures who advanced the intellectual development of the early Arcadian Academy—Queen Christina of Sweden, Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, Alessandro Guidi, and Gianvincenzo Gravina—and how their literary and musical productions participated in visual culture and visual science. It is opera that motivated this study, and it is for opera that I developed my methodology. Although Dreaming with Open Eyes constructs a framework for a specific time, place, and repertory, musicologists and opera lovers interested in any historical period can profit from my methodology, gaining fruitful insights into works by their favorite composers—providing that they ground their study in the appropriate intellectual and cultural milieu. After all, opera provides an imagistic as well as a sonic experience. In the Baroque era, visual culture acquired an explicit preeminence, rising to epistemological proportions; but constructing and understanding historical ways of seeing provide new perspectives on all eras of operatic spectacle. Because Dreaming with Open Eyes draws an arc exploring the inherent interpretive possibilities in Gravina’s Discorso and Guidi’s L’Endimione, emphasizing connections to ideas radiating outward from Queen Christina’s intellectual circle via the Arcadian Academy, the scope is limited in the number of musical works discussed. The final chapters serve as case studies that demonstrate seventeenthcentury ways of seeing, and therefore interpreting, opera. Further work remains in this vast repertory, for which the lens I have developed here would be fruitful. Additional scholarship could explore corollaries to Guidi’s L’Endimione, via Queen Christina’s patronage, by analyzing operas performed at the Tordinona Theater or cantatas by Alessandro Stradella (1639–1682) and other court composers. Examining works penned by Arcadian librettists and set to music by Alessandro Scarlatti and Giovanni Bononcini (1670–1747) could extend and contextualize the symbolisms in La Statira. More narrowly, but in the same vein, one could investigate music dramas penned by the librettist of La Statira, Pietro Ottoboni (1667–1740), an important patron of the Arcadian Academy, or examine how Handel’s Roman cantatas and oratorios project visual symbolisms, as extensions of the early Arcadian tradition. For example, Handel scholars will notice similarities in the mirror symbolism between Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù (Venice, 1693), and Handel’s Il trionfo del tempo e del disinganno (Rome, 1707), and Agrippina (Venice, 1709). Did Handel receive influence from Pollarolo’s opera, or did the Arcadian Academy’s interest in visual devices create a residual, parallel source of inspiration? I cannot answer this question yet, although it certainly intrigues me, and I hope to have more to say in the future. Any of the approaches listed here would be effective, and

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Introduction

I plan to continue investigating these various angles. I also encourage others to do so. The availability of so many potential avenues of investigation speaks both to the richness of the subject, and to how much unknown material exists yet to be explored, comparatively to other eras, in opera of this time and place. Although music histories point to Scarlatti, Bononcini, and Caldara as “important composers,” not just of the Roman Arcadian circle, but for Baroque opera overall, few of their operas are generally known, even by specialists of Baroque music. Rather than following one of the trajectories listed above, my narrow focus on two operas allows broader, richer layers of symbolism to emerge. For each opera, I render Gravina’s imagistic theory as an analytical device in part 2. I engage with Gravina’s immagine del vero by interpreting his three main components of truthful representation (images, ancient fables, and “commonly held beliefs,” or what I call icon, mythos, and tupos), as modern methodological strategies, namely, iconography, mythography, and typology. Using comparative analysis, confronting ancient, early modern, and art historical texts with operatic narrative, I convey the underlying meanings that were present to seventeenth-century audiences. My method embodies an inverse to historical performance practice studies; conventionally, we try to inform performance by studying the physical and mechanical elements of the instruments, making connections to gestures drawn from dance, reading historical documents about technique, or interpreting iconography to understand more about performers, performance spaces, and the physical dynamics of ensembles, among other things. Dreaming with Open Eyes reimagines the seventeenthcentury audience’s engagement with performance. Instead of reconstructing how a performance might sound, I reconstruct how the audience might interpret it. I use iconography, but in a new way; here, iconography connects us to the seventeenth-century audience’s imagination. My study is not merely textual and visual, however; my operatic case studies engage deeply with the sonic representation of character and action, bringing music that is not widely accessible back to life. This book provides a critical framework that will inform much more operatic repertory than I discuss here; it will require time, sifting systematically through many libretto texts, to uncover the full array of operas explained by my visual paradigm, even just within the narrow confines of whatever constitutes “Arcadian opera.” The operas that I analyze in detail, by Scarlatti and Pollarolo, feature two significant visually-oriented devices: paintings and mirrors. Considering the importance of paintings to theatrical representation and stagecraft in early modern drama in Europe, from Spain to England, and the prevalence of mirrors in philosophical discussion of the same period, it would not surprise me to learn of many more operas in which these symbolisms abound.30 Although I emphasize how visual modes operated within the Arcadian Academy, others may find Baroque operas from other milieus that project similar visual symbolisms, motivated by different, though likely related, intellectual concerns. For example, I know through my own

Introduction

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exploratory, unpublished research, that the same Cartesian philosophies that influenced Gravina, his teacher and mentor Gregorio Caloprese, his colleague Giambattista Vico, and the Arcadians, abound in Lully’s tragédies en musique performed at the court of Louis XIV. I assert that although the focus of this book is narrow, its implications are much broader than the works I have chosen to discuss. Although opera motivates this book, and I write from the perspective of a musicologist, much of the discussion will appeal to scholars of other disciplines. Dreaming with Open Eyes enlarges our understanding of Queen Christina’s lasting influence on intellectual, visual, and musical cultures in seventeenth-century Rome. This layer will interest historians of early modern Rome in general, or of Queen Christina in particular. As a study of the Arcadian Academy, Dreaming with Open Eyes provides a new interpretation of verisimilitude, and of the Arcadian influence on literature, philosophy, aesthetics, and music. Recent scholarship, by art historians Vernon Hyde Minor and Susan Dixon, and by musicologists Stefanie Tcharos and Ellen Harris, suggests that my work participates in a larger scholarly revaluation of the Arcadian Academy.31 These studies, like mine, engage in interdisciplinary approaches to Arcadian aesthetics, demonstrating how literature, art, music, or politics intertwine. Similarly, I am not the only scholar renewing interest in Guidi’s pastoral favola. Lisa Sampson discusses L’Endimione in her book on the development of the pastoral genre in Italy, and Valentina Gallo published a new edition of Guidi’s play in 2011.32 While these studies focus on genre, I emphasize layers of visuality in L’Endimione, illustrating connections to the early modern ocularcentrism recognized by other disciplines, such as art history and aesthetics.33 My analysis of L’Endimione also informs early modern literary criticism or theater studies; if, as I argue, Gravina’s Discorso represents an early example of literary criticism focused on criteria beyond generic principles, such as representation and perception, then my analysis of both Gravina’s and Guidi’s texts changes how we understand theories of performance and reception in the late seventeenth century. My reception histories, which evaluate Alessandro Guidi’s changing reputation as a writer, and responses to L’Endimione as a play, demonstrate that nineteenth-century negativity toward the Arcadian literary aesthetic continued to resonate in twentieth-century scholarship. Research on Alessandro Guidi, and on the Arcadian Academy, is moving in new directions, reassessing past influences, and reexamining primary sources. My work on Gravina reappraises both this thinker’s contributions to early Enlightenment thought and the Arcadian Academy’s role in the history of philosophy, but this aspect of the book interacts in a different way with the existing narratives on these subjects, as compared to my work on Queen Christina and Alessandro Guidi. Because of Gravina’s relationships with Cartesian philosophy and with Giambattista Vico, he is studied primarily by scholars whose work does not encompass the full Arcadian Academy, or for whom the academy provides only

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Introduction

peripheral interest. My analysis of Gravina’s immagine del vero and his use of classical sources will interest scholars of Italian literature and classical reception history; here I draw on precedents by Domenico Consoli, Amedeo Quondam, Annarita Placella, Tiziana Carena, and Camilla Guaita.34 Readers of Giuseppe Mazzotta’s book on Giambattista Vico will find salient parallels in my analysis of Gravina’s Discorso.35 While I engage with this scholarship, I pursue a separate trajectory, since I illustrate not only how Gravina engages with the past, but also how he participates in early modern developments in art and science. For art historians, my analysis of layered perspectives in Annibale Carracci’s Palazzo Farnese Gallery contributes additional details to a dialogue that already exists in the literature. My contribution to the field consists in the parallels I establish between art and dramatic representation, and between the Carracci aesthetic and seventeenth-century literary criticism. Where this book veers away from opera and literature, it traces a series of historical “monuments” to visual culture. Beyond Guidi’s and Gravina’s texts and Scarlatti’s and Pollarolo’s operas, I examine Giovanni Pietro Bellori’s Vite de’ pittori, scultori et architetti moderni (1672), numerous frescoes and paintings, and ekphrasis as an early modern interpretive device. This additional secondary narrative shows the interrelatedness of literature, philosophy, aesthetics, art, criticism, and musical drama, while tracing the broad legacy of Queen Christina’s impact on intellectual culture. Each of the visual monuments I discuss connects to Queen Christina, whether influencing her academic pursuits, emanating from her patronage, or reflecting her concept of buon gusto—yet as individual works of artistic creation, each monument communicates its own story about perspective, perception, and illusion in the Baroque era. As a series, these monuments testify to how modern disciplinary boundaries—once blurred—can be superimposed and stretched to re-form and inform early modern studies.

1

Founding Arcadia The Aesthetics of Verisimilitude and Buon Gusto

The Arcadian Academy launched a program of literary reform, altering the dynamics between truth, taste, style, and representation in Italian poetry, drama, and opera. As the founding members used publication to circulate their ideals, the collective Arcadian definitions of verisimilitude and taste shifted, from embodying a reformulated, idealized pastoral ideology to creating a broader philosophy of buon gusto incorporating the tragic and other classical literary modes. The Arcadian cultural environment, and its artistic production, is therefore bound inextricably to a broader seventeenth-century history of taste. The Arcadians encountered preexisting notions of taste by various means, including the pervasive emphasis on bon goût in French culture and the intellectual products of Queen Christina of Sweden’s Accademia Reale, but redefined these precedents to create an innovative aesthetic that would influence multiple fields of endeavor. In the early seventeenth century, intellectual discourse on good taste originates primarily from French philosophy and culture. Bon goût appertained to persons and things. Possessing bon goût entailed discerning tastefulness in others, as in physical objects, gestures, or behavior, and displaying these traits oneself. Judgment—an intellectual ability and a personal characteristic—was therefore a prerequisite to acquiring taste. Believed to be the natural outcome of noble birth and education, judgment was commensurate with an outwardly honest demeanor. Taste, whether embodied by objects, artistic style, or personality, would reflect inherent purity and truth. Therefore, a nascent naturalism, verisimilitude, or at least plausibility, motivated the overriding aesthetic in art and literature.1 Within the Roman environment, influences from French bon goût were more tacit than explicit, even if pervasive. Cultural transfer between France and Italy 17

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was pervasive in the seventeenth century. French artists were traveling to Rome to engage with classical monuments and Roman art; the Académie de France (French Academy) was founded in Rome in 1666 and began offering the competitive Prix de Rome in 1674 to prominent French painters, sculptors, and architects. Encounters with Roman antiquities fueled French neoclassicism and pastoralism in both art and drama; translations of French dramas circulated in Roman musical circles, through spectacles, oratorio, and other performances in private and religious institutions. Politically, however, tensions between French, Spanish, and Italian interests in the Roman Curia became critical by the end of the century.2 While individual members of the Arcadian Academy would have encountered French influences in a variety of ways, for the academy, the closest site of contact was through their declared figurehead, Queen Christina of Sweden. Although Queen Christina was the first to examine Italian literary buon gusto through her own Accademia Reale in the 1670s (as discussed in the introduction), her interests extended the values she encountered through her deep knowledge of French philosophy and culture. Queen Christina emulated French aesthetic at her court in Sweden, before abdicating her throne and reestablishing herself in Italy. Christina maintained correspondence with Descartes beginning in 1646, inviting him to Sweden as her tutor on several occasions. Descartes accepted in 1649, traveling to Sweden in the fall of that year, but succumbed to pneumonia in February 1650, his illness and death likely hastened by the harsh winter in Stockholm.3 Christina also cultivated French forms of drama and spectacle, from the court ballet to the carousel, transforming her country from one on the cultural margins to a cosmopolitan outpost.4 By consciously aligning their priorities with the academic, aesthetic principles of their figurehead, Queen Christina, the Arcadians also (perhaps somewhat unconsciously) continued the French tradition of practicing good taste. Many of the characteristics exemplified by bon goût remained in Arcadian buon gusto; at least initially, the Arcadian Academy could not escape French cultural influences. The Parrhasian Grove cultivated a bucolic idealism ostensibly fashioned after ancient Roman literature and Italian Renaissance pastorals, but perhaps more immediately inspired by the landscape paintings of two French artists working in Rome—Claude Lorrain and Nicolas Poussin (see introduction).5 Furthermore, several Arcadian librettists emulated French classical drama, translating, modifying, and restructuring tragedies by Racine and Corneille. Since these French authors, in turn, imitated ancient Greek and Latin literature, the pathway to Arcadian verisimilitude is somewhat tortuous.6 The multiplicity of influences created both an inherent conflict between Arcadian pastoralism and Arcadian tragedy, and an intrinsic irony—the Arcadian aesthetic originated in response to French criticisms of Italian literature. Unable to elude French influence, the Arcadians decided not to name it as such. Instead, they assumed an outward posture of “Italianness,” situating their reforms in Renaissance and ancient Italic and Greek tradi-

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tions. It is indisputable that the French were the first to practice “good taste.” But in the hands of the Arcadian Academy, several innovations arose, evident from the academy’s earliest publications. If the Arcadian movement began as reactionary, defensive, and emulative, it soon evolved into a nationalist project influencing literary culture both beyond the Alps, and beyond the seventeenth century. The innovative aspects of the Arcadian reform fall into several categories, whether cultural or philosophical. In France, taste depended on social class, politics, and power. Taste radiated from the monarch outward, so that the highest echelons of society, and the prestigious creators of intellectual and artistic culture, reflected the king’s ideals. Although officially the various royal académies, established to represent the interests of the king, created and circulated good taste, unofficially taste also developed in the salon culture, where women of high status defined bon goût in literature and art, using the standards of personal judgment, decorum, and propriety.7 By contrast, the Arcadians distanced themselves both from hierarchical organization and from courtly interests; they expressed a collective identity, creating a group of equals who together discussed, defined, and disseminated an aesthetic ideology. As Crescimbeni writes in his earliest brief history of the academy, the group’s pastoral pseudonyms functioned as “masks,” not to hide individuality, but to wipe away class distinctions.8 Similarly, the Arcadians opened their prestigious membership to literary women. Although appropriate narrative representation of gender became one of the touchstones of Arcadian verisimilitude (see below, and chapters 4, 5, and 6), maleness was not a prerequisite to participation. By opening its ranks to women, artists, poets, and composers of notable accomplishment, the Arcadians cultivated an inclusiveness that was unusual for seventeenth-century Rome.9 As with many ideological statements, the idealized tone did not always materialize into reality; official policies often negated the true equality of class and sex within the Arcadian Academy. Not surprisingly, cracks developed in the Arcadian façade of social equality as the years passed; by 1693, a separate, more elegant space in the Farnese Gardens on the Palatine was constructed for cardinals. These eminent members would no longer be compelled to use the ground, a rock, or a simple cushion as a seat, as the other “shepherds” had done previously, in the less assuming Parrhasian Grove meeting spaces.10 While equality of class weakened over time, equality of sex strengthened. For women, the acceptance requirements were more stringent than those set for men; beyond appropriate age, status, and education, women were obligated to be practitioners of poetry, that is, either published authors or well-known improvisers.11 Despite these restrictions, women actively participated in the academy, including as patrons; noble women could enter by acclamation, instead of demonstrating professional accomplishments. The numbers of women increased considerably through the eighteenth century; overall, women authored roughly 8 percent of Arcadian publications. The crowning of

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Chapter One

Maria Maddalena Morelli (pseudonym, Corilla Olimpica) as poet laureate at the Capitoline Hill in 1776 represented an important milestone for the academy, and highlighted women’s capabilities in literature.12 While certainly individual members of the group—cardinals, aristocrats, queens, or princesses—had political motives, and convened private Arcadian gatherings for their own interests, as a whole project the academy narrowed the societal distance between the upper classes and the professional, artistic classes, creating a space for men and women to collaborate in intellectual pursuits. The group’s diversity nourished its inventiveness. The Arcadian environment fostered intellectual exchange across multiple subjects, cultivating a remarkable intersectionality. If we only study Arcadian aesthetic today from the lens of one discipline, we lose sight of how one aspect of the academy’s productivity influenced another. The two most significant Arcadian writers in the late seventeenth century—Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni and Gianvincenzo Gravina—used concepts borrowed from science, art, and philosophy to define literary verisimilitude. Crescimbeni served as the group’s first president (custode) and serious scholar. He was the first person to write a comprehensive history of Italian literature, and the first among the Arcadians to articulate a critical approach to literature through stylistic definitions. Gravina was an influential philosopher and law professor; his learned precision, and application of new arguments to classical texts, redefined the intellectual landscape. By resuming Italian Renaissance humanism where it had ended, but inventing new critical methods, the Arcadian Academy departed from French bon goût. In the treatises by Crescimbeni and Gravina, we find dialectics pitting sight against sound, mythology against history, and truth against fiction. Both writers engage vision as a metaphor for truthfulness; where Crescimbeni seeks greater unity between sight and sound, Gravina uses imagination, dreams, and perspective to define the audience’s perception of verisimilitude (see chapter 3). Each author engages in the rising ocularcentrism of the seventeenth century.13 By promoting arguments concerning the eye, and its capacity to believe what it sees, these authors align their literary criticism with visual and descriptive techniques used by artists and art historians of the same period (see chapters 4, 5, and 6). By privileging sight over sound, both writers participate in the rising scientific empiricism, relying on observation to gain knowledge. Crescimbeni and Gravina also anticipate the early eighteenth-century Arcadian opera critics, such as Pier Iacopo Martello (1665– 1727), Lodovico Antonio Muratori (1672–1750), Scipione Maffei (1675–1755), and Benedetto Marcello (1686–1739), who complained about music’s capacity to deliver narrative text. If verisimilitude is perceived by the eye and processed in the imagination, as asserted by Gravina (see chapter 3), and if verisimilitude is the result of good taste, as asserted by Crescimbeni, then the new Italian buon gusto encompasses much more than literary style—it represents both a perceptual process and

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an analytical method. By infusing Arcadian ideology with the emerging scientific empiricism, and creating critical approaches motivated by artists’ rendering of light and perspective, the Arcadian Academy imbued literature, philosophy, and opera with new energy and purpose. F O U N D I N G A R C A D IA

The founding members of the Arcadian Academy came from various walks of life, including religious, literary, political, and professional spheres. The most prominent among the founders were Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, Vincenzo Leonio (1650–1720), Silvio Stampiglia (1664–1725), and Gianvincenzo Gravina. These four figures represented the primary literary interests of the academy. While Crescimbeni and Gravina were the most prolific writers on the history, philosophy, and aesthetics of literature, Stampiglia was the most prolific writer of texts for music drama. Vincenzo Leonio was known for his Italian and Latin lyric poetry, and for revitalizing interest in the sixteenth-century Petrarchan poet Angelo di Costanzo (c. 1507–91); Leonio founded a discussion group on Di Costanzo’s poetry before the Arcadian Academy existed, but his work in this area continued as an Arcadian project. Although there are points of disagreement between these four thinkers, it is clear that they also influenced each other, developing some common ground in the Parrhasian Grove. Perhaps debate at Arcadian meetings led to consensus in at least a few areas. For example, Leonio’s interest in Di Costanzo resurfaces in Crescimbeni’s historical discussion of poetic style in the L’istoria della volgar poesia (1698), and later informs Crescimbeni’s Socratic dialogue on aesthetics and truthful representation in La bellezza della volgar poesia (1700).14 Similarly, Gravina’s visual theory from the Discorso sopra l’Endimione (publ. 1692) resurfaces in Crescimbeni’s demand that poetic sound and image should be balanced, in La bellezza. Just as not every Arcadian was a poet, neither was every Arcadian a writer of any sort. Consequently, modern scholars are challenged to determine what, if any, cohesiveness existed in the literary aesthetic viewpoints expressed by individuals within the whole society. Most of the founders were not Roman, and collectively they represent a variety of educational backgrounds; other than their advocacy for lyrical poetry, the only other similarities between members reside in their elite intellectual and societal status, and personal drive for success. Many arrived in Rome from provincial areas, after exceeding the opportunities available at home. As the academy grew, anyone of importance joined—the group provided a mechanism for patronage, power, and networking, as much as it provided a space for literary discussion. This was certainly the case for the poets; soon, the most prominent music patrons joined the academy, causing commissions for cantata, oratorio, and opera librettos to filter primarily through this august gathering of letterati.

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Chapter One V E R I SI M I L I T U D E A N D BU ON G U ST O

For the Arcadians, diversity of thought afforded richness in material; for the modern scholar, however, the same Arcadian diversity provides a challenge. How can we define Arcadian aesthetic, when individual writers seemingly proposed contradictory literary priorities, or recommended diverging solutions to the acknowledged problems of seventeenth-century poetry? While the most prominent authors—Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni and Gianvincenzo Gravina—offer critical theories, a second tier of writers (such as Alessandro Guidi, a primary subject of this book) provides additional insight. While this second tier of authors did not theorize literature, their poetic style reveals Arcadian stylistic trends; furthermore, critiques of their compositions exist, written by their contemporaries and later literary scholars, up through the middle of the nineteenth century. To this second tier, we could add Guidi’s Arcadian colleagues and sometime poetic rivals, Francesco de Lemene (1634–1704) and Benedetto Menzini (1646–1704). In our modern efforts to understand Arcadian aesthetics and poetry, much remains to be uncovered. Although modern scholars tend not to esteem highly the verses of Guidi, Lemene, Menzini, or other Arcadian poets, collectively these authors revolutionized Italian literature. Together, members of the Arcadian Academy collaborated to create an imagistic literary style and forge the opera seria genre, while contributing to Enlightenment epistemologies of vision and perception. In poetry, operatic drama, and literary criticism, the Arcadian Academy developed ocular tools— whether narrative or descriptive, conceptual or metaphorical—to endorse scientific process and philosophical empiricism. Arcadian writers thus advanced an ocularcentric intellectual culture; their efforts in this area were at least as important as their well-known literary reform. As president of the Arcadian Academy, Crescimbeni used systematic, frequent publication to establish the group’s identity and disseminate its initiatives. His published volumes provide a founding narrative, enumerating the Arcadian laws (the leges Arcadum), describing meeting places, cataloging Arcadian colonies, and listing individual members by name, pseudonym, and date of entry. Crescimbeni’s books provide background on most important concepts affecting representation and analysis of music drama—buon gusto and verisimilitude. Crescimbeni articulated his aesthetics on literary taste and truthful representation in greater volume than his other colleagues did in the early days of Arcadia, providing detailed examples in both L’istoria and La bellezza della volgar poesia. We can understand both treatises as primers codifying Arcadian ideology for the uninitiated. While Crescimbeni’s L’istoria is historical and practical, his La bellezza is analytical and philosophical. Because Crescimbeni provides no single, concise definition for either buon gusto or verisimilitude in either book, we can broaden our understanding of these concepts through close reading of his language; his descriptions

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of the literary style of individual writers in L’istoria, and his commentary on poetry and genre in La bellezza, provide a wealth of information about Arcadian literary ideals that until now have been absent from musicological scholarship. Crescimbeni, like Gravina, discusses images in the context of verisimilitude. However, each author uses images to epitomize different aspects of poetry or poetic process. Crescimbeni employs images only epigrammatically; he uses the word immagine primarily to convey the idea, or concept, of the poem. Gravina engages images conceptually; he elaborates a visual process beginning in the mind of the poet, conveying truth through language, diction, and style, and culminating in the mind of the reader (or audience). There, the mind processes the literary or dramatic image, judging its adherence to the truth (see chapter 3). Gravina’s immagine draws more heavily from contemporary scientific knowledge of vision; furthermore, he translates a visual process into an analytical methodology (see chapter 4). While admitting that style is indispensable to conveying truthful images, Gravina never uses the phrase buon gusto in his Discorso sopra l’Endimione. Gravina, unlike Crescimbeni, does not consider verisimilitude a direct consequence of style; literary style forms only one component of truthful poetry. Rather, Gravina defines truth as a process of representation, perception, and reception. Gravina values truth as a concept, privileging how audiences perceive truth through sensory stimulation, and how poets re-create truth via images. Where Crescimbeni discusses the merits of individual poets and poems, Gravina provides an analytical framework for how to discover poetic and dramatic truthfulness. Since I discuss Gravina’s philosophy in later chapters (chapters 2, 3, and 4), here, I will turn to Crescimbeni. L’ I ST OR IA DE L L A VOLG A R P OE S IA

Crescimbeni’s L’istoria della volgar poesia (1698) is a vast compendium of Italian literature, imparting a history of all poetic genres, biographies on all major poets, and commentaries on their reputation and style. The collection includes five books, each structured around a specific aim. Book 1 investigates the origins and contemporary status of Italian poetry. Book 2 surveys one hundred historical authors, providing blurbs with biographical and stylistic commentary, and lists fifty additional living authors. Book 3 is an anthology, presenting at least one poem by each of the authors discussed in Book 2. Book 4 alphabetically enumerates additional authors from each period, whose works deserve further study. Book 5 combines bibliography and historiography; for each author examined in book 2, Crescimbeni itemizes commentaries on their works, and discusses major contributions to the scholarly literature. Book 6 catalogs Italian treatises on poetry, organized by genre (such as arte poetica or tragedia), and lists Italian-language translations and commentaries on major historical authors (such as Aristotle).15 Because Crescimbeni views his

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Chapter One

work as historical and systematic, he mostly avoids aesthetic concerns. However, he does judge individual authors’ contributions to poetry, situating each author in terms of contemporary taste. Scrutinizing Crescimbeni’s intermittent stylistic observations affords an embedded history of buon gusto, its decline and resurgence, and elucidates his own criteria for good and bad taste. For Crescimbeni, buon gusto first appears in the early Tuscan school of poetry, embodied by the lyrical style of Dante and Petrarch. The seventeenth century, however, initiated a dark era of bizarreries, with precedents extending to the late fifteenth century; this poverty of taste was only counteracted by literary studies originating within the Florentine Accademia della Crusca, supported by the patronage of Leopoldo de’ Medici (1617–75). This basic narrative has established the trajectory that continues to dominate Italian literary studies today. We should be somewhat cautious about Crescimbeni’s attribution of taste to Medici patronage, however, especially since he does not name other important families by name, discussing instead regional influences. It may have been politically advantageous to emphasize the Medici family’s role in literary rejuvenation, since Crescimbeni dedicated the original 1698 edition of L’istoria to Prince Ferdinando de’ Medici. Patronage and politics aside, Crescimbeni attributes to the seventeenth century an overall decline in taste, describing the gusto of the period alternately as vano (empty, frivolous) or corrotto (corrupted, decadent). This ruined poetic taste was so pervasive, that Crescimbeni frequently characterizes authors as unable to overcome its influence, despite intrinsic talent or desire. For example, of Niccola Villani (d. 1634) Crescimbeni writes: “although he was not a stranger to the vano gusto of the age, still he always tempered himself with diminished severity and magnificence.”16 Similarly, Crescimbeni writes of Ciro di Pers (1599–1663), “this author would have preferred to be remembered as a follower of the ancient manner, rather than as Master of a new style; but the corrotto gusto of the age pulled him by force, and led him where by chance his own talent did not lean.”17 Although Crescimbeni never defines explicit characteristics of “frivolous” or “corrupted” taste, a close analysis of his language reveals some clues. For example, Crescimbeni’s historical trajectory references the fifteenth-century poets who first diverged from the Petrarchan tradition. Crescimbeni names Antonio Tibaldeo (1463–1537; normally “Tebaldeo” in modern scholarship) as a leader of this new style: The Barbarism that descended upon Tuscan Poetry in this century completely deformed the intensely serious, cultured style of Petrarch. Thus, they strived all the more to fill out their compositions, inflating them with nothing more than bizarreries, cleverness, urbane witticisms, and other similar trifles, such that [their works] were used up with just a few readings, yet made a lot of noise among the masses. Among those who made poetry in this way, Antonio Tibaldeo, a Ferrarese doctor, was much applauded; he flourished in this poetic style around 1480, and was called the stylistic master of the century.18

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Crescimbeni complains how the mannerist style grates on the ears. The forcefulness of Tebaldeo’s poetry created “a lot of noise”; Giambattista Marino’s poetry (1569–1625)—which inaugurated seventeenth-century mannerism, generating considerable imitation—receives similar criticisms from Crescimbeni. Examining Marino’s poetry, Crescimbeni disparages its “noisiness” and “resonance” (or “sonorism”) illustrating his primary concerns about Italian poetry: To Marini is indebted a [new] freeness in composition: yet the bubbling over of his wit, unable to stay confined within limits, entirely ruptured any remedy; it would submit to no principle other than its own caprice, entirely consisting in the sonorism of the verse, in a system of bizarreries and witticisms, in the construction of fantastic arguments, and in affecting Latinate phrasing, abandoning proper Tuscan language; and, in sum, delighting in a feigned, deceptive semblance of an artificial, false beauty. It would not be easy to describe, and make others understand, how much such excessive licentiousness [in poetry] was applauded and esteemed, if the proximity of time had not brought the full noise of it even to our own ears, and made audible such acclaim that neither Dante, Petrarch, nor Tasso during their own lifetimes, and perhaps none of the Ancient Greeks or Romans, while living, had the fortune of earning.19

The primary descriptive words used here—boiling/bubbling (bollor), wit (ingegno, arguzie), caprice (capriccio), sonorism (risonanza), bizarreries (bizzarrie), fantastic arguments (argomenti fantastici), affected (affettare), false appearances (finta apparenza), and false beauty (falsa bellezza)—collectively articulate Crescimbeni’s definition of bad taste. Crescimbeni’s language accentuates Marino’s exaggeration of imagery and sound, creating disjunction from truth; capriciousness, frivolousness, and emptiness join noise and resonance, producing the false images associated with mannerist poetry. L A B E L L E Z Z A DE L L A VOLG A R P OE S IA

In the La bellezza della volgar poesia of 1700, Crescimbeni turns to aesthetics, leaving aside the biography and historiography of L’istoria, now focusing on detailed analysis of works representing the ideal Arcadian literary paradigm. Instead of honoring the Medici family, Crescimbeni dedicates the work closer to home, to Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni—patron, librettist, and member of the Arcadian Academy. Crescimbeni writes in Socratic form, situating eight dialogues among various Arcadian “shepherds.” Each of the first five dialogues discusses one aspect of “beauty” in poems by Angelo di Costanzo; subsequent dialogues examine Crescimbeni’s own pastoral favola titled L’Elvio (1695), Ariosto’s play written in the style of Latin comedy, titled I suppositi (1509), and Baron Antonio Caraccio’s epic poem, L’imperio vendicata (1679).20 Crescimbeni uses Caraccio’s epic poem as a counterpoint to Ariosto; both authors emulated classical literature, one in the heroic genre and the other in the comic. Crescimbeni’s own play demonstrates

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how the tragic and pastoral modes can be joined in a single work. Since Caraccio was one of the original supporters of Vincenzo Leonio’s project to study Angelo di Costanzo’s poetry—ultimately partaking in an Arcadian discussion group that intended to culminate in a published volume of Di Costanzo’s sonnets—each of the authors discussed by Crescimbeni symbolizes one prominent aspect of the whole Arcadian project. Crescimbeni concludes the book by describing the founding narrative of the academy, explaining its organization, “Leges Arcadum,” and Olympiad, and appending a current list of members and their pastoral pseudonyms; Crescimbeni would close most of his subsequent publications with a similar, updated account. By dedicating the book to Ottoboni, using a dialogic format, and focusing on genre, aesthetics, and classical emulation, while using poetic models central to the Arcadian ideology, Crescimbeni re-creates the ambience of a series of Arcadian gatherings in the Parrhasian Grove—perhaps even suggesting Ottoboni as host. The entire compass of the work replicates—and advertises—a performative Arcadian setting. Unlike L’istoria, which only considers gusto in terms of historical presence or lack, causing the reader to interpret good taste only as the opposite of bad taste, La bellezza supplies rich precepts regarding style, beauty, genre, truth, and the sublime, creating a cumulative, comprehensive, literary philosophy. The scope of this book precludes detailed treatment of Crescimbeni’s aesthetics,21 although an overview of some concepts—particularly style, beauty, and truth—will offer pertinent knowledge for applying Arcadian theories of representation to operatic narrative.22 Crescimbeni uses the term stile (style) to designate the level of poetic expression, encompassing various concepts ranging from the subject of the poem, to its linguistic features. In this respect, Crescimbeni follows Cicero, who divides style into three categories: the sublime, the humble, and the moderate.23 In the first dialogue of La bellezza, Crescimbeni identifies the sublime according to its “noble argument and concept”; “refined, figurative, and ornate language”; and “sonorous, grand verse.”24 Turning to concrete examples in Di Costanzo’s poetry, Crescimbeni characterizes heavenly or intellectual love as an inherently sublime topic: “concepts, being none other than images of things which form in our minds, are greater than the actual things on which they are based. Then, what is grander or more sublime than heavenly Love, from which everything is sustained, governed, and created?”25 The Platonic treatment of love finds sublime expression in a poem by Di Costanzo in which earthly love progresses to heavenly love, characterized by reason instead of emotion.26 Linguistic elements, such as vocabulary, metaphor, diction, allegory, harmony, and verse structure must complement the sublimity of the subject. Crescimbeni’s discussion of these additional stylistic components refers to Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso, comparing Di Costanzo’s poetic language to these masters. While the humble style contrasts with the sublime, the two are not diametric opposites—the humble should not cross into low or base material.27 In the second

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dialogue of La bellezza, Crescimbeni explains that the humble portrays human instead of divine love, using plainer language, necessitating little interpretive mediation between poem and reader.28 Figurative and ornate language can be used in the humble, as in the sublime, but only if it is common (usuali) and clear (piane).29 The moderate style combines aspects of the sublime and the humble, expressing human sensibility through intellectual means, but reaching the conceptual and linguistic proportions of neither the sublime nor the humble. In dialogue 3 of La bellezza, Crescimbeni provides as an example a sonnet by Di Costanzo; this poem, while first describing the external beauty of the beloved, progresses toward depicting her internal beauty, created by heavenly forces, such as her virtue.30 Mixing physical beauty with divine contemplation signifies the temperate nature of the moderate style. Similarly, the language embraces a nobility appropriate to the sublime, but preserves the level of the idea, ornament, and metaphor within the capacity of the average reader. Crescimbeni formulates three levels of beauty, duplicating his three-part discussion of style; these are: external, internal, and mixed. External beauty involves only linguistic expression; external beauty is not trustworthy on its own and therefore cannot create truthful representation. Crescimbeni’s concern about external beauty reflects its inherent potential to deceive with appearances (“lusingar con l’apparenza”) and delight with words (“dilettar con iscelte parole”); he likens it to “embellishing a façade without caring about the inside of the building.”31 Internal beauty is superior to external beauty; it represents “profundity of sentiment,” “hidden mysteries,” and “philosophical or theological truths.” Proper poetry depicts both internal and external beauty; this preferred “mixed beauty” creates perfection in representation. Although Crescimbeni does not privilege one type of style (sublime, moderate, or humble), rather, defines their proper parameters, he does favor mixed beauty. Poetic language must not only suitably match the stylistic register, but it must also portray inherent truth. Throughout his discussion, Crescimbeni’s overarching literary aesthetic exhibits its own mixed materials, indicating that he has developed his literary priorities along philosophical lines. In dialogues 1 through 3, Crescimbeni defines external, structural features of poetry—form, genre, language, metaphor, embellishment—in terms of Ciceronian rhetoric, using quotations from Tuscan poetry to substantiate his analytical claims about Di Costanzo’s superiority. For the internal, representative features of poetry—idea, subject, conceit, sensibility— Crescimbeni adopts a Platonic standard. These distinctions between style and beauty in La bellezza clarify Crescimbeni’s objections to the “noisiness” of seventeenth-century mannerism in L’istoria. Mannerism embodies sound without substance; this poetic tradition deforms with barbarous expressions (“difformò con barbare locuzioni”), arduous verses (“durissimi versi”), depraved figures (“viziose figure”), and exaggerated gestures, using hyperboles,

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tropes, and metaphors (“iperboli, traslati, e metafore”) to express “empty” ideas. Crescimbeni’s ideal mixed beauty, however, unites sound and substance; “noble, effective thoughts” are represented within a “pleasing, elegant shell.”32 Verisimilitude, however, comprises more than style and beauty. The remaining dialogues consider additional factors affecting narrative credibility, including: imitating Greek compositional methods (dialogue 4), replicating tragic precepts in the pastoral mode (dialogue 5), establishing narrative limits to fiction and history (dialogue 6), and defining epic poetry (dialogues 7–8). Each dialogue adds new layers to Crescimbeni’s definition of verisimilitude; notably for their relevance to operatic representation, although dialogues 4 and 5 continue to use Di Costanzo’s poetry for comparative analysis, dialogues 5 through 8 shift the emphasis from the lyric tradition to dramatic representation. Dialogue 5 is particularly instructive, since Crescimbeni resolves the apparent Arcadian conflicts between outward pastoral identity and literary emulation of ancient Greek tragedy. In this dialogue, Crescimbeni distinguishes between truth, fiction, and verisimilitude, using examples from classical tragedy. Crescimbeni addresses narrative sources for truthfulness, questioning the relationship between historical and newly invented subjects. He concludes that verisimilitude requires only plausibility; to be credible, events depicted need not have a basis in historical reality, but must seem possible to the audience. Verisimilitude retains the force of truth; therefore, plausible fiction that elicits compassion and terror in the audience upholds the primary goal of tragedy—catharsis.33 Considering the context of dialogue five—in which Crescimbeni systematizes modeling pastoral drama on ancient tragedy, to create precedent for his own play L’Elvio—we gain considerable insight on the “new pastoral” emerging from the Arcadian Academy. By removing the weight of the historical, classical tradition, Crescimbeni provides room for narrative exploration and invention. By maintaining the cathartic requirements, Crescimbeni introduces more serious options for character development and narrative trajectory. Dialogue 7 delves more deeply into concerns about narrative invention, but now considering the relative truthfulness between history and mythology, using the epic genre as context. Historical truth imparts multiple challenges to credibility. First, a historical subject must be sufficiently well known to general audiences, not only to scholars; second, it must not be too ancient, or too recent—it is inappropriate to idolize figures who live in our own times. Absent these criteria, verisimilar (i.e., fictive but credible) subjects are preferable to “truthful” or historic narratives. Mythology, however, boasts greater opportunities for verisimilitude, if it depicts the “truth of religion, the notice of history, and a just passage of time.”34 These criteria echo somewhat the “internal truths” that Crescimbeni articulates in his earlier discussion of “mixed beauty.” Contrary to the potential drawbacks of history and mythology, fiction enjoys the advantages of novelty, provided that the narrative moves the affections appropri-

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ately. Fiction, novelty (novità), and wonder (maraviglia) each work together to create verisimilitude; novelty and wonder together elicit the audience’s emotional response, contributing to the audience’s perception of truthfulness. Crescimbeni establishes the narrative credibility of fiction, emphasizing that fiction is not antithetical to truthfulness. This argument is corollary to Crescimbeni’s discussion of history; just as history can be inverisimilar, fiction can be plausible. The relationship between fiction and novelty can be problematic, however; although novelty does not require fictiveness, the level of novelty present in fiction may surpass the audience’s tolerance for unknown narratives. To diffuse these conflicts, and to distinguish his definitions of novità and maraviglia from the mannerist aesthetic, Crescimbeni determines (based on Tasso) that novelty resides in narrative treatment, in its inventiveness or ornament, not in fiction per se. Thus, novelty supports, rather than negates, verisimilitude. While novelty occurs at the narrative level, wonder exists closer to the linguistic plane, residing in “things and in words” (“nelle cose, e nelle parole”), the elegance of the verse (“grazia del verso”), and “detachment from the ordinary.” Crescimbeni, seeking a moderated version of the marvelous, redefines the term maraviglia to an idea that sparks delight. Like novelty, the marvelous does not diminish verisimilitude but is conjoined (congiunta) with it.35 Much of what Crescimbeni defines as beauty and verisimilitude—truthful images, novelty, wonder, catharsis, Platonic philosophy—resonates with Gianvincenzo Gravina’s analysis of Alessandro Guidi’s L’Endimione (see chapters 3 and 4), suggesting significant influence from Gravina’s lecture on the subsequent development of Arcadian ideology. Together, Crescimbeni and Gravina establish the ideals for literary style and truthful representation in dramatic texts. By understanding the language used by both writers, we can situate Arcadian philosophy according to its precedents in Plato, Aristotle, and Renaissance literary theory; comparative analysis, however, reveals where the Arcadian agenda created new ideas. I argue that the literary discourse collectively created by Crescimbeni and Gravina, while not directly musicological, offers a framework for modern scholars and interpreters to “see” truthful operatic representation through seventeenth-century eyes. Finally, although Crescimbeni and Gravina later quarreled irreparably—and some traces of that dispute become evident as early as Gravina’s performance of the Discorso in 1690, ultimately leading to a schism in 1711—their philosophies of literary images as conveyors of verisimilitude, in opposition to sonic representation, are aligned during the formative period of the Arcadian Academy. I M AG E S A N D T H E I M AG I NAT IO N

Crescimbeni’s articulation of literary aesthetics in L’istoria and La bellezza demonstrate a significant aspect of Arcadian reform that has not been addressed in musicological scholarship. Because of Crescimbeni’s role as custode, and his prolific

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publications on literature, including dramatic music, scholars of opera have focused on his comments regarding operatic genre and structure to the detriment of understanding his theories of representation. Furthermore, Crescimbeni’s system of verisimilar representation owes much to Gravina’s Discorso, a text which has not entered at all into the musicological framework. Crescimbeni’s language surrounding seeing, hearing, imagining, and reasoning deserves critical attention in seventeenth-century opera studies; he clearly formulates a role for images and their interpretation by the imagination in the perception of verisimilitude. For both Crescimbeni and Gravina, the tension between Seicento mannerism and classical Arcadian lyricism lies in how each style balances sound and image. Regarding mannerism, Crescimbeni objects to poetic sound without substance, creating a hollow and noisy resonance, resembling a façade without an edifice, or an empty shell, and amounting to “false appearances” and “false beauty.” By extension, the sound of poetry must not only ornament, but mirror its substance, its “internal” features—the concepts, ideas, and images built on truth or plausibility, incorporating philosophical or religious nuances, and encompassing the Platonic ideal. Crescimbeni’s imagistic paradigm emerges fully in the third dialogue of La bellezza, where he discusses a sonnet by Di Costanzo that emphasizes the eyes as organs of grief, vision, insight, imagination, truth, belief, and deception: [Di Costanzo] proposes several seemingly delightful solutions to the lover’s [lamenting] eyes; first, he says that when they feed on the sight of his Lady’s image, which the mind preserves as a portrait most similar to the truth, that, although it cannot properly satisfy the external eyes, which feed on sensory [things], nonetheless it is beneficial to them: while, to tell the truth, intense thought causes one to see an entire object, which one ponders, so vividly, that the eyes are deceived. And many cases have occurred, when one has run to embrace, or has spoken to, an object represented by the imagination, and thought to have heard the words as if the actual object had come up and rendered a response.36

Predictably, Crescimbeni’s analysis concentrates on the Petrarchan, Neoplatonic metaphors for eyes as mirrors or windows into the soul, and as conveyors of both sensory and intellectual perception. Yet his analysis of Di Costanzo’s poem contributes additional layers, drawn from seventeenth-century ocular discourses in philosophy and science, situating vision and perception in epistemological arguments. For Crescimbeni, the poem is verisimilar, because it represents a truthful concept (grief arising from not seeing the beloved); it then proposes a truthful remedy (imagining the beloved), which is based on scientific, visual processes (we convince ourselves momentarily that our imaginations convey truthful events, even when those events are not grounded in reality). Crescimbeni had earlier established his ocularcentric claims on verisimilitude in Dialogue 1, where he asserts (relying on Platonism, with Cartesian overtones)

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that vision of actual, sensible things nourishes the “external eyes,” but the imagination nourishes the mind, which is analogous to the “internal eyes.”37 Crescimbeni here engages with a central concern of the Baroque—the process, and limits, of seeing, interpreting, and believing images. Inquiries about vision influenced the humanities from art and literature to philosophy, and in the sciences, from physics to optics. Crescimbeni’s analysis engages the primary ideas circulating in seventeenth-century scientific and intellectual culture, harnessing them to create a theory of literary truth. Although Crescimbeni applies his framework of images primarily to the “concept” or ideas expressed within the poetry, the reader recognizes the poem’s truthfulness because it resonates with a familiar visual process known to be true. We respond to things we see in the imagination as if true, and therefore perceive them as verisimilar; what we see is what we believe. Yet, because those images internal to our thoughts do not represent what we see with our external vision, they can deceive the imagination, and therefore deceive our judgment and our physical and emotional reactions. Although Crescimbeni frames this intellectual, perceptual process as a verisimilar narrative strategy residing within Di Costanzo’s poem, he assimilates the philosophical process articulated in Gravina’s Discorso to an aesthetic criterion. Gravina focuses more on using vision as a metaphor for perceiving verisimilitude from the outside, articulating a theoretical process of vision, in which readers respond imaginatively to words arising from the page. Writers must therefore use visual modes of representation to engage the reader’s intellect, judgment, and imagination. By contrast, Crescimbeni focuses more within the poetic framework, describing the actions of characters, and asserting the poetic theme of vision as a verisimilar narrative device. He only implies the impact of the external, perceptual process of vision on the reader’s point of view. Despite the different frameworks used by Crescimbeni and Gravina, both use vision as a metaphor for verisimilitude and the intellectual judgment of truth; here, where they intersect, we find not only a central tenet of Arcadian aesthetic, but also the most prominent layer of agreement between two thinkers who otherwise promoted opposing philosophies. It is possible that the historiographic focus on the Arcadian schism has caused scholars literally not to see the influences flowing from Gravina to Crescimbeni to Arcadia at large, encompassing vision, perception, and aesthetics of representation. Similarly, neglecting this relationship has caused musicological scholarship to privilege Crescimbeni’s criticisms of opera, creating a historical trajectory that emphasized genre and structure over images and representation. I argue that by reshaping the relationship of these texts to the Arcadian agenda, we can recapture a significant element of verisimilar representation, via visual symbolism, and inscribe seventeenth-century opera’s imagistic semiology on the modern imagination.

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Chapter One CRESCIMBENI ON OPERA Structure is all very well in an opera, but passion is better. —nathaniel burt, “opera in arcadia”

Crescimbeni’s remarks on opera provide only a small portion of his overall treatment of literary verisimilitude. While it is tempting, for understanding Arcadian operatic aesthetics, to excerpt and study only those passages that directly address music, we must consider how those passages reflect and reinforce Crescimbeni’s comprehensive project of performing Arcadian identity through publication. Although the discussion on opera appears in Dialogue 6 of Crescimbeni’s La bellezza della volgar poesia, he utilizes a historical narrative strategy comparable to that found in L’istoria; similarly, he offers criticisms of earlier seventeenth-century music drama, but does not advance ideological preferences about music, leaving the reader with interpretive uncertainties. The passage on opera appears among the dialogues in which Crescimbeni discusses truth in different genres; by situating opera after the sections on pastoral, tragedy, and comedy, but before epic narrative, he asserts opera as an outgrowth of the pastoral tradition with elements of tragedy and comedy. Furthermore, by this point in the overall structure, Crescimbeni has already articulated his criteria for limiting novelty without destroying verisimilitude, leaving room for debate regarding the need for opera to follow preexisting narrative trajectories. Crescimbeni restricts his embedded history of opera to the influences and contributions of individual librettists, and to the development of generic principles. He identifies the significant shifts in operatic evolution according to three principle time periods, each represented by one or more writers: Ottavio Rinuccini (1562–1621), in Florence at the turn of the seventeenth century, Giacinto Andrea Cicognini (1606–51), in Venice at the midpoint of the century, and Crescimbeni’s own contemporaries in Rome and the Arcadian Academy. Crescimbeni’s trajectory mirrors his literary history, by establishing an ideal (imitation of ancient Greek and Roman theater), identifying decadence and decay (Venetian convolution of the genre), and advocating reform (Arcadia). For each of the first two operatic periods, Crescimbeni delineates a positive and negative association. Crescimbeni credits Rinuccini with “renewing in Comedy the practice of the Greeks and Latins,” by having his pastorals set entirely to music. However, to the early operatic audiences Crescimbeni attributes poor taste; this is the same generation of readers which had championed Marino and his followers, whom Crescimbeni characterizes as “friends of novelty to the highest degree.” The insatiable quest for novelty resulted in devaluation and proliferation: the art of acting “lost its reputation,” and similar pastorals “came to light in almost infinite numbers within a few years.”38 Similarly, Crescimbeni praises Cicognini for introducing dramas to the wider public with his popular libretto Giasone (Venice,

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1649), “the first, and most perfect Drama”; but this opera led to the “extermination of Acting, of true and good Comedy, and of Tragedy,” and myriad additional offenses: Accordingly, mainly to delight the indolent taste of the Spectators with novelty, the vileness of the Comic elements being equally nauseating as the gravity of the Tragic elements, the Inventor of Drama united both together, placing Jesters, Servants, and the lowest Men, among Kings and Heroes and other illustrious Personages, with unheard-of monstrosity. This medley of Characters caused total corruption of Poetic rules, which thus fell into disuse. Even locution was disregarded, which, constrained to serve the music, lost its purity, and was filled with idiocies. The regular use of figures that elevate discourse was neglected, restricting the language to familiar, typical speech, which is more adaptable to music. And finally, the series of those short meters, commonly called ariette, which are sprinkled with a generous hand throughout the Scenes, and the exorbitant impropriety of making others speak through singing, has removed completely the power of the affections from the compositions, as well as the art of moving [the affections] in the listeners.39

Crescimbeni’s complaints invoke issues present in musical discourse since the days of Monteverdi’s seconda pratica and the Florentine Camerata—whether the music serves the text or vice versa, and how music moves the affections. To these earlier polemics, Crescimbeni appends several primary dramatic criteria that he believes were lacking in operatic frameworks: strict adherence to genre and character, and purity in poetics, rhetoric, and language. Crescimbeni says little about musical expression, besides censuring the negative impact of music on text. Music necessitates low linguistic style on the part of the librettist, and for the audience, music requires suspension of disbelief (which would be contrary to verisimilitude) and hinders rhetorical power over the affections. Crescimbeni’s argument negates the representative “power of music” depicted in early operas by Jacopo Peri, Giulio Caccini, and Claudio Monteverdi. Rather, Crescimbeni considers textual rhetoric the only device capable of commanding the attention of the audience. Crescimbeni observes that contemporary Italy, looking backward, now recognizes that earlier opera was not “useful” (utile), due to its divergence from “the ancient path” and its emphasis on pleasure. Crescimbeni’s dichotomy between usefulness and pleasure reflects Horace’s dictates in the Ars poetica that poetry should be both delightful and instructive (dulce et utile), while he simultaneously appeals to the Arcadian ideological return to a classical past. Crescimbeni observes that operatic narrative has changed since the mid-seventeenth century, now emphasizing serious narrative subjects, “without buffoonery,” and “leaving some room in the recitatives for the affections, by diminishing the overpowering number of ariette.”40 For these refinements, Crescimbeni credits the librettists Domenico David (d. 1698) and Apostolo Zeno (1669–1750), both of whom were active in Venice and participated in dramatic reform as members of the Accademia degli

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Animosi, or “The Academy of the Spirited,” a “colony” of the Roman Arcadian Academy (see chapter 6). In Rome, according to Crescimbeni, members of the Arcadian Academy had returned to pure tragedy, in dramas without musical setting; these plays, translated from the French, were emerging in performances at the Collegio Clementino, such as Lo Stilicone and others. In the same paragraph, Crescimbeni commends the pastoral drama Amore eroico fra i pastori (1696), written by Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni (1667–1740), since it brought buon gusto to Italy and resumed the “ancient rules” by adding choruses and other “affinities of good Comedy.”41 With these two examples, Crescimbeni accentuates the separation of tragedy from comedy, advocating pure genres from the classical tradition. Crescimbeni’s interruption of his operatic discussion reveals his preference for spoken theater. Although Amore eroico was a musical pastiche, Crescimbeni mentions nothing of the music or distribution of arias. He concludes the dialogue by praising the efforts of Arcadian librettists Silvio Stampiglia (1664–1725), Giovanni Andrea Moniglia (1625–1700), Giacomo Sinibaldi (1641–1720), and Girolamo Gigli (1660–1722), and by commending a few poets who wrote non-musical dramas. Naturally, since Crescimbeni was the first Arcadian to publish criticisms of opera, his comments have shaped modern scholarly arguments about the musical nature of Arcadian reform. As a result, musicology has defined “Arcadian” opera according to whether a work exemplifies classical, tragic precepts, maintains a strict distinction between serious and comic elements, and limits the number of arias.42 The prevailing narrative has therefore focused on genre, structure, and form, rather than representational content. Chronological comparison, analyzing the structural properties of libretto texts created before, during, and after the initial reform period of the 1690s, has proven the most enduring methodology. In this way, scholars have traced changes in libretto structure, focusing on the placement of arias within the scene. It became commonplace to define “Arcadian” reform operas according to an overall reduction of arias, with predominant placement occurring at the end of the scene, and entrance and medial arias appearing less frequently.43 We should be careful, when using Crescimbeni’s distaste for arias as a paradigm for Arcadian reform, to distinguish any structural shifts in libretti that occurred alongside the reform process from the aesthetic ideology proposed in Arcadian primary sources.44 To a certain extent, changes in musical composition, such as the expansion of tonal procedures for motivic development and phrase extension, and the enlargement of ritornello structures, may have compelled composers and librettists alike to separate arias, spacing them farther apart in the narrative; such changes would prevent conflicts in key area and musical style, by avoiding entrance arias that followed exit arias from the previous scene. The same tonal advancements allowed greater musical structure in the recitative, creating phrasal organization that would allow longer passages to flow forward and feel acceptable to the ear, removing the need for midscene arias except in cases of dramatic urgency.

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Unfortunately, these changes resulted in less varied approaches to the recitative, compared to Venetian precedents, which used many lyrical or virtuosic outbursts, or musical refrains, to maintain the audience’s attention; as a result, we often look back on recitatives of this period and interpret their regularity as tedium. To be precise, Crescimbeni never suggests that placing arias at the ends of scenes would mitigate obstacles to verisimilitude; more likely, Crescimbeni disliked arias because of their modernity, since they did not exist in the ancient Greek prototype for opera, that is, pure tragedy in the Aristotelian mold. Any modern arguments suggesting that the Arcadian literary reform movement preferred exit arias to entrance or midscene arias only bears logical scrutiny if we assume that Crescimbeni dislikes moments of lyricism because they disrupt narrative flow. Musicological emphasis on tragedy and Aristotelian poetics as exemplary of the Arcadian ideal reflects Crescimbeni’s aversion to combining comic and tragic elements in one work. Yet the Arcadians did not object to comedy per se, since Crescimbeni lauded several authors of pastoral works in his La bellezza della volgar poesia.45 Furthermore, Robert Freeman has shown that the operatic separation of genres did not originate with Arcadian reform; he argues that Venetian opera began reducing comic elements before the Arcadian period, and that some librettists, such as Apostolo Zeno and others endorsed by the Arcadian Academy, continued to include comic elements in operatic texts even after the historical dividing line represented by the founding of Arcadia.46 Concerns about operatic verisimilitude also existed before the Arcadian reform period. Polemics surrounding the nature and bounds of verisimilitude surface in the prefaces of Venetian librettos as early as the mid-seventeenth century. To a certain extent, then, we must view Crescimbeni’s mini history of Italian opera with skepticism; the librettists who created the Venetian operas that Crescimbeni maligns were consciously working to improve narrative plausibility. As Ellen Rosand demonstrates, the prefaces of Venetian opera librettos exhibit awareness of the literary concerns that would resurface in Arcadian criticism, such as the Aristotelian unities of time, place, and action; dramaturgical division into five acts; appropriate use of the chorus; and questions of narrative invention (Crescimbeni’s novità). To these issues, Venetian librettists provide various solutions. However, some librettists defend opera from comparisons with the strict proprieties of ancient tragedy as preserved in contemporary spoken plays; by defining opera as a genre distinct from spoken theater, librettists excused various practices that would seem to transgress the limits of verisimilitude in other types of literature. To accommodate music, concessions were made to emphasize the new generic label, dramma per musica—drama through music. Venetian arguments about the propriety of music frequently question song as a mode of speech, continuing the debates generated in the Florentine Camerata about the nature of ancient Greek tragedy and the extent to which it used singing.47

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If so many continuities exist in the contested issues regarding opera in these three different spheres—the Florentine Camerata, the Venetian environment, and the Roman Arcadia—how can we distinguish the intellectual reinterpretation of the classical past that fueled the Arcadian reform? I would argue that the Arcadian aesthetic, while grappling with issues that already existed in operatic discourse, created a new emphasis. Early Arcadian critics such as Crescimbeni and Gravina redefined the relationships between novelty (novità), wonder (maraviglia), and verisimilitude, while reconsidering the ascendancy of the senses—hearing versus seeing—the influence of the senses on the intellect, and their role in perceiving truth. The Arcadian privileging of images and distaste for exaggerated sounds in literature and music responds to Venetian debates on aurality and meaning within the Accademia degli Incogniti, or Academy of the Unknowns. As Mauro Calcagno argues, the aesthetics of representation shifted in mid-seventeenth-century Venice, dismantling the power of words. Language and music were disassociated from their ability to bear significance to a reading or listening audience. For the Incogniti (and as Crescimbeni would argue, for Marino and his followers), pure sound was valued for its sonic impact, not for conveying ideas.48 The Arcadian aesthetic reasserted the primacy of images and reined in the excessiveness of sound. Crescimbeni’s disdain for sound reflects seventeenth-century shifts toward imagistic culture, which began slowly appearing even within the Venetian operatic environment. As Wendy Heller writes, several Venetian operas incorporated dancing statue figures, providing theatrical spectacle, but also visually reminding the audience of the Grimani family’s importance as patrons and republican leaders by referencing their extensive collection of ancient statuary.49 In this pre-Arcadian period, such manifestations were not intended to enhance verisimilitude, but rather, to transcend it.50 The presence of onstage portraits in eighteenth-century opera demonstrates the extent to which Arcadian imagistic verisimilitude endured, influencing Handel and others. In this context, as Heller argues, portraits represented symbols of truth, yet viewers could interpret their images multivalently. Used as stage props, portraits could also circumvent issues of verisimilitude and decorum. By the eighteenth century, therefore, onstage portraits reminded the audience of the limits of truthfulness.51 Crescimbeni’s dialectic of poetic sound, image, and content creates a sensory hierarchy, advancing a system that reunites language with connotation, to convey truthful images. If language communicates the images of poetry, then music envoices the images of opera. The aria, which, in the aesthetics of the Incogniti, was valued for its display of “pure voice,” would exemplify for Crescimbeni an “empty shell,” a “façade without an edifice,” signifying nothing. For Crescimbeni, elaborate music would offer only external beauty (embellishment), divorced from internal beauty (truthful content); as in poetry, the novelty and marvelousness of music should not consist in sound alone. Rather, music should re-create an empir-

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ical process; aligned with imagistic content, music would have the potential to convey images to the imagination. If this were possible, sound would no longer merely astound or stupefy the audience, as in Marinist or Incogniti aesthetics, or as in the operatic experiments prompted by the Florentine Camerata; but properly conjoined, music and images would connect the sensorial operatic experience to philosophical truth. The Arcadian aesthetic proposes a new relationship between sound and image, prioritizing images and demoting sound to a container; sounds can delight (piacquero), but are not instructive or useful (utile). Without images, sound has no purpose; it cannot, on its own, represent ideas. The Arcadian aesthetic effectively questions the role of music in representational contexts, asserting images as the primary medium for intellectual engagement. Despite similar classicizing elements in the discussion of outward dramatic structure, and concerns about verisimilitude, the Roman, Arcadian aesthetic upends the Venetian delight in musical expression. If the true goal of Arcadian reform was to align sound and image, container and content, then structural reform only achieved half of the goal. The representational substance—the image—must conform to philosophical truth. Therefore, the genre (classical tragedy, with pastoral elements) and the narrative structure (Aristotelian unities, with separation of the serious and the comic) only provide a medium for conveying truthful, imagistic content. What is truthful content, however, especially if, according to Crescimbeni, librettists have license to create narrative novelty? We might define truthful content according to the representation of character, of character development, and expression of gender.52 Significant shifts in character and gender conventions occurred during the Arcadian reform period. Appropriate gendered representation was a significant concern to Arcadian theorists.53 Voice, a primary means by which gender and character are expressed, also becomes more conventionalized through Arcadian reform. Motivated partly by Baroque demand for virtuosic, treble-voiced singing, and partly by the Roman ban of women from the stage, the castrato comes ever more to the forefront in Arcadian opera; as Roger Freitas argues, the high, castrato voice represents the “tempered masculinity” required of heroes who are also lovers.54 The castrato voice dominated opera seria precisely because it embodied the hero’s conflict between duty and love. Conveyed through voice, the conflicts internal to the drama operate outside it also, by departing ideologically from the masculinizing tendencies demanded by Arcadian reform. I argue that in addition to concerns of character and gender, truthful representation in Arcadian opera occurs through imagistic resonances derived from well-known iconographic subjects immediately present in the surrounding artistic culture, whether connected through specific patronage, or by physical spaces, such as urban palazzi.55 To understand fully the Arcadian reform agenda and its implications for opera, we must reconcile Arcadian theories on sound and image, and recognize the

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Arcadian ideological goal to integrate the pastoral into the tragic, restore meaning to text, and utilize gendered expression to circumscribe masculine and feminine characters. We cannot focus only on the Arcadians’ relatively brief comments on opera; rather, we must reintegrate their operatic criticisms into their collective discourse on representation—which is the sole purpose and fabric of drama, whether sung or spoken. By contextualizing Crescimbeni’s critiques of opera within his broader literary theory, and juxtaposing Crescimbeni’s Arcadian gusto with Gravina’s imagistic verisimilitude, I argue that Arcadian aesthetic engaged, published, performed, and contributed to an increasingly ocularcentric, empirical philosophy emerging at the end of the seventeenth century. Arcadian verisimilitude promotes a philosophy of moderation and balance between structure, style, and content, between subject and representation, and between the sonic properties of language and its signification. The central medium for conveying truth is not sound, but image. The remainder of this book traces the Arcadian trajectory that established these ideas, beginning with the performance of Guidi’s L’Endimione for the Arcadian Academy. This performance inspired Gianvincenzo Gravina to articulate an imagistic theory of verisimilitude, the immagine del vero. Since Gravina never discussed the properties of music, or the merits of music as a vehicle for drama, his voice has been left out of the musicological narrative on Arcadian opera. However, Gravina’s detailed theory of truthful, imagistic representation provides a mechanism for recapturing the visual symbolisms inherent to the full operatic experience. My analysis of these materials constructs a new understanding of the first decade of Arcadian reform, shifting the narrative to the ocularcentric principles valued by Gravina, Crescimbeni, and their pastoral compatriots, rendering visible the imagistic narrative and symbolic frameworks that impact interpretation of gender and character. These emblems, apparent to early modern audiences, have become lost over time, as we no longer have such deep connections to seventeenth-century visual culture. By reconstructing the visual symbolisms of Arcadian opera, we gain new insight, excitement, and inspiration for a genre once deemed “without Drama.”

2

Performing L’Endimione A History and Reappraisal of Guidi’s Favola pastorale There gathered a large and prestigious audience, which greatly marveled in the new manner adopted by Guidi in this type of Poetry. — giovanni mario crescimbeni, “vita,” in poesia di guidi non più raccolte

The author declares this the only work up until now that he recognizes as his own, refuting all other poetry which he composed or published in his juvenile years, and further acknowledging that although the action of Endymion occurred in Caria, the author has nonetheless transported it to Arcadia, thanks to the above-named Academy. —giovanni giacomo komarek, “lo stampatore a chi legge”

When Alessandro Guidi arrived, in July 1691, at his induction ceremony into the Arcadian Academy, he had already achieved notoriety as the inventor of a new, vivid, and lyrical style. The Arcadian conversazione was grander than usual, encompassing a full performance of Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso, to recognize Guidi’s role in implementing Arcadian poetic ideology. Accepting Guidi into the society’s membership provided an important continuity with Queen Christina’s intellectual milieu, an association the Arcadians wished to promote. The performance occurred in Queen Christina’s former garden behind the Palazzo Riario, a site used during the queen’s lifetime for various spectacles and activities, now transformed into an Arcadian Parrhasian Grove. Through Guidi’s L’Endimione, the Arcadians performed a collective pastoral identity, situating their developing aesthetic agenda in continuity with Queen Christina’s former Accademia Reale, and aligning Arcadian buon gusto with the most important patron of the new “Tuscan literature” in living memory. For the Arcadians, Alessandro Guidi embodied the living aesthetic breath of the basilissa’s original intellectual circle.1 As Crescimbeni reports, the Arcadian audience “marveled” at Guidi’s “new manner.” To accentuate his stylistic impact on literary reform, Guidi self-consciously refuted his previous poetry in the published volume. 39

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By publishing Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso together in a single volume in 1692, the authors commemorated the historic event, allowing others to experience the Parrhasian Grove from the original Arcadian shepherds’ vantage point. The volume affords a tangible, physical manifestation of Arcadian aesthetics, rendering solid what would otherwise evanesce, and reconstructing L’Endimione’s performative signification. The book materializes the original, private performance, transforming it into a public statement. Together, Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso replicate in one gesture the total Arcadian practice—performing pastoral identity, disseminating the reform ideology, instructing the public, and transforming Italian literary culture. Arcadian strategies of performance and publication merge, emblematizing and codifying the pastoral method. We must consider both the performance and the publication from three different, but related perspectives: how the Arcadian audience experienced the performance, how the volume conveyed Arcadian identity and ideology to a broader reading public (see also chapter 3), and how the two texts interact to create an interpretive system (see chapter 4). The published, 1692 text of L’Endimione represents Guidi’s further classicizing tendencies, born of his new Arcadian identity. The original play, in three acts, was completed in 1688 after a process of close collaboration with Queen Christina, who proposed the subject matter, developed the scenario, and contributed many verses to the final version. The poetic texts for arias were added to accommodate a musical setting planned by Queen Christina, but which never came to fruition. Three Arcadian “shepherds”—Giuseppe Paolucci, Giovanni Battista Zappi, and Filippo Leers—recited the three-act version in the Parrhasian Grove.2 Guidi published the five-act version with added choruses to imitate the classical, Arcadian models that Crescimbeni later endorses in La bellezza della volgar poesia (1700). Since this is the version with Guidi’s ultimate approval, and with which the broader public interacted, I use the 1692 publication for my analysis. Most modern scholars of Italian literature recognize L’Endimione’s celebrated status due to its Arcadian centrality and its extensive citation and discussion in eighteenth and nineteenth century literature, but relegate the work to a subsidiary position in the broader history of pastoral drama. These discussions note Guidi’s importance for developing Arcadian style, but focus on L’Endimione’s derivative qualities, particularly the imitation of Tasso’s Aminta (1573), or Chiabrera’s Il rapimento di Cefalo (1600).3 Those who offer deeper analysis either focus on L’Endimione’s Petrarchan, Neoplatonic resonances in the verses added by Queen Christina’s hand—where she inserted her own philosophical values on fate, destiny, and reason—or they emphasize L’Endimione’s allegorical references to the queen’s identity.4 Discussions of Guidi’s importance to musico-dramatic traditions similarly portray L’Endimione as the first in a brief (and mostly failed) trend in Roman pastoral opera, primarily centered in Ottoboni’s theatrical patronage at the Palazzo della Cancelleria, but ultimately

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defeated by the ascendancy of tragic opera.5 By situating Guidi’s L’Endimione into Crescimbeni’s newly defined “heroic pastoral” genre, and by illuminating the aspects of the performance that Crescimbeni and Gravina deemed “novel” and “marvelous,” I will elucidate how the play redefined the pastoral mode, projecting a new Arcadian identity while establishing imagistic narrative frameworks suitable for operatic representation. R E I N V E N T I N G T H E PA S T O R A L : L OV E A N D L A N D S C A P E , G E N R E A N D ST RU C T U R E

A close analysis of Guidi’s L’Endimione reveals two significant literary innovations with respect to the pastoral tradition, one philosophical, the other phenomenal, but both emblematizing a reformulated pastoral identity; these are love and landscape. In Guidi’s drama, love and landscape engender extreme pathos, infusing the central, repeated conflicts within the drama. The shepherd Endymion and the moon goddess Cynthia experience tormented love and existential disjunction from the pastoral landscape. Endymion “loves without hope,”6 displaying both constancy and heroic humility;7 Cynthia refuses Endymion’s love, devoting herself to hunting and chastity. These torments mount, until a moment of recognition leads to emotional and physical equalization, actuating final transformation. The elevated emotional compass brings gravity to the pastoral tradition. The opening lines of L’Endimione reveal Guidi’s pastoral intent; these verses situate the pastoral landscape (“Happy shores, adventurous hills”), the springtime (“April adorns you with beautiful flowers”), and Cynthia’s identity as the moon (“Cynthia descended from the moon, in new forms and graceful veil”) as the primary textual themes. Soon, however, Cynthia’s pastoral experience differs sharply from her previous earthly dalliances; the solitude creates an eerie silence, becoming an impending threat: Ombre solinghe, alti silenzi, oh quanto Grave sento su’l cor vostra quiete Or che’l terror de l’universo e’l grande Nemico di mia pace in seno avete Solitary shadows, deep silences, oh how Gravely I feel your stillness in my heart Now that the terror of the universe and the great Enemy of my peace, you have [instilled] in my breast. (1.6–9)

Cynthia, despite the perceived threat, senses a strange attraction to the landscape. She feels constrained, deceived, even seduced into remaining in the woodlands: “What pleasure deceives me / into inhabiting these woods?”) (1.18–19).8 An unidentifiable external force causes her to act and feel differently, indicating a loss

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of rational agency through sensual pleasure. Soon, Cynthia’s perceived threat is embodied by Cupid. Cynthia rebukes Cupid for his presence in her pastoral landscape; he should go plague some noble palace, its knights, and kings, leaving the pastoral world to his more frivolous amorini assistants: Porta l’arco e la face Ne’ palagi reali. Ivi l’aurea faretra E’l tuo valore adopra Tra cavalieri e regi, e qui tu lascia Al volgo de’ ministri, Tuoi fratelli minori, La cura d’infiammar ninfe e pastori. Take your arrow and torch To royal palaces. There your golden quiver And your valor employ Among knights and kings, and here leave To your crowd of assistants, Your younger brothers, The task of inflaming nymphs and shepherds. (2.24–31)

Cupid becomes a dark force of Arcadia, the enemy of peace, long before his dart has wounded the goddess. These first moments of L’Endimione are self-consciously metatheatrical, drawing attention to Guidi’s experimental use of the “heroic” pastoral. Stark contrasts differentiate L’Endimione from traditional pastoral representations. Cynthia’s response to Cupid suggests that the love god’s presence is unwarranted, too hefty for the pastoral world. The love he will incite is disproportionate to the landscape, the traditional locus amoenus. From Cynthia’s perspective, Cupid elevates the humble pastoral to a noble, heroic disposition. Using Cynthia’s voice, Guidi embeds into the poetic representation a brief discourse explaining how his pastoral aesthetic contrasts with his literary models. Thus, the typical lighthearted, amorous pleasures, representing both a golden age of the distant past and a herald of future fortunes, inherent to pastoral literature—and especially in Guidi’s closest model, Tasso’s Aminta—is not apparent here.9 The landscape quasi-represents a separate character within the drama; while impacting its inhabitants and reflecting their emotions, the landscape experiences its own catharsis. The lack of ease within the pastoral setting remains a constant motive within the text—both Cynthia and Endymion experience a severe disjunction between their emotional states and their environment. Endymion in act 2, like Cynthia in act 1, is discordant with his surroundings. His desire sets him apart, distorting his perception of beauty:

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Seguendo un mio desir, che mi diparte Da tutto ’l mondo e fa il mio guardo schivo D’ogni bel poggio e d’ogni ameno loco. Following my desire, which separates me From all the world and makes my gaze shy Of every knoll and every pleasing place. (2.1–3)10

Although the rest of the pastoral world delights in love and spring, with the surrounding pastoral retreats echoing the celebrations of love, Endymion alone feels pathetic, his solo voice sounding in contrast to the texture: D’amorosi pensier tutti son pieni I pastorali alberghi, in novi modi Oggi s’ascoltan favellar le selve. Io solo ho voce lacrimosa e solo Me non allegra aprile; Anzi spiacente e grave Emmi l’aura soave e’l bel sereno. Of amorous thoughts all the pastoral Haunts are full; in new tones Today the woods are singing [narrating]. I alone possess a lachrymose voice, and I Alone am not gladdened by April; Rather, displeasing and serious Are the sweet air and beautiful serenity. (2.16–18, 23–26)

The individual emotional disturbance experienced by Cynthia and Endymion, set against a contrasting background of celebratory pastoral gaiety, reveals the initially destructive but ultimately symbiotic, transcendent experience of Cupid’s intervention within the pastoral landscape. Guidi’s dramatic structure offers rich psychological interest to the text. The primary source of plot development derives not from interaction between the two primary characters, Endymion and Cynthia, but from monologues depicting each character’s own, private interactions with Cupid, and with the landscape itself.11 Guidi’s narrative format creates an unusual shift from active to passive means of advancing the plot; the performance offers momentary windows into each character’s psychological development, portraying fleeting affective states, slowly changing over time. Thus, the plot emphasizes character development via individual emotions, motivations, and private thoughts, rather than by actions. Cynthia and Endymion finally interact in act 2; even here, however, passivity governs the narrative structure.12 By this point, both characters have expressed parallel feelings of disjunction from the pastoral landscape in a series of

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monologues, and have held brief interactions with Cupid. Now the goddess encounters the shepherd, praises him for his accomplishments in the hunt, and invites him to join her cult to cure his obvious, languishing malady, but then spurns him when he refuses. Cynthia’s first expression to Endymion depicts idealized attraction: Quante ghirlande intorno Io vidi a le tue chiome! Quanto caro a le selve era ’l tuo nome, Mentre ’l cor t’accendea Il pensiero de l’arco e degli strali! So many garlands I see encircling your locks! How dear to the woods was your name, When your heart was inflamed By thoughts of bow and arrows! (2.54–58)

Cynthia’s sentiment represents the prototypical Neoplatonic concept of love—a pure, rational love united by common devotion (to hunting; although the pun with Cupid’s bow and arrows is also present). Hence Endymion’s ensuing rejection of her rigorous dedication to chastity and hunting also represents a philosophical disjunction from the paradigmatic pastoral landscape. Endymion justifies his refusal, in five verses added by Queen Christina’s hand, because of his indebtedness to love (Cupid), which he describes as a universal condition: Così mi sforza Amore, Amore armato di valore eterno, Che fa, quando a lui piace, De’ poveri pastori E degli eroi superbi Aspro governo. Thus Love forces me, Love armed with eternal valor, Who harshly governs At his own pleasure Both poor shepherds And haughty heroes. (2.72–76)

Christina’s verses join the heroic and pastoral, subjecting both realms to the power of Cupid.13 Cynthia responds, rebuking Endymion by stating that his mind does not perceive truth, since only the lazy are afflicted by love; Cupid has no power over her own followers:

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Non ben comprende il vero, Endimion, tua mente: Amor è solo Sì forte dio su l’oziosa gente Your mind does not well comprehend The truth, Endymion: Love is only So strong against leisurely folk. (2.77–79)

A double meaning can be perceived here. Cynthia’s use of the word oziosa, ostensibly meaning “lazy,” translates the classical otium of the bucolic shepherd residing in the traditional pastoral landscape. Characterizing Endymion’s physical lack of activity as resulting from lovesickness, while joining it to classical pastoral leisure, conflicts with Diana’s earlier castigation of Cupid for affecting the pastoral world instead of the heroic. Now Cynthia claims the pastoral as the locus classicus of love’s influence. Cynthia can hold both points of view simultaneously because of the perceived severity both of Endymion’s affliction, and of the pathetic effect of Cupid’s intervention. Cynthia here does not perceive emanating from Endymion the typically innocent love endemic to the pastoral condition, however lost or thwarted, but the pathetic, serious type she had earlier labeled as dark and threatening. Endymion’s final response to Cynthia’s invitation involves a series of improbable, irregular reversals of natural and animal behavior, representing the debilitating effects of lovesickness on Endymion’s mental condition: Lascieranno l’api i fiori, Il bel canto i dolci augelli, L’ombra cara gli arboscelli Pria che io lasci e non adori Lo splendor che al cor mi scese. Bees will leave the flowers, The sweet birds their beautiful song, The saplings their dear shade Before I abandon, and stop adoring, The radiance befallen my heart. (2.88–92)

It would be unnatural, indeed inverisimilar, for Endymion to ignore his emotions; his passion is represented by light emanating from within his heart—an incipient desire for Neoplatonic connection, despite his initial refusal of Cynthia’s chaste invitation. Cynthia’s rejection of Endymion also invokes the imagery of light, creating parallel states of being and parallel rejections, anticipating the eventual mutual joining together at the denouement: Vanne lungi, o profano, Ché innanzi al mio gran lume Or di fermarti al guardo tuo non lice.

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As a result of their encounter, Cynthia expresses internal transformation of sentiment from her initial compassion (pietà; 2.106) to hatred: Vedresti la pietà, tenera cura, Cangiare in me costume E farsi entro il mio core Crudelissima ancella Del mio nemico Amore. You will see compassion, tender care, Change my habit And cause within my heart The cruelest handmaid Of my enemy, Love, to enter. (2.107–11)

Thus, both characters undergo internal transformation occasioned by their interactions with each other, initially sparked by their individual encounters with Cupid. First, Endymion is endowed with radiance, granted by Cupid’s dart in act 1; this radiance matches Cynthia’s divine luminescence, but simultaneously causes Endymion’s pathos. Then, Cynthia is transformed from a compassionate figure to one embodying the cruelty of love. Ultimately, Cynthia’s empathic recognition of Endymion’s light transforms him to an equal status with the goddess. After her encounter with Endymion in act 2, Cynthia’s aria moves forward without breaking the expressive or narrative mode, linking her recitative, which articulates the sudden displeasure she now experiences in a formerly pleasant environment, with her aria, which blames Cupid for her present state. Several linguistic shifts, both formal and referential, mark the change from recitative to aria. An alteration from seven- to eight-syllable lines, a new, regularized end-rhyme scheme (ababcc—although some abab patterns appeared in the recitative), and new, repetitive internal rhymes (fuggita/ fuggirti; chiusa/chiuso) all mark the formal shift from recitative to aria: Erano un tempo albergo (recit.) D’innocenza e di pace; Ma quando a gli occhi miei Mostràr tanta beltate, Allor divenner rei D’immensa crudeltate. Son fuggita da le sfere (aria) Per fuggirti, o crudo Amore, Né mi val seguir le fere, Né star chiusa in chiuso orrore, Ché vèr me dispieghi l’ali E mi giungi co’ tuoi strali.

Once these were a refuge Of innocence and peace; But when my eyes Were shown such beauty They became guilty Of immense cruelty. I have fled the spheres To escape you, o cruel Love, It is no avail to chase wild beasts, Nor to remain locked in close horror, Since you may fly towards me And reach me with your darts. (2.115–26)

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Between the recitative and aria, a narrative shift from third to first person marks a change from descriptive referentiality (the landscape and how Cynthia interacts with it) to personal referentiality (Cynthia’s own experience). Yet a subtle change in the recitative prefigures this shift, joining the two sections together in emotional content. In the third line of the recitative, the phrase gli occhi miei (my eyes) centers Cynthia in the environment, focusing the audience’s attention away from the general toward the specific effect of beauty, and toward the simultaneous shift of perception, via the eyes, from beauty to cruelty. By enacting that shift during the recitative, Guidi connects emotional expression to the aria that follows. Similarly, the aria emphasizes active, motile concepts typically associated with narrative recitative, by contrasting fleeing (fuggire) with chasing (seguire). Paradoxically, Guidi uses words implying motion to indicate the ways in which Cynthia is “stuck”—both modes are futile for resolving her situation. The result is seamless—the recitative introduces the emotional expression continued in the aria, while the aria alludes to narrative action typically reserved for recitative; the narrative mode remains consistent. Throughout the text, the recitative carries the double function of narrative and emotional representation, thereby negating the typical dichotomic functions of recitative and aria. This one encounter epitomizes all the interactions between the two protagonists throughout the drama. Due to the density of philosophical platitudes, their exchange unfolds more like a series of parallel monologues than like a true dialogue. Action is replaced by emotional expression; the textual flow from recitative to aria does nothing to distinguish modes of speech or expression. Such narrow focus, aligned with a linear narrative architecture, marks a significant distancing from the Seicento style of Guidi’s earlier musical texts,14 and creates a model for Arcadian opera. The narrative, devoid of the typical plot machinations of seventeenth-century musical drama, focuses instead on the two characters’ psychological states, emphasizing the influence of passion on the soul. While the external action is therefore static, movement toward the denouement occurs entirely on the internal, subjective plane. Arcadian Elegy Guidi’s poetic choices reflect classical emulation and Arcadian reform. His poetic language, with its natural, descriptive expression and frequently changing meters and rhyme schemes, projects the simplicity and humility of the pastoral mode. His depiction of love and landscape demonstrates mixed levels of past and present. The Neoplatonic, equalizing, transformative treatment of love, contrasted with the vulgar, debilitating mental affliction suffered by Endymion, reflects the Petrarchism circulating in both Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale and the Arcadian Academy, and shows additional influence from Christina’s philosophical interests.15 Similar narrative subjects appear in pastoral plays commissioned by Christina

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from Francesco de Lemene (1634–1704), such as: L’Eliata (1666), Il Narciso (1676), La ninfa Apollo (1689); like Guidi’s L’Endimione, these works are musical dramas, and demonstrate themes circulating in Queen Christina’s milieu, including double images (gioco di specchi), gender reversals, identity confusion, and the influence of fate, love, and reason.16 Like Guidi, Lemene rewrote his Il Narciso to Christina’s specifications, and like Guidi, Lemene later became a member of the Arcadian Academy, demonstrating the group’s continued zeal for cultivating Christina’s cultural heritage. Guidi’s (and Christina’s) depiction of passion’s impact on reason inserts a grave, serious tone, reversing the classical, golden age, pastoral libertinism invoked in his Renaissance models, and infusing Petrarchan Neoplatonism with pathos. L’Endimione reflects Queen Christina’s philosophical rationalism, now recontextualized within the Arcadian Academy as a heroic, moralizing seriousness, bringing dramatic tone into the pastoral genre. Guidi’s representation of the pastoral landscape similarly fuses classical imitation and modern renewal. In the classical pastoral, representative modes range from realistic to idealized to tragic, usually typifying one or more levels, from the georgic, bucolic, idyllic, or elegiac.17 While Theocritus and Vergil engaged in the full range of pastoral representation in their poetic descriptions of shepherds’ amorous and political concerns in the pastoral landscape, Vergil enhanced the threatening elements of the pastoral world, both through his descriptions of hoary, jagged landscape features, and through depictions of monuments such as gravesites, which reminded the reader of the fleeting, momentary nature of the golden age, apt to turn to tragedy or despair. Ovid increased the pastoral tensions, setting violence and metamorphosis within the pastoral realm. Guidi enhances these features, isolating them from other aspects of the pastoral landscape; these shifts represent the elegiac, monumentalized pastoral found especially in Jacopo Sannazaro’s L’Arcadia (Naples, 1504) and in the revitalized Roman landscape paintings of the early seventeenth century. Sannazaro’s L’Arcadia and Claude’s landscape paintings both use monuments to confront mortality, seriousness, and temporality within the narrative frame.18 Sannazaro’s L’Arcadia was a significant literary inspiration for the Arcadian Academy, and especially for Crescimbeni’s own fictionalized pastoral representation of the academy in his L’Arcadia of 1708. Claude’s integration of classical ruins in his landscape paintings reasserts the elegiac mode, enhancing the classical backdrop and creating a sense of unease or foreboding, while bringing architectural ruins more closely into the narrative.19 While looking backward with nostalgia, Claude’s new monumentality mourns the classical past while simultaneously reasserting it as a modern value, mirroring the rising antiquarianism and collectionism of the seventeenth century that became more present within the Arcadian reform movement at the end of the century. Guidi’s L’Endimione (and his smaller poems which celebrate Rome’s physical classical monuments and the monumentality of Queen

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Christina) brings the elegiac even more to the center; the landscape, rather than reflecting the laments of the shepherds, provides a sense of disjunction for its inhabitants, echoed in their physical and emotional unease. Endymion and Cynthia feel that the landscape represents a threatening presence, since their own emotional states are so disparate from the felici piagge and the gaiety of their pastoral compatriots. Guidi’s L’Endimione, performed in Queen Christina’s now Arcadian bosco, marks a pivotal moment in the Arcadian Academy; his reformulated pastoral, positioning the elegiac pathetic as a narrative focal point by removing narrative action, situates emotion as statuary, as a pastoral monument. The Arcadian gusto for a reformulated, monumental, and potentially tragic pastoral is emblematized in its final Parrhasian Grove space, erected on the Janiculum Hill in 1725–26. Crescimbeni’s plans for this garden landscape and theater illustrate the Arcadian Academy’s emulation of architectural collectionism and monumentalism; as Vernon Hyde Minor demonstrates, the physical layout of the garden space reproduced landscape elements described in Sannazaro’s L’Arcadia, while the iconographic statuary and symbolic imagistic choices displayed in the architecture reflect the Ovidian tensions between peace and violence.20 Guidi’s L’Endimione therefore was the perfect performance to embody Arcadian identity, becoming a model for future iterations. Arcadian Monuments If, as I argue, the revitalized Arcadian pastoral brought monumentalism within the narrative frame, paralleling the developments in pastoral landscape painting, then where is the missing monument in Guidi’s L’Endimione? I contend that the play itself is a monument, both in its performance and in its publication. The performance situates Guidi’s pastoral landscape into the structures of Queen Christina’s garden, rendering the physical space equivalent to the monumental ruins and other edifices portrayed in Sannazaro’s L’Arcadia and Claude’s landscape paintings, creating equal weight between pictorial foreground and narrative topos. By following the performance with Gravina’s literary critique and philosophical definition of verisimilitude, the entire ceremony mimics the format used in Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale; the Arcadian conversazione normally included performance, but there is no indication of an argumentative structure for providing feedback or alternate opinions.21 The published volume adds additional monumental significance, embedding Queen Christina’s identity at every turn of the page—not least, reminding the reader through virgole (commas, or quotation marks) which verses Christina contributed to the work. In addition, various paratextual indicators—the dedication, the preface, and the publisher—weave explicit and implicit narratives connecting Queen Christina to the Arcadian Academy, situating the Arcadian performance into a broader intellectual culture.

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Guidi dedicated L’Endimione to Cardinal Giovanni Francesco Albani (1649– 1721, later Pope Clement XI, r. 1700–1721), an important member of Queen Christina’s intellectual circle, who continued supporting Guidi after Christina’s death, and later joined the Arcadian Academy as a significant patron. The dedication text in L’Endimione praises Christina, Albani, and the Arcadian Academy, in flowing language emulating the vivid style essential to the reform aesthetic, and creating an historical trajectory connecting Christina to Arcadia. The printer’s preface, quoted at the top of this chapter, announces Guidi’s refutation of his early poetry, situating this moment of Arcadian performativity—unveiling, justifying, and promoting L’Endimione‘s new aesthetic—in Christina’s Accademia Reale. By alerting the reader to Christina’s synergetic influence, Guidi seals the otherwise marginally connected edges the Arcadian Academy wished to preserve and project. The choice of publisher creates a more substantial—if less obvious—connection, which situates Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso into an empirical, ocularcentric, scientific culture with close ties to Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale. The publisher, Giovanni Giacomo Komarek (fl. 1680–1719), a self-identified Bohemian whose emblem locates his printing shop near the Trevi Fountain, did not customarily publish poetry or other literary genres; in addition, he would seem an unusual choice, since most Arcadian volumes were published by Antonio de’ Rossi (1668/1671–1755).22 Only a few literary volumes appear in Komarek’s catalog. After L’Endimione, Guidi entrusted his publisher to print his final collection of “approved” poems (Rime, 1704); these poems represent the culmination of his Arcadian style. Beyond the two volumes by Guidi, I have found only one additional  volume of poetry published by Komarek; this is the complete works of Giovanni Lotti (c. 1603–86), a librettist of oratorio and cantata texts who worked for Queen Christina and other Roman patrons.23 Komarek also published few musical works, including a handful of pamphlets associated with music drama, such as operatic and theatrical broadsides, but several solidify the increasing interconnectedness between Queen Christina’s intellectual sphere and the growing Arcadian Academy. These include Arcangelo Corelli’s (1653–1713) Op. 3 trio sonatas (1689), and reprints of the composer’s Op. 4 sonatas (1695). Corelli worked at Queen Christina’s court, where he conducted most orchestral concerts, joining the Arcadian Academy alongside Alessandro Scarlatti and Bernardo Pasquini (1637–1710) in 1706. Komarek’s earliest publications date to the late 1680s; his full catalog demonstrates principal expertise in art, history, religion, and science.24 Guidi and Gravina may have chosen to publish with Komarek as an intentional statement—or strategy—to connect L’Endimione and the Discorso with a broader scientific reading community, placing their volume alongside those by authors working on empiricism, illusion, ocular science, and truth. A significant number of Komarek’s authors were astronomers, mathematicians, and scientists; while not necessarily

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members of the Arcadian Academy, many had connections to Queen Christina’s intellectual milieu. During the years 1686–93, Komarek issued seven volumes by a prominent intellectual polymath and religious figure, Giovanni Giustino Ciampini (1633–98); these volumes concern archeology, religious history, and science. Ciampini founded a scientific academy, the Accademia fisico-matematica (Academy of Physics and Mathematics), in 1677, with Queen Christina’s support;25 his role as leader of this prestigious academy elevated Ciampini to the most influential supporter of visual science in late seventeenth-century Rome. Ciampini’s book on optical devices describes the instruments developed, and experimented with, in the Accademia fisico-matematica; this volume evokes a special relationship—via Queen Christina, with Komarek as intermediary and publisher—to the ocularcentric literary devices projected by Guidi, Gravina, Crescimbeni, and their Arcadian colleagues.26 Although initially Christina intended to host Ciampini’s academy in her Palazzo Riario, instead Ciampini held the meetings in his own palazzo, where he amassed a large collection of scientific devices. Numerous prominent members of the group were associates of Queen Christina, but the academy grew beyond her original intellectual sphere, to include the most renowned scientists and intellectuals in Rome, and even notable figures who were visiting the city from abroad; several affiliates of the Accademia fisico-matematica later joined the Arcadian Academy, including Gravina.27 Through his academy, Ciampini sponsored ocular scientific experimentation; his scientists improved designs for the telescope, microscope, and camera obscura, and conducted public experiments to redefine—using visual tools—the understanding of blood, bacteria, and insects on a microlevel, and the relationship of human life to the planetary system on a macrolevel.28 The emerging Roman, scientific empiricism used vision to question truth and belief; beginning under Queen Christina’s patronage, continuing through Ciampini and the Accademia fisicomatematica, these concerns then manifested in the visually oriented literary, metaphorical, and philosophical epistemologies within the Arcadian Academy. As publisher, Komarek advanced the experiential, experimental discourse, by introducing, circulating, and shaping the shared intellectual culture. Komarek explored broader imagistic concerns by publishing books on art and art criticism. In 1693, Komarek published a volume by artist Andrea Pozzo (1642– 1709) on architectural and painterly perspectival devices;29 Pozzo’s famous illusionistic techniques, apparent in the frescoed ceiling, apse, and dome of the Jesuit church of Sant’Ignazio in Rome (1685–94), blur the viewer’s perception of truth, fiction, and falsehood. In the year that Pozzo finished the church frescoes, Komarek published a description of their artistic subjects and symbolisms.30 In 1695, Komarek published Giovanni Pietro Bellori’s (1613–96) description of Raphael’s Vatican frescoes;31 Bellori, like Ciampini, was a former associate of Queen Christina, serving as

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her art historian and antiquarian. He innovated visually oriented analytical techniques, especially ekphrasis, in his art criticism.32 Bellori’s critical approach not only reveals similar motivations as the Arcadians—namely, utilizing classical techniques to refigure early modern discourse—but also emphasizes how vision and perception affect how we interpret and communicate ideas. Collectively, Komarek’s volumes on illusionism and vivid description parallel the scientific discussion emerging in Ciampini’s academy, the vivid poetic style in Guidi’s L’Endimione and emulated in the Arcadian reform literature, and the imagistic theories of representation found in Gravina’s and Crescimbeni’s treatises. Komarek’s catalog, including Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso, therefore illustrates otherwise hidden connections between art, representation, and science, but also conceptual issues of seeing and believing, constructing a larger intellectual narrative questioning the epistemologies of vision. Guidi and Gravina likely intended to situate L’ Endimione and the Discorso into an ocularcentric scholarly network, intrinsically linking the three prestigious academies, former and present: the Accademia Reale, the Accademia fisico-matematica, and the Accademia degli Arcadi, using the volume and its publisher to create a monument to Queen Christina’s identity. Subsequent Arcadian discourse, especially in the hands of Crescimbeni, seeks to solidify these monumentalized connections to Queen Christina. Although Guidi and Gravina used Komarek as a vehicle for situating their work as an extension of Queen Christina’s patronage—Guidi for poetic, stylistic reasons, and Gravina, who was never a member of Christina’s circle, for scientific purposes— Crescimbeni has his own political, propagandistic motivation for promoting Arcadian interests by connecting the society, symbolically, to its nominal figurehead. As a former member of the Accademia Reale, Crescimbeni was one of the few founding members of the Arcadian Academy with a personal connection to the queen. In his continual praise of Guidi’s L’Endimione, appearing in each of the subsequent volumes of the Commentarii, and in his biography of Guidi, Crescimbeni reiterates the play’s origins, writing that it sprang from the “incomparable mind of Queen Christina,” attributing the new Arcadian pastoral genre to her invention. Through frequent, encomiastic repetition, Crescimbeni inscribes Christina’s identity on one of the academy’s earliest literary monuments. Crescimbeni’s monumentalizing, propagandistic efforts gain symbolic power in his own L’Arcadia. In this work, Crescimbeni situates Queen Christina’s funeral monument into his fictionalized pastoral discourse, allegorizing the Arcadian conversazione, its members, and its literary concerns, in its opening pages.33 Maria Teresa Acquaro Graziosi argues that Crescimbeni models his description of Christina’s urn after Sannazaro’s sepulcher of Massilia, the “Sibyl of shepherds” and “fount of poetry,” thereby locating Christina as the Arcadian “point of departure for the ideal journey,” and a “continuation of the poetic process.”34 Graziosi argues further that Crescimbeni’s descriptive literary devices—portraying Christina’s

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funeral urn as inscribed with a lengthy epic poem by Michele Capellari that illustrates her heroic exploits,35 and vividly depicting the pastoral landscape, the theater, and the pyramidical shape of the tablets memorializing past shepherds— all imitate Sannazaro while expressing the physical characteristics of the Parrhasian Grove, which mixed theatrical structures with classical and exoticizing Egyptian elements.36 I would add several layers to Graziosi’s interpretation. Crescimbeni’s allusion to pyramidical structures in the Arcadian bosco may echo Gravina’s Discorso, in which he cites Egyptian pyramids as the source of all knowledge.37 Crescimbeni therefore situates the Arcadian program into a known allegory for intellectual discovery. Although Crescimbeni’s footnote references the poem Christinas by Capellari, Guidi’s series of poems written as encomia to Queen Christina, including one describing her funeral urn—which was performed for an Arcadian conversazione to great applause, later published in his Rime—would have represented a closer source of inspiration and recognition for members of the Arcadian Academy, and would have embodied an extension of Guidi’s symbolic L’Endimione. It is possible that Crescimbeni used this opportunity in L’Arcadia to “unwrite” Guidi somewhat from his Arcadian allegory, despite the poet’s close connections to Queen Christina— and that Crescimbeni’s subsequent praise for L’Endimione emphasized Christina’s input more to reassert her own identity than the poet’s. As Paola Giuli suggests, Crescimbeni’s L’Arcadia evidences cracks in the author’s relationship with Gravina, who was of course closely aligned with Guidi; L’Arcadia advocates for female participation in the Arcadian bosco, centering nymph-poets in the narrative, but Gravina seems to have objected to female poetic authority and presence within the academy.38 It must have been a particular affront to Crescimbeni that Guidi used his connections with the Farnese family to move the Arcadian bosco to their elegant gardens on the Palatine Hill.39 Although the space resonated closely with the Arcadian ancient, monumentalized, yet pastoral ideals—the elegant, structured, elaborate Farnese gardens overlooked the common pasture lands of the Campo Vaccino in the center of the Roman forum—it was at this moment that Crescimbeni’s egalitarian vision began to fade, as cardinals and other high-ranking persons began seating themselves separately, no longer using improvised rocks on the ground.40 I would also add to Graziosi’s interpretation, that Crescimbeni’s ekphrastic description of Christina’s funeral urn not only alludes to Sannazaro’s similar devices in his Arcadia, but explicitly models the art critical method developed under Christina’s protection by her antiquarian, Bellori. As a poetic image inscribed on an encomiastic art object, we might consider Crescimbeni’s representation symbolic of the imagist monument embedded in Guidi’s L’Endimione—but one which does not require named attribution, removing both Gravina and Guidi from the narrative framework. Furthermore, Crescimbeni’s ekphrasis subverts the gendered frameworks present in Sannazaro. Whereas Sannazaro’s ekphrastic murals in L’Arcadia

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position nymphs viewing male erotic lust and violence, situating the pastoral genre as a landscape for male pleasure,41 Crescimbeni juxtaposes the female nymphpoet-viewer among images of a female patron-muse, creating an egalitarian relationship that includes women’s creativity in the poetic process; the subverted gender roles would have aligned with various aspects of Christina’s self-fashioning and patronage, including in L’Endimione itself.42 And, finally, Crescimbeni’s description—evoking a theater, cypresses, turreted walls, monuments, and plaques43— creates an artistic pastoral landscape, in which classical monument and imitation of nature create a more balanced vista. The monuments are centralized, not forced into the background, thus imitating the new pastoral landscape genre created by Carracci, Poussin, Claude, and their contemporaries in Rome. Through actual and symbolic, performative and published media, Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso enacted one moment in a series of monuments intended to alter the pastoral landscape through literary, scientific, and visual references, all rooted in Queen Christina’s cultural and intellectual legacy. Although initially few members of the original Arcadia were members of Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale, gradually new members joined who had been associates of the queen, especially musicians and poets. It is possible that Crescimbeni actively cultivated membership among those who would emblematize the academy’s basilissa, strengthening the desired connections, gradually wresting the identity of his own Arcadian vision from the increasing incursions of Gravina’s ideology, as their relationship began to fracture. Arcadian Perceptions: Novelty and Wonder The loves between a simple Shepherd, and a chaste Goddess, have in themselves a certain indescribable marvelousness, and elapse beyond the human realm: and the frequency, novelty, and splendor of the grave, and choice implications44—which are not only sprinkled about, but of which the entire favola is formed—move, and sustain an attention in the listener, which normally is attained by an intricate, tangled plot, and a variety of characters. —gianvincenzo gravina, discorso sopra l’endimione

The performance of Guidi’s L’Endimione was well received, indeed celebrated, but not everyone liked Guidi’s new style. Nor did everyone agree with Gravina’s Discorso,45 which sought to anticipate and forestall criticisms of Guidi’s text; his rigorous defense of the play teaches us which aspects of the performance the Arcadian audience might have found unusual, or even contentious. Gravina’s Discorso outlines the following concerns: genre (which genre is it?), narrative (why does it differ from the original mythology?), structure (where is the intrigue?), and character (what motivates them?).46 Gravina explains how Guidi’s play uses these features to elicit the audience’s wonder. Gravina’s passage quoted above suggests that the language, narrative simplicity, and Neoplatonic treatment of love contributed

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most to the novelty (novità) and wonder (maraviglia) experienced by the audience, traits also remarked upon by Crescimbeni, in the quote given at the top of this chapter. However, to fully appreciate the Arcadian audience’s response to Guidi’s drama, we need to understand how the performance differed from traditional pastorals, not only via Guidi’s new pastoral landscape, mixed heroism and humility, and psychologically oriented structure, as discussed above, but also by thwarting the audience’s expectations. By examining the commonplaces and divergences of L’Endimione, we will reconstruct the intrinsic values of Arcadian reform. As a result, we will find that the Arcadian milieu desired much more than a trivial rehashing or recycling of older ideas; rather, it sought to build upon the treasures of Italian literary heritage in order to forge a new future. Since modern commenters on L’Endimione accentuate Guidi’s indebtedness to Tasso’s Aminta (1573), and Tasso’s play might have been the foremost example of the genre in the minds of the Arcadian audience, a brief overview of similarities and differences will help us to understand L’Endimione’s immediate impact. Guidi’s borrowings extend to plot, structure, and narrative mode. Tasso’s plot begins when Cupid decides to take revenge on the shepherdess Sylvia, by inflicting her with his dart, because she worships only the chaste goddess Diana. Cupid hopes to show his influence in all spheres of human existence. Guidi’s plot begins when Cupid, with the same motivation, inflicts Cynthia (an epithet of Diana) because she worships only her own cult of chastity. In Tasso, false reports of the two protagonists’ deaths lead to reconciliation and resolution of conflict. In Guidi, a false report of Endymion’s death causes Cynthia to reconsider, leading to reconciliation and resolution of conflict. Both works are structured in five acts, each ending in choral commentary. Both works unfold primarily in a series of reports to the audience about events not shown onstage, combined with individual characters’ emotive expression and dialogue. The primary difference in Guidi, regarding such external, structural features, resides in a much simpler plot with few twists or turns, and a reduction in characters to only three. These changes create a minimalistic theatrical experience, allowing Guidi’s altered landscape, emotional content, and imagistic representation—the internal aspects of the work, emphasized in both Gravina’s and Crescimbeni’s literary aesthetics—to come forward as the drama’s primary features. Beyond the reworking of Tasso’s Aminta, what would the Arcadian audience describe as “new” about L’Endimione? Modern theories of early modern pastoral literature advance several functions of pastoral drama in courtly performance contexts: (1) a Neoplatonic allegory; (2) a therapeutic intervention for lovesickness; (3) a representation of political power; and (4) a form of aesthetic education. All of these are present in L’Endimione, but to varying degrees with respect to the pastoral tradition. The Neoplatonic allegory in L’Endimione is patent, exuding from almost every page. Guidi’s (and Queen Christina’s) Neoplatonic allusions intensify the traditional

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effect through their ubiquity, involving characters, narrative, and structure. Cynthia and Endymion move from a sphere of conflict to a sphere of mutual love, achieving an emotional, psychological peace, ultimately reconciling their individual beings with the surrounding pastoral beauty. Each character moves from a low to high state by recognizing, as if in a mirror, their own internal light within the other. Their initial disparities become parities; by identifying Cynthia’s divinity in his own self, through the reflective Neoplatonic process, Endymion relinquishes his base identity—a lowly shepherd. Through apotheosis, he becomes equal to the lofty goddess, as a constellation. Similarly, by recognizing her own humanity in Endymion, Cynthia accepts mutual love.47 The Neoplatonic palette enables the visual devices of the drama—seeing, reflecting, and imagining; these are among the primary features contributing to the work’s immagine del vero, and thus form an integral part of L’Endimione‘s novelty and verisimilitude. The lovesick shepherd—as Endymion here—is also a commonplace of the pastoral genre.48 Lovesickness, or erotic melancholy (erotomania), was a physical disease defined in seventeenth-century medicine.49 Catharsis, as a transformation or purgation, enacted a cure within the drama; by extinguishing lowly thoughts, cleansing the soul, and moderating the humors, the journey undertaken by pastoral characters offers a worthy model of imitation for the audience.50 However, the typical pastoral narrative plays out in the locus amoenus, enhancing its association with sensual love. Guidi’s L’Endimione includes nothing of the “sensual, earthly pleasure,” nor of “the triumph of the flesh and nature,” present in the classical or Renaissance pastoral landscape.51 Instead, Guidi’s Neoplatonic arc demonstrates that the cure for Endymion’s lovesickness is authenticity, accomplished by reconciling his emotional states, recognizing his “internal light,” and ascending to the divine. The thinly veiled Catholic allegory would demonstrate to the Arcadian audience how Christian, moral spirituality cures earthly conflicts. A second catharsis operates on the audience; as Gravina will elaborate in the Discorso (alluded to in the quotation above), experiencing the performance of L’Endimione brings the audience’s attention from physical, earthly thoughts to spiritual, divine thoughts. The audience’s wonder (maraviglia) at the play’s novelty (novità) causes emotional, psychological transcendence. As a representation of political power, Guidi’s L’Endimione functions differently than the traditional courtly performance, in which the cathartic impact of pastoral drama imparts both delight (delectare) and education (docere) to the audience, placing into appropriate balance the relationship between patron (who provides the delight) and courtier (who is educated).52 Since Guidi’s L’Endimione represents the interests of two different spheres of patronage—Queen Christina’s court and the Arcadian environment—we will examine briefly the play’s meanings in both contexts. For Christina, L’Endimione would decorate her importance as an intellectual, highlight the literary and intellectual discussions of her academy, and

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advertise her interest in scientific empiricism through the text’s focus on images and Neoplatonism. These were values that Christina held tightly, as a projection of her own power, worth, and identity. When Christina abdicated her throne, she essentially gave up any real power she might have retained as queen of Sweden, yet she continually sought political influence due to her perception of her own importance. As part of a comprehensive artistic program, the success of L’Endimione as a tribute to Queen Christina’s power and patronage would have counteracted her failed political alliance with Louis XIV, which began unraveling after her visit to France (1656–58); during this visit her attempt to regain a throne in the Kingdom of Naples was thwarted, resulting in her fallen reputation after she ordered the execution of Marchese Gian Rinaldo Monaldeschi. Christina later failed in her attempt to become queen of Poland in 1668.53 We might therefore read the text as representing Christina’s resignation and retreat from political life, emblematizing her role as artistic creator and as patron of the arts and sciences. In the end, the only real power Christina wielded was in the arena of intellectual culture. For the Arcadian audience, Endymion is not a typical courtier, just as the Parrhasian Grove is not a typical courtly sphere. As a character, Endymion represents the interests of the poet-letterato. In this context, the allegory becomes one of divine inspiration, of Arcadian equality between poet and patron, and of artistic purity. The performance was a political manifesto demonstrating the importance of literary renewal, and a vehicle for showing the realized ideal. As a model of aesthetic education, L’Endimione perhaps fits most closely the traditional role of the pastoral drama, presenting novità to the Arcadian audience. The play therefore performs the most important cure of all—a cure for Baroque excess and overworked imaginative fancy. Arcadian Pastoral Theory [Guidi] was the first, who attempted to reconcile the greatness, and the loftiness of emotions, and of style, with pastoral simplicity, and who treated the subject of love heroically among Shepherds. —giovanni mario crescimbeni, “vita”

Crescimbeni does not define how Guidi’s play merges the pastoral and heroic modes, leaving the interpretive work to the reader; however, the play’s tensions between the humble and the serious, its symbolic, monumentalizing structure, and its inscription of identity through patron, performance, and publication, offer potential explanations. Gravina’s Discorso and later, Crescimbeni’s La bellezza (1700), will both advocate for serious treatment of pastoral themes, theorizing a new pastoral mode. The Arcadian theoretical approach to the pastoral genre sought to renovate the history of literature and literary criticism. Prior to Gravina’s Discorso and Crescimbeni’s La bellezza, a thorough critical definition of the pastoral genre did not exist.

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Neither Aristotle nor Horace advanced theories of pastoral literature, and the Renaissance tradition, which followed closely the classical generic precepts, labeled pastoral as the humblest of three levels of style—high, middle, low (after the three categories represented by Vergil’s complete oeuvre—epic, lyric, pastoral). As Alpers writes in his definitive study of the pastoral genre: “Thinking of pastoral as the humble member of this stylistic triad clearly affected writers’ sense of it, perhaps mainly through giving pastoral poems a place in Renaissance schooling. But nothing very sustained came out of all this—nothing that can serve us as a critical starting point, much less a model. This is true even for those rare cases in which pastoral has a significant role in a systematic poetics.”54 Up through the middle of the seventeenth century, most writers who surveyed the pastoral tradition explained the genre according to its “anthropological” circumstances—its development from the realistic need for shepherds to sing while tending sheep—or described its inherent traits according to setting, speaker, and theme. Moreover, writers such as Guarini (Il compendio della poesia tragicomica, 1601), Rapin (Eclogae cum dissertatione decarmine pastorali, 1672), or Fontenelle (Poésies pastorales, avec un traité sur la nature de l’eglogue, 1688) borrowed the defining structural features of tragicomedy to explain the pastoral genre.55 Gravina provides a rigorous defense and theory of the pastoral genre in the Discorso, promoting the inherent historical and scientific truths of ancient myths and fables (favole). As Accorsi argues, Gravina’s endorsement of ancient narratives refutes recent French debates condemning mythology and pastoral literature for its pagan iconoclasm, following instead a newly emerging philosophical, scientific interpretation circulating throughout Europe (Rapin, Santeuil, Bacon), but with origins in Florentine humanist circles.56 Gravina argues for mixed levels of representation in the pastoral genre, and in poetry in general, since verisimilitude embodies the totality of the human condition.57 To revive the pastoral genre, poets must depict all existential levels, not just the “splendid and sublime,” but also “mediocre and low.”58 Gravina criticizes seventeenth-century poetry (and, by extension, drama) for its heroic idealism, which precludes representing broader human emotion and failings; thus, poetry no longer portrays realistic heroic actions, but false, stilted gestures performed by unrealistic characters.59 By only representing the lofty and sublime, poets have abandoned the true state of man, creating new types of heroism unknown to the human condition. Gravina uses comparisons from law and art to support his argument for mixed levels of pastoral representation. Since laws are not designed for the minority who do not need them, poets must observe the average and lower elements of society, to understand true human nature.60 Since perfection is not realistic, human flaws must also be represented; the poet must discern the true, internal nature of things, a form of essentialism (“il difficile ed oscuro è il conoscere quali e come essi sieno”). Gravina’s solution to the previous errors of heroic representation is to

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broaden the scope of poetic topics to a humble pastoral realm, in the depiction of “shepherds’ huts and hovels, and nativity scenes” (a direct reference to the baby Christ as a symbol of the Arcadian Academy); the humble delights the reader as much as “battles, palaces, and towers.”61 Gravina cites Titian as an artistic model, whose paintings afford equal enjoyment from both the pastoral setting (“rappresentazione de’ paesi”) and “wondrous depiction of histories”—in other words, serious narrative subjects represented by figures in the landscape.62 Gravina’s comparison between pastoral poetry and Titian’s landscapes represents the Arcadian Academy’s reverence for Renaissance culture, as well as indicating Gravina’s own knowledge of artistic representation. Although Titian aggrandized the pastoral landscape in Venetian painting, he used the countryside as a trope to depict the locus amoenus,63 presenting a different ambience than what the reader encounters in L’Endimione, or in the Roman style of pastoral landscape discussed above. Titian does not imbue his landscapes with the Arcadian elegiac, or the “heroic pastoral” described by Crescimbeni. Rather, Titian either uses the pastoral as a framework, to situate courtly pastimes as emblems of an idealized Arcadian pursuit of music and poetry (as in The Three Ages of Man, 1509–10),64 or as a backdrop—staging sensuality (as in his Sleeping Venus, 1508–10),65 or Biblical narratives (as in the Flight into Egypt, 1506–7). Yet Titian was recognized for his naturalistic depictions of color and form; early modern art critics repeatedly celebrate his ability to paint or sculpt flesh, molding his figures after nature.66 Most notably perhaps for Gravina’s context, Titian considered his own cycle of large-scale mythological paintings a form of narrative, or poetry, describing them alternately as poesie or favole.67 Gravina may have been less aware of the particular Romanized forms of pastoral landscape painting than some of his other Arcadian colleagues, since he was still a new member of that environment; however, it is clear that his invocation of Titian situates his pastoral vision of poetry as a serious form of narrative, with colorful, vivid possibilities, universal naturalism, and descriptive details (“cose minute ed umili; particolareggiare”).68 Despite his advocacy for a renovated pastoral genre, Gravina distances his discussion of L’Endimione from generic labeling or categorizing. In the Discorso, Gravina’s absolute refusal to label Guidi’s L’Endimione according to generic precepts not only refers backward to the famous genre disputes surrounding Guarini’s Il pastor fido while avoiding the issue altogether, but he also strikes a clearly anti-Aristotelian tone, opening up his literary discussion to philosophical, representative issues surrounding character, gender, narrative, and visual paradigms.69 When Crescimbeni praised Guidi’s portrayal of “heroic love,” in his biography of the poet (quoted above), he echoed Gravina’s analysis in the Discorso. Crescimbeni’s pastoral theory outlined in La bellezza similarly enters the broader critical dialogue, also potentially echoing Gravina by endorsing the innate credibility of mythology if the narrative conveys “religious truth,” the “notice of history,” and a

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“just passage of time.”70 In Dialogue 5, Crescimbeni endorses his Arcadian vision as manifested in his pastoral play L’Elvio (1695), by explaining how tragic features contribute to the pastoral genre. Crescimbeni’s new “heroic pastoral” applies Aristotelian narrative elements to the pastoral landscape. He explains that characters can have “extrinsic” and “intrinsic” nobility; thus, his protagonist, the shepherd Elvio, is not noble under the rules of tragedy, since he is neither “Prince nor Monarch,” but he does have noble lineage, as a descendant of a deity in the pastoral realm.71 Yet Elvio displays additional “intrinsic” noble characteristics suitable for the serious format, such as virtue (virtù), and illustrious actions (illustri azioni), which exist “no less among Shepherds, than in the Cities, and in the most splendid Courts.” The other characters also display virtuous traits, being neither “vile, buffoons, nor babblers,” nor acting in a manner “repugnant to noble, Tragic events.”72 Crescimbeni justifies his five-act structure according to classical precedents in Aristotelian tragedy and Roman comedies, referencing additional authors whose works have received the weight of tradition, such as Seneca and Tasso; he also specifies the particular contribution that each act and each choral event in his own play— from prologue through epilogue—adds to the drama. In this respect, Crescimbeni’s L’Elvio also models the five-act structure in the published version of Guidi’s L’Endimione. The structural discussion includes narrative ideas, addressing the presence of unknown plot elements (“fiction,” or finto), since the play is not based on preexisting tragic or mythological works, and whether the episode in which the character Lucrina is threatened by a monster diminishes verisimilitude.73 To these objections, Crescimbeni argues that events must be plausible, not real, and that the monster represents emotional terror, a realistic reaction; the plot evinces each of the Aristotelian precepts: catastrophe, catharsis, unities, plausibility, lieto fine, and instruction (insegnamento). In addition, “instruction” occurs, not only because “faults are punished,” but because the “innocent are protected by heaven.”74 Finally, Crescimbeni argues for verisimilitude through allegory, since “History is veiled by Poetry.”75 L’Elvio portrays an allegory of the Arcadian Academy and its promotion of buon gusto. Each character, and the relationships between characters, represents various aspects of the Arcadian agenda and its relationship to past literature. Elvio represents intelligence (ingegno), which, “in the practice of letters, and especially in Poetry, in this century has demonstrated itself to be inconstant, and unfaithful, in everything which otherwise should have been intrinsically noble and respected, as in every other century.”76 Lucrina represents good poetry, which, “despite a struggle, has finally stretched, and benefited, and made faithful our intelligence.”77 The monster represents the “envy of the ignorant” and “the ugliness, and vileness of ignorance”—in other words, the detractors of the Arcadian Academy and its reforms.78 Crescimbeni combines theory and practice in his definition of the new “heroic pastoral.” He models the performance of critical theory through publication that

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Gravina’s Discorso established, by asserting his own play L’Elvio as an Arcadian model parallel to Guidi’s L’Endimione. The discussion exemplifies aspects of verisimilitude that Crescimbeni discusses in other sections of La bellezza. His definition of “external” and “internal” nobility mirrors his insistence that sound and image, or language and content, should be aligned; similarly, the structural and representative aspects of L’Elvio map onto the same paradigm. The structure alone does not determine the work’s Arcadian attributes, but rather its internal beauties, such as representation of character, constancy, faithfulness, innocence, and love, or its allegories of the Arcadian Academy and buon gusto.79 Crescimbeni’s discussion of the limits of fiction within a particular genre (here tragedy, history, and the pastoral favola) encapsulates his definitions of plausibility, truth, and narrative invention throughout the volume. His promotion of the shepherd to noble status, equal to members of courts and residents of cities, argues forcefully for his Arcadian vision of egalitarian republicanism. Crescimbeni’s virtuous shepherd of low social rank, who embodies internal, divine identity, not only mirrors Guidi’s Endymion, but contrasts with the “buffoons and babblers” of other comic genres. Here Crescimbeni explicitly refers to the theatrical (and operatic) characters deriving from commedia dell’arte traditions, but perhaps also to the comic characters of Cicognini’s Giasone, which he will so vigorously oppose in the next section of La bellezza;80 the stuttering hunchback Demo, who “dances” an amorous canzonetta amid confusing, halting, repetitious speech, nearly provoking a duel, comes easily to mind. In the expanded reprint of L’istoria,81 Crescimbeni provides a brief history of the pastoral drama, creating a similar trajectory to the one he had established for literature and opera in the first edition, articulating a Renaissance ideal, Baroque decline, and Arcadian renovation. The full section is titled “On the Pastoral, Woodland, Rustic, and Huntsman Fables, Their Origin, Progress, and Decline;”; with this lengthy title, Cresimbeni recognizes a broad variety of representational categories, from realistic to idealistic, and he perhaps signals the lack of concise critical definition in the existing theoretical literature. Naturally, Crescimbeni’s historiographic aim is to situate Guidi’s L’Endimione and his own L’Elvio as reformed texts within this trajectory. Guidi appears as one of nine important authors of the favola pastorale: Agostino de’ Beccari (1510–90), Il sacrifizio, favola pastorale (1554) Alberto Lollio (1508–69), Aretusa, commedia pastorale (1563) Luigi Groto (Cieco d’Adria, 1541–45), La Calisto, egloga or favola pastorale (1561) Torquato Tasso (1544–95), Aminta, favola boschereccia (1573) Giovanni Battista Guarini (1538–1612), Il pastor fido, tragicommedia pastorale (1589) Guidobaldo Bonarelli (1586–1608), Filli di Sciro, favola pastorale (1607)

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Alessandro Guidi, L’Endimione, favola pastorale (1688) Crescimbeni, L’Elvio, favola pastorale (1695) Ferrante (II) Gonzaga (1563–1630), L’Enone, tragedia di lieto fine (begun 1584) Crescimbeni enumerates the common characteristics appertaining to these pastoral plays: (1) written in versi sciolti mixed with ettasillabi (free verse alternating with seven-syllable lines); (2) comprising a prologue, chorus (spoken or sung), and commo or epicarma (final chorus, either tragic or rejoicing, respectively); (3) set to music, and performed by singers instead of actors; and (4) encompassing up to twenty-five hundred lines of poetry (although Guarini’s Pastor fido is much longer). The third category, regarding musical setting, surely Crescimbeni does not intend to imply is common to all pastoral plays; instead, he clarifies shortly afterward that the pastoral favola was the first genre to be set entirely to music.82 The section creates historical authority for the new Arcadian pastoral, while highlighting the stylistic merits of the two Arcadian reform plays. By discussing in detail the contributions of only four of these authors to the pastoral genre, Crescimbeni places Guidi in the company of Tasso, Guarini, and Bonarelli for defining, shaping, and reforming the favola pastorale. Tasso’s Aminta perfected the genre, by creating “one of the most delightful, graceful and enjoyable poems ever heard in the theater”; Guarini’s Pastor fido added to the genre’s richness, by “filling it with rhymes and madrigals”; and Bonarelli’s Filli di Sciro increased the genre’s “vivacity and sprightliness” by adding “spirited metaphors and bizarre expressions.” Among these, Guidi’s contributions stand out, particularly from a historical perspective. Notice how Crescimbeni contrasts the final two authors, Bonarelli and Guidi; in the parlance of the Arcadian Academy’s literary reform program, the keywords metafore (metaphors) and bizzari (bizzarre), applied to Bonarelli’s poetry, are not complimentary. Guidi’s “noble” L’Endimione therefore afforded a cure for the Baroque, through its “sublime and majestic character”; these are the keywords of the new, lyrical reform poetry. Crescimbeni breaks the chronological trajectory, placing Ferrante Gonazaga’s L’Enone at the end of the list, to strengthen precedence for the Arcadian “heroic pastoral”; thus he can contextualize his own L’Elvio, which exemplifies “Tragic severity,” which extends “insofar as the Pastoral simplicity can endure.” Crescimbeni’s discussion of music is intriguing, since he initially seems to recognize singing as inherent to the pastoral genre—at least in choruses—and he acknowledges the role of the pastoral favola for the development of opera. The association between music and the pastoral reaches back to the genre’s ancient origins; shepherds were commonly portrayed engaging in moments of song and music making, whether amorous or plaintive, in competition with other shepherds, or playing reed pipes crudely fashioned all’improvviso from the natural environment for personal enjoyment. For example, the opening lines of Theocri-

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tus’ first Idyll (“Sweet is the whispering music of yonder pine that sings / Over the water-brooks, and sweet the melody of your pipe, / Dear goatherd”) and of Vergil’s first Eclogue (“You, Tityrus, under the spreading, sheltering beech, / Tune woodland musings on a delicate reed”) both situate music centrally into the activities of shepherds, creating a sonic pastoral landscape inextricably woven into its poetic representation.83 Singing, then, would seem to provide verisimilitude to dramatic pastorals; even a satirical portrayal of the pastoral genre recognizes music’s palpability and belonging: “If you are to have people discoursing in song, you must for verisimilitude conform to the pastoral convention. Singing has always been associated with shepherds. It would not seem natural for princes, or ordinary folk for that matter, to be indulging their passions in song.”84 It would be tempting to assume that Crescimbeni approves music in this songoriented genre, but disapproves music in the heroic, serious opera (as discussed in chapter 1). Alas, Crescimbeni provides no distinction between music’s pastoral function and the pastoral genre’s dramatic representational framework. After portraying music’s potential presence in the narrative and moralizing pastoral choruses, Crescimbeni blames music for the total destruction of the genre, a phrase he will repeat in Dialogue 6, where he criticizes opera: “[musical pastorals] gained a great applause and a following, but in time they were the cause of the total ruin of comic theater.”85 L’istoria therefore follows the earlier literary theoretical discourse, defining the pastoral according to its features and form rather than its function, in opposition to the intensely innovative, modern literary criticism offered in Gravina’s Discorso. Yet, in his pastoral theorizing, Crescimbeni echoes Gravina’s Discorso in many perspectives. Like Gravina, Crescimbeni supports truthfulness via several mechanisms: poetry as a veil, images as truth, mythology as history, characters as (Arcadian) allegories, shepherds as reflections of the divine, and monsters and other “unreal” creatures as cathartic resonances both provoking and reflecting the audience’s fears.86 Crescimbeni’s L’Elvio also bears several similarities with Guidi’s L’Endimione, especially in the portrayal of the virtuous shepherd with divine characteristics, who displays constancy and faithfulness in love despite tragic (or near tragic) circumstances, thus elevating the shepherd from the lowly to the noble, and demonstrating “heroic love.” Crescimbeni differs from Gravina in his explicit support of Aristotelianism. Gravina prefers a Neoplatonic framework, advancing a strictly anti-Aristotelian argument, although he uses many terms from the Aristotelian critical tradition in both literary theory and his detailed analysis of L’Endimione. Similarly, Crescimbeni’s L’Elvio differs from Guidi’s L’Endimione in its more complicated plot structure, involving more characters and a convoluted love relationship. Crescimbeni’s distinctive poetic and aesthetic choices may provide traces of the emerging rift within the Arcadian Academy, appearing as early as 1690 in Gravina’s Discorso,

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and now reappearing in 1695 with the publication of L’Elvio. As Paola Giuli argues, L’Elvio betrays additional allegories beyond the Arcadian, literary, stylistic symbolism that Crescimbeni reveals in La bellezza, creating a harsh portrayal of Gravina.87 In sum, Crescimbeni’s 1700 La bellezza demonstrates resonances from Gravina’s Discorso but rigorously defends the Aristotelian generic tradition, placing Crescimbeni directly at odds with aspects of his rival’s philosophical stance. T H E R E C E P T IO N O F L’ E N DI M I ON E

Gravina and Crescimbeni both attest to the novelties and wonder experienced by Guidi’s Arcadian audience. Other members of the Arcadian Academy also contributed assessments of L’Endimione, although in shorter, less pointed formats. Despite the play’s enduring reputation, modern scholarship has relegated it to a minor status in the history of Italian literature; because L’Endimione never reached the importance of its closest model, Tasso’s Aminta, we have forgotten how much it did contribute to changing the direction of Italian literary style. An overview of L’Endimione‘s reception—both outside and within the Arcadian Academy—will demonstrate how it was perceived as one of the most important literary works to come out of Arcadian reform, for at least one hundred years after its first performance. Alessandro Guidi, Remembrances Biographies of the poet record how Guidi’s contemporaries received his reformed poetry, focusing on three categories: (1) patronage, (2) important works, and (3) literary style. These tributes divide Guidi’s career into three stages of patronage: in Parma, Duke Ranuccio Farnese II (1630–94, r. 1646–94), and in Rome, Queen Christina of Sweden, and Pope Clement XI (formerly Cardinal Albani). Authors attribute Guidi’s artistic development to the influences received during his first two appointments. After arriving at the Farnese court in 1666 at age sixteen, where he advanced his literary education, Guidi began composing and reciting poetry. Influenced by the Marinist poetry circulating at the court in Parma, Guidi mirrored the poetic vices of his environment, producing “formulaic eccentricities”: “The Sig. Abate Guidi, Italian poet of our time, was brought up in a time when eloquence in our language, whether in prose or poetry, was destroyed by the strange and bold corruption of the new school; so that in his youth even he found himself besmirched with the common vices of the time, so much in the thoughts, phrases, and extravagant forms of conceiving and writing about the mind’s concepts and feelings.”88 Guidi’s biographies repeatedly portray the poet as an aesthetic victim who absorbed the linguistic faults of his contemporaries. Crescimbeni contextualizes Guidi’s early style, by repeating with even harsher terms his earlier judgments against cattivo gusto from L’istoria, now in the poet’s biography; taste had reach the “height of

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depravation,” due to “immoderate hyperboles, depraved metaphors, false images, bizarre inventions, extravagant thoughts, and wanton and barbarous expression.”89 Despite such grave linguistic atrocities surrounding him, Guidi managed to produce some “gems,” early evidence of his later style.90 Becoming quite popular, Guidi’s early poetry circulated in manuscript form, leading to publication in 1681, the same year of his musical drama L’Amalasonta in Italia.91 During a trip to Rome in 1682, Guidi met several important patrons. Two important figures, one religious, the other literary, helped further Guidi’s career: Cardinal Decio Azzolino (1623–89), an important member of the papal Curia and close friend to Queen Christina, and Stefano Pignatelli (d. 1686), a prominent philosopher.92 Azzolino and Pignatelli both introduced Guidi to Queen Christina.93 During his first visit to Rome, Guidi heard the new ideas about poetry circulating among Christina’s intellectual circle. After Guidi’s brief return to Parma, Christina extended him an invitation to return to Rome as her court poet; the duke of Parma granted permission in 1685, and Guidi joined Christina’s Accademia Reale. As Christina’s court poet, Guidi wrote several works which gained recognition: (1) a cantata celebrating the accession of James II (r. 1685–88) to the English throne—this work was performed alongside a Discorso written by Giovanni Francesco Albani during an academy meeting dedicated to the new Catholic monarch; (2) a canzone written for an accademia marking the death of Baron d’Aste during the Battle of Buda in 1686; and (3) L’Endimione.94 Interacting with Queen Christina, and with the literary style circulating in her Accademia Reale, Guidi began reforming his poetry.95 The early biographies repeatedly praise Guidi’s new buon gusto, mirroring the style of poets Pindar, Dante, Petrarch, and Chiabrera—the idealized poets from antiquity through the Renaissance; these accounts emphasize Guidi’s poetic expression, freshness, heroism, imagination, lyricism, and novelty, emphasizing Christina’s role in the reform subsequently enacted in the Arcadian Academy. For example, Crescimbeni praises the poem written in honor of Baron d’Aste, commending its “novelty,” and “manner of expression”;96 he attributes Guidi’s novel, innovative reformed style to his ceasing to imitate his colleagues: “after observing the best Authors, he decided not to make himself an imitator of any of them, leaving his mind free, which later came to produce a new style.”97 Guidi symbolized the Accademia Reale’s aesthetic literary goals, and L’Endimione, as the final project for Christina, embodied Guidi’s lofty stylistic transformation. Following Christina’s death in 1689, Guidi received continued financial support from the duke of Parma, including lodging in the Palazzo Farnese, a monthly stipend, and a carriage for his personal use.98 Guidi presumably continued meeting with his Accademia Reale colleagues, and networked with the letterati who would soon establish the Arcadian Academy. Guidi’s associates considered him one of Arcadia’s “principal ornaments,” regarding his poetry as “noble,” “novel,” and “full

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of inspiration.”99 Guidi’s most critically acclaimed Arcadian poems include a series commemorating Queen Christina’s birthday, tomb, and urn (mentioned above), and Guidi’s ensuing pastoral favola after L’Endimione—titled La Dafne—which was performed at the subsequent Arcadian conversazione following L’Endimione’s performance, on August 1, 1691. The popularity of the first poem commemorating Christina, recited for the Arcadian audience in spring of 1692, led Guidi to compose the subsequent Christina poems, creating a series read at successive meetings, demonstrating the extent to which the Arcadians cultivated their connections to Queen Christina through Guidi’s poetic identity. Crescimbeni remarked on the universal approval bestowed on the Christina poems: “these came to be heard with equal satisfaction: with everyone confessing that after Chiabrera, no one has known how to describe flight better than Guidi, and that not in vain had he said in one of these Canzoni, ‘Not only Pindar is dear to the Gods.’ ”100 Crescimbeni further records that the Duchess of Zagarolo wished to perform La Dafne in her garden, with sumptuous scenery.101 While these works, mentioned in Guidi’s biographies, exemplify his most valued poetic contributions, additional poems appear in Arcadian anthologies both during his lifetime, and after his death: “Giva per un tranquillo aer sereno,” and “Eran le Dee del Mar liete e giòconde.”102 Guidi’s primary patron during the final phase of his career was Pope Clement XI (Giovanni Francesco Albani), for whom he wrote his final published work; in the Sei omelie, Guidi translated ideas expressed by the pope in six of his Latin sermons into newly composed Italian poetry. Guidi died during an apoplectic attack while traveling to present the published volume at the pope’s summer home, the Villa di Frascati. According to the story, he suffered the fit after finding an error in the meticulously edited print volume. Clement XI arranged for Guidi’s burial near Tasso’s gravesite, in the church of San Onofrio, with a lengthy inscription on his tomb. L’Endimione, Analyses: Satyrs, Shepherds, and Satire Guidi’s reputation continued to soar throughout the eighteenth century, in publications by Arcadians and non-Arcadians, by Italians and those beyond the Italianspeaking regions. Authors continued to remark on L’Endimione’s novel style, and its importance to the Italian literary heritage. In the early years of the century, the Mémoires pour l’histoire des sciences et des beaux arts, a bibliographic journal published by the Academy of Sciences in Paris, cites L’Endimione, recording that it was “highly applauded” (trés applaudi) in the September 1702 issue. Noted authors such as Antonio Conti (1677–1749), Giuseppe Maria Bianchini (1685–1749), Giulio Cesare Becelli (1686–1750), and Francesco Saverio Quadrio (1695–1756) brought knowledge of Guidi’s L’Endimione to a wider audience. By 1730, Crescimbeni’s reprinted, revised edition of L’istoria cites early discussions of Guidi’s poetry by Lodovico Antonio Muratori, Gregorio Caloprese, and Niccolò Cicognari (1652–

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1717), and a translation by Alessandro Burgos (1666–1726) into Latin verse of Guidi’s “Canzone degli Arcadi.” The early eighteenth-century tradition primarily circulated the Arcadian rhetoric that Crescimbeni had worked so hard to instill, while attempting to situate Guidi’s importance through comparison with other members of the Arcadian Academy. The analytical comments by these leading authors illuminate Guidi’s broader contributions to literary style, while distinguishing his merits from his Arcadian colleagues. From these publications, we can situate Guidi’s poetry in the surrounding intellectual discourse. The most important contributions come from Giuseppe Maria Bianchini, who was a Dante scholar, literary critic, and historian; and from Antonio Conti, a prominent philosopher. Bianchini’s 1732 La villeggiatura contains a dialogue comparing Guidi’s stylistic merit to his Arcadian colleague Benedetto Menzini. Although not an Arcadian, Bianchini was an ardent defender of post-Renaissance Italian literature, who recognized the efforts of the Arcadian Academy to rehabilitate the seventeenth-century tradition via its humanist revival of Petrarchan poetry; as a modernist, Bianchini supported Italy’s endeavors in history and science,103 a position advocated by Gravina in the Discorso. His La villeggiatura, written in dialogue form, follows the pastoral otium of two literary figures strolling the countryside while discussing literature and philosophy; the structure and themes demonstrate support for the Arcadian tradition by replicating its pastoral literary rhetorical format.104 By comparing the literary merits of Guidi and his Arcadian rival Benedetto Menzini, Bianchini enters a debate begun by Pier Iacopo Martello, who describes Guidi as an “inventor” and “Original” (“un inventore di guise non anche lette, o ascolatate da’ Poeti, ed in somma un’Originale”), but characterizes Menzini as an “imitator.”105 Despite supporting Guidi (and the Arcadian poets) in his Apologia of 1729, here in La villeggiatura Bianchini reverses Martello’s judgment, describing Menzini as the more original poet and Guidi as an imitator. Bianchini cites copious passages in which Guidi imitates language and ideas by Pindar, Homer, Vergil, Petrarch, Tasso, Guarini, and Chiabrera. Though Bianchini claims these passages in Guidi’s poetry are “copies” of the originals, in most cases, his cited references involve language partaking in a general Neoplatonic vocabulary that circulated freely in late seventeenth-century poetics. In 1739, the prominent philosopher Antonio Conti (1677–1749) discusses Guidi’s L’Endimione as an example of Platonic enthusiasm. Conti, like Bianchini, was a modernist; through encounters with Newtonian science and both Cartesian and Lockean philosophy, Conti developed a literary aesthetic focused on beauty, fantasy, the marvelous, mimesis, and the sublime. Conti was the earliest philosopher to dedicate a study to Gravina’s Della ragion poetica, in his Dissertazione sopra la ragione poetica del Gravina (1759); his comments on Guidi’s L’Endimione demonstrate influence from Gravina’s philosophy, and potentially from the Discorso. On L’Endimione, Conti

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compares the play to Petrarch’s laments on Laura’s death, as examples of enthusiasm (or perhaps in Gravina’s terminology, the sublime), which Conti divides into two categories: tranquil (tranquillo), and perturbed (perturbato). The registers of enthusiasm derive from two types of maraviglia; the former, from contemplating the sublime, the latter, from contemplating human passion: “The tranquil is born of wonder which renders the soul ecstatic in contemplation of a sublime object; the perturbed, of wonder which accompanies the effects of love, hate, joy . . . and other soft or fierce passions.”106 According to Conti, Guidi’s novel, irregular poetic meters and rhymes— a subject of much debate among the Arcadians—enhance L’Endimione’s Platonic enthusiasm, by “perfecting its harmony.” The early eighteenth-century discourse, advanced by Martelli, Bianchini, Scipione Maffei, and Conti, demonstrates the contested sites within Arcadian literary reform regarding imitation and novelty. As an emblem of Arcadian reform, Guidi’s poetry fueled these debates. When contextualized in terms of literary style, Guidi’s poetry was considered too imitative of the past, making it derivative; when contextualized in aesthetic or philosophical terms, Guidi’s imitation of the past (especially of Platonic and Petrarchan concerns) renovated Italian literature. In the second half of the eighteenth century, Guidi’s name appears in major anthologies, biographical dictionaries, and literary catalogs, not only in Italian but also in French and English; Guidi’s reputation has now spread beyond the confines of the Arcadian Academy and the Italian Republic of Letters.107 The anthologizing tendency replicates Crescimbeni’s Arcadian propaganda, demonstrating that the same works considered most “Arcadian” by the Arcadians themselves, continue to be cited in later literary histories; their enduring presence also testifies to the sustained value that Guidi’s poetry held for Italian culture. The erudite literary historian Girolamo Tiraboschi (1731–94) includes a biography of Guidi in his monumental Storia della letteratura italiana, in fifteen volumes, published over a period of ten years, from 1772–82. Tiraboschi’s compendium participates in the later iteration of the same literary polemics between Italy and France that had prompted the Arcadian Academy, but now he blames Spanish influence for any faults perceived in Italian poetry.108 Writing to bolster the Italian tradition, Tiraboschi is happy to incorporate support for the Arcadian style; of Guidi, Tiraboschi writes: “the poetry of Guidi is full of enthusiasm and energy, and he is one of the few who, happily, have known how to instill the imagination and fire of Pindar into Italian poetry.”109 The later eighteenth-century writers seem more intent on documenting, than on debating, Guidi’s place in Italian literary history. In the nineteenth century, Guidi’s poetry is considered in one of three predominant frameworks: (1) repeating the Arcadian tradition; (2) using language associated with seventeenth-century discourse, but with different outcomes; and (3) translating Arcadian satire into harsh criticism. Many discussions continue to place Guidi among Italy’s best poets, while borrowing heavily—if not reproducing

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entirely—from eighteenth-century sources; there are some studies that offer new viewpoints, however. In this body of nineteenth-century criticism Guidi’s fortunes begin to change. Giovanni Battista Corniani (1742–1813) displays awareness of the Arcadian discourse, by quoting a comparison between Guidi and Petrarch,110 and by describing Guidi’s imagistic poetic language; however, he misapplies the Arcadian dialectic between the imagistic and sonic functions of poetry, by complimenting the musical harmonies of Guidi’s poetry, and by not distinguishing in quality the poet’s early (refuted) style from his later, Arcadian style. According to Corniani, Guidi’s early style is “pleasing to the ear,” and “wedded to a sweet music;” his “purified,” Roman style contains “elevated, vivid, and energetic” ideas, and harmonious, splendid, and sublime images.111 Yet like other nineteenth-century critics, Corniani suggests that Guidi’s biggest flaw is his “excessiveness,” though not to the extent of affectation. Guidi also erred in “wordiness,” and “intemperance in figures of speech,” or description.112 We find here a position that accrued over time, resulting from backward glances and changed literary values; Corniani tints his judgment with early nineteenth-century taste. Nineteenth-century critics also replicated eighteenth-century satirical responses to Guidi’s literary reform, transposing their meaning due to their changed context. The satirical tone proliferates disproportionately to its eighteenth-century origins. Two major eighteenth-century satirical figures—Quinto Settano (Arcadian pseudonym for Lodovico Sergardi, 1660–1726) and Giuseppe Baretti (1719–89)—had a major impact on Guidi’s nineteenth-century critical reception. We find in the nineteenth-century literature continued references to these earlier writers, some to propagate and continue the attacks, and others to try to mitigate them. Sergardi, a member of the Arcadian Academy, targeted the pastoral mode in his Latin satirical poems. Positioning himself as a new Juvenal or Horace, Sergardi referenced vocabulary and phrases from the Latin comic and satirical tradition while hurling insults at Arcadia, but especially at Gravina, for his staunch Grecophilia, but also implicated people, places, and politics of contemporary Rome.113 As an insider, Sergardi used the methods and mantle of Arcadia, satirizing while participating in the same aesthetic movement. A 1786 Italian translation of his Satire includes a frontispiece that accurately translates Sergardi’s wit into a visual medium (see fig. 4). Here, a satyr with a quiver full of arrows beats a pastoral shepherd with a stick, while unmasking him—in Arcadian circles, this action reveals identity, removing the pseudonymic symbolism. Beneath and behind the shepherd is his hunting dog, who twists and watches, yelping; in the foreground a snake observes, and in the background, to the left, a peacock also looks on. These animal “audience” members each embody their own symbolisms. The snake, which can represent treachery or deceit, may refer to the pastoral satyr attacking his own countryman (or, Sergardi attacking Arcadia); the peacock, which signifies

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figure 4. Lodovico Sergardi, Satire di

Q. Settano (1786). A Satyr “unmasks” a shepherd, while allegorical animals—the snake, the peacock, and the dog—look on. Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München, 961285 P.o.it. 946 I, scan 7, urn:nbn:de:bvb:12-bsb10758106–4.

beauty—or the lyricized beauty of the pastoral environment—can also denote pride. The dog, the shepherd’s trusty companion, may characterize envy114—an appropriate satirical representation of poets who imitated past greatness. In his fourth satire, Sergardi lambasts Guidi’s Pindaric style, Gravina’s rigid moralism, the plot of L’Endimione, and the Amsterdam reprint of the play together with the Discorso, which supposedly came to fruition because of disagreements between the two authors over which work should be placed first. Although Sergardi’s original readers likely understood the lightheartedness behind his acerbic wit, nineteenth-century commentators felt it necessary to defend Guidi from Sergardi’s attacks.115 Giuseppe Baretti, author of the short-lived but immensely popular eighteenthcentury literary circular La frusta letteraria (The Literary Whip), used sarcasm and satire to severely criticize Alessandro Guidi and the entire Arcadian movement. Although Baretti idealized Metastasio—justifying his inconsistency by explaining how Metastasio’s contributions to eighteenth-century drama differed from the other

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Arcadian nonsense—he particularly disliked Gravina, even though Gravina was Metastasio’s primary mentor for using classical sources to create opera seria. Baretti uses Gravina’s praise of L’Endimione as evidence of the philosopher’s pedantry and lack of sophistication.116 Baretti’s sarcasm directly influenced the nineteenth-century receptions of the Arcadian Academy, Guidi’s L’Endimione, and Gravina’s Discorso. Due to Baretti’s original popularity and wide circulation, his voice increased in authority through frequent, subsequent citation. For example, the literary historian Giuseppe Maffei frequently relies on Baretti for his literary aesthetic judgment throughout his authoritative, three-volume literary history, the Storia della letteratura italiana; Baretti’s sarcasm infiltrates Maffei’s description of the Arcadian Academy and its origins: “The Arcadia was founded in Rome at the end of the seventeenth century (1690), and did not assist in the goal for which Crescimbeni and other scholars created it, that is, to wage war on bad taste, with which Italy was woefully inundated; therefore the members of Arcadia fell into ridiculous languor and into vapid sweetness (as Baretti calls it), and strung along hundreds of little niceties in many different meters of eleven syllables each.”117 Aware of the satirical tradition, Maffei defends Guidi from his detractors, who disliked his novel poetic forms and grandiose allusions to Pindaric style, but does not exactly endorse Guidi’s poetry: “Such novelty was not generally disapproved of; but the forcefulness with which [Guidi] spoke of his Pindaric flights rendered him the target of parodies and satires of many, including, among others, the famous [Quinto] Settano.118 Angelo Anelli (1761–1820) brought the satirical tradition into the early nineteenth century. A professor of literature, Anelli authored stage comedies and librettos set to music by prominent composers, including Rossini and Donizetti. His seven-volume satire, Le cronache di Pindo (1811–18) devotes two volumes to the Arcadian Academy: volume 4, L’Arcadia (1814), and volume 5, Il voto degli Arcadi (1815). The entire set reviews significant Italian literary monuments, from antiquity through the present, thus satirizing the entire genre of literary history. Through detailed descriptions, in poetic verse with biting wit, Anelli demonstrates familiarity with Arcadian literature and rituals, including the amphitheater in the Bosco Parrasio (Parrhasian Grove), the Leges Arcadum, the Giuochi Olimpici, the Arcadian meetings, and works by individual members. For example, one stanza ridicules Arcadia’s monumentalizing tendencies, questioning the competitiveness existing within the so-called “democracy” of equal shepherds. Anelli depicts the shepherds responding to Crescimbeni’s request to decorate the Parrhasian Grove with their best poetic art; we see a series of poets literally adding monuments to the garden, with titles inscribed in marble: Opico (un mal poeta, abbenchè scopra Agli altri la Poetica ragione) Lega ad un lauro un bel vincastro, e sopra Vi scrive a lettere d’oro: Endimione.

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Chapter Two A celar le sue epistole s’adopra Il Magalotti invan; chè il dotto Érone Ne attacca un fascio a un ramoscel d’olive, Sotto il qual si leggea: Così si scrive. Opico [Gravina] (a poor poet, although he uncovers For others the Ragion poetica) Attaches a willow branch to a laurel, and above He writes in golden letters: L’Endimione.119 Magalotti tries in vain To hide his epistles; but the learned Èrone Attaches a sheaf of them to an olive branch, Beneath which reads: This is how to write.120

Nineteenth-century critics struggled to define Arcadia’s place in the Italian literary tradition. Several authors attempted to mitigate the harsh criticisms deriving from the satirical tradition—such as Michele Cimorelli (Saggi delle belle lettere italiane, 1826) and Giuseppe Zirardini (L’Italia letteraria ed artistica, 1850)—but still offered mixed reviews on the significance or importance of the literary reform group. There is a persistent sense that, while the Arcadians cured one poetic excess, they created a new one. Cimorelli’s analysis of Guidi’s style uses many of the keywords we have seen in eighteenth-century discussions (colorful, elevated, novel, sublime, transcendent, vivid),121 while his own style manifests the romantic aesthetic. Cimorelli demonstrates that despite changing tastes, nineteenth-century critics were still able to appreciate the goals and poetic devices promoted by the Arcadian Academy. He furthermore mitigates the criticism that Guidi had received in the previous literature, by defending the poet’s changing meters and vestiges of mannerism; Cimorelli asserts that Guidi’s critics mistook his “lush and bold” expressive devices—the intrinsic qualities of poetry—for Marinism, distinguishing between his “juvenile” and “mature” works.122 Cimorelli demonstrates familiarity with the Arcadian rhetorical and literary discourse, reasserting its continued value for nineteenth-century criticism. Zirardini creates a series of biographical “portraits,” including one hundred Italian artists and writers, who have contributed to Italy’s cultural heritage. His format reveals his literary viewpoint, by contextualizing art with literature, uniting biography with pictorial vignette, and constructing a compendium of historical and contemporary taste. Guidi takes his place alongside his predecessors Dante, Ariosto, Castiglione, Tasso, Poliziano, and Marino, his contemporary and Arcadian colleague Vincenzo Filicaia, and his successors Giuseppe Parini (1729–99) and Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837). The most notable artists include Michelangelo (1475–1564), Titian, Guido Reni (1575–1642), and Antonio Canova (1757–1822). Although Zirardini praises Guidi, he defames the Arcadian Academy for its pastoral dilettantism: “Certainly [the Arcadians] received high praise for having

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recovered poetry from many long-held offenses, but we will not be silent regarding a grave damage that resulted. Since the sighs of all these versifiers turned lovesick shepherds annoyed all of Italy, which was deafened by thousands of lines of sonorous but meaningless babble, the name Arcadico attached to any poet, even now, is little less than injurious.”123 Zirardini’s comments reveal that Arcadia, both as an organization and as a concept, is certainly passé in the mid-nineteenth century, but that its most notable thinkers and writers—Guidi included—have managed to rise above the general stereotype engendered by changing tastes. From the mid-nineteenth century on, it is increasingly challenging to find positive reviews of Guidi and his works; characterizations, such as Zirardini’s, of Arcadia as a group of unoriginal imitators continues today to color our perception of Alessandro Guidi and his Arcadian colleagues. Standard university textbooks, such as Paolo Emiliani-Giudici’s (1812–72) Storia della letteratura italiana (1844), established the new paradigm for litero-critical taste; scholars thence viewed Guidi and others from the Arcadian movement as “imitators of Chiabrera,” who in turn had imitated Pindar.124 Although Emiliani-Giudici criticized the entire Pindaric trend, implicating a much broader group—including figures such as Fulvio Testi (1593– 1646) and Giovanni Ciampoli (1589–1643) in addition to the Arcadians Benedetto Menzini and Vincenzo Filicaia—his criticism of Arcadia was particularly harsh, characterizing the movement as comprising Baroque degeneration and “poetic sanfedisti.”125 This was a politically charged term referring to conservative religious factions that rioted against the emerging Italian republic in Naples in 1799, for which an equivalent might be “poetic reactionary bandits.” As a native Neapolitan, Emiliani-Giudici could hardly use a more damning phrase in a literary historiography written from a nationalist, ethical-moral framework. He is essentially calling the Arcadian movement anti-Italian, destructive of national literary identity. Of his targeted group of imitators, Emiliani-Giudici considers Ciampoli and Guidi the best poets, but he derides even these, writing: “They took the Pindaric mania so far as to render themselves ridiculous; their mode of writing would give the impression of balloons, filled with air, which spun among the clouds.”126 The harshness of Emiliani-Giudici’s language—and his criticisms of Arcadian aesthetic—resonates with the similar biting tone found in the eighteenth-century satirical tradition; however, his forceful authority operates differently with respect to Arcadian reception. The eighteenth-century satirical tradition functioned from within; a satirized object must reach a broad level of popularity for the satirical depiction to contain relevant significance, such that the satire is relatively harmless against the institution overall, while resonating with contrary opinions already in circulation. When the satirical language developed from within begins impacting nonsatirical portrayals separated by time and distance from the original institution, the effects are cemented into literary history. From this point on, the historiographic tradition no longer relies on the testimony created by the Arcadians.

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The nineteenth-century concerns of the Risorgimento, Romanticism, and the Italian bohemian movement (Scapigliatura), caused Italian literary critics to lose sight of the Arcadian movement’s own vantage point—which, in changed aesthetic circumstances was increasingly important for appreciating Arcadian buon gusto. At the same time, the critical tradition somewhat lost the early Arcadian importance to opera seria and Italian drama, focusing instead on the contributions of eighteenth-century librettists such as Metastasio. From this legacy, I leave you with two modern resonances: the first, from Domenico Consoli’s Dall’Arcadia all’Illuminismo (1972), a central work that shaped modern scholarship on Arcadian aesthetic; and the second, from Valentina Gallo’s edition of Guidi’s L’Endimione (2011): In reality, Guidi’s ideology is decidedly poor, his versification is free of neither sonority nor verbal exuberances, and the framework itself of the poems is tied to an ambitious structural plan, showing itself, at best, in a certain skill at organization. Alessandro Guidi’s L’Endimione has enjoyed, first among its contemporaries, then in the stages of criticism, a favor that has seemed, to many, very disproportionate to the actual poetic merits of the text.127

These excerpts clearly echo the mid-nineteenth-century viewpoint, although Gallo’s critical commentary provides much insight on the intellectual culture surrounding Guidi’s poem through Queen Christina’s philosophical poetic interventions. Not much has changed in our estimation of Guidi’s reform poetry, although it still receives interest in scholarly discourse. In any period of stylistic or aesthetic change, audiences will react with ears trained to appreciate the status quo. The Arcadian audience, already taught to disdain the mannerist Baroque style so common in the seventeenth century, largely embraced Guidi’s novel and imagistic lyricism; the Arcadians appreciated his shift from primarily aural to primarily visual modes of sensory perception. By the midnineteenth century, aesthetic differences negated and denied these important sensory distinctions. While I am not suggesting a complete reversal of our current evaluation of Guidi’s legacy, I am suggesting that we retune ourselves to the aesthetic environment that shaped Guidi’s poetry. Just as historical performance practice research retrains our ears to appreciate music from earlier eras, we need to reconstruct a “way of seeing” appropriate to Guidi’s Arcadian milieu. Only through the eyes and imaginations of Guidi’s contemporaries will we ever truly understand what L’Endimione meant in its own time. While we cannot fully reconstruct those conditions, we can gain insight into modes of perception pertinent to Guidi’s Arcadian audience. We can use Gravina’s immagine del vero to position ourselves—as closely as possible—in the seats of the Arcadian amphitheater, or of the late seventeenthcentury Roman opera house.

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Reading the Classics Intellectual and Cultural Resonances in Gravina’s Discorso sopra l’Endimione One must judge our [era] fortunate, bright, and illustrious, compared to past centuries, because of the ornament and splendor that in our time is instilled from various and wondrous doctrines; from these, new ideas are produced through discovery, while other ideas—which had once fallen away—resurge; those ideas, which had long been obscured by dark ignorance, are fortunately revealed. —gianvincenzo gravina, discorso sopra l’endimione

This first sentence of Gravina’s Discorso celebrates the dawning of a new era, just prior to a new century, inaugurating revitalized creative potential. By acknowledging the new discoveries of the era, yet emphasizing their dependence on past scholarship, Gravina guides the audience to accept the challenges posed by Guidi’s text. The performance of Guidi’s L’Endimione marshaled excitement within Arcadia, symbolizing the academy’s new visual aesthetic; yet, as with any experimental work, L’Endimione likely surprised members of its audience due to its departure from expected generic and representational paradigms associated with the pastoral favola and the Endymion myth.1 Gravina’s introduction also defends his own novel literary critical approaches, which he intermingled with classical arguments. Gravina’s Discorso enters new territory; while previous critics sought to explain how new literature compared to classical precepts, or to place authors in a continuum of historical literary development (as would Crescimbeni in L’istoria of 1698), Gravina establishes a new analytical method. By preparing the audience to expect past and present juxtapositions, he mitigates potential criticism of the performative content rendered at the celebratory conversazione, whether the poetic recital they have just witnessed, or the philosophical lecture they are about to hear. Gravina challenges any notion that discovery should overthrow the treasures of past knowledge. Thus, discovery and rediscovery should balance each other. This 75

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opening statement provides insight on Guidi’s L’Endimione, and Gravina’s own Discorso, positioning the Arcadian movement among many exciting innovations occurring in the broader world outside the Parrhasian Grove. Late seventeenth-century Rome was awash with new discoveries and rediscoveries, some physical and material—such as recent, ambitious architectural programs that had transformed the city, or archeological investigations that led to fascination with antiquities; other discoveries were scientific and empirical—such as telescopes and microscopes used to see the invisible world, whether large or small, investigating objects ranging from the cosmos to cellular organisms.2 Gravina participated in the emerging scientific culture, by attending Ciampini’s Accademia fisico-matematica beginning shortly after his arrival in Rome, in 1688. Immersed in that academic circle, he would have witnessed the new experimental procedures intended to verify and prove past results. Gravina’s observational experiences and his direct contact with experimental science influenced both his philosophical and jurisprudential approaches. An early biographer noted that Gravina’s novel ideas led him to break away from the primarily scholastic legal doctrines in favor of essentialist interpretations motivated by truthful observation and supported by ancient knowledge: “He fled the useless disputes about the meaning of words and the scholastic speculations, with which the majority of Legal scholars have cluttered that unhappy discipline. Instead, penetrating the spirit of the Laws, he illustrated the theory with observations drawn from ancient writers, and with the light of a precise criticism and a vast erudition.”3 Gravina’s Discorso manifests similar tensions between past and present, offering truthful observations on imagistic perception and literary representation by citing a vast body of ancient scholarship to promote the experimental, empirical processes he had witnessed in Ciampini’s academy, now applying them to literature. Insufficient analysis of the intertextual layers engaging art and science in Gravina’s Discorso has led scholars to misunderstand his seemingly conflicting argumentative stances, woven from various degrees of evidentiary references to ancient and contemporary sources.4 In some instances, Gravina explicitly names his sources to grant authoritative weight to his own arguments, while in other instances, he only vaguely refers to concepts originating in Platonic, Aristotelian, and other classical and early modern texts. The structure of Gravina’s treatise provides some insight, however, into his motivations. The lecture divides into three broad sections. The first section describes the problems facing contemporary literature and literary criticism and argues against Aristotelian scholasticism; the second section constructs a theory of representational verisimilitude, which Gravina calls the immagine del vero (the “image of truth”). In this section, Gravina distinguishes between vero (truth), falso (falsehood), and finto (the feigned, or fiction), using examples addressing epistemological and phenomenological concepts. The third section defends Guidi’s L’Endimione

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by describing its truthful representational properties. This three-part division alerts the audience to Gravina’s rhetorical strategy. By revoking Aristotelian generic criticism—the only method available to seventeenth-century literary scholars— Gravina preempts condemnations of Guidi’s unusual dramatic structure while making space for his new immagine del vero. By defining the various visual layers that contribute to our perceptions of truthfulness, Gravina not only delineates a creative process for poets, but predisposes the Arcadian audience to “see” L’Endimione’s truth while establishing precepts they will need to understand before hearing Gravina’s analysis of the play. In this chapter, I will “read” Gravina’s Discorso, rendering its complex intertextualities—based on sources commonly known to the Arcadian Parrhasian Grove—intelligible to modern audiences, particularly making it accessible to humanists who could harness the treatise’s interpretive potential, but who do not work in the fields of philosophy or history of science. This analysis will also contribute to understanding Gravina’s own intellectual culture, the sources with which he was fluent, and the sources that both motivated the Arcadian agenda and circulated as a lingua franca among its “shepherds.” My goal here is not to create an exhaustive interpretation of every possible source for Gravina’s ideas, since in almost every instance a complex stemma (genealogy) would be necessary to depict the origination and subsequent early modern historiography of each concept. Instead, I intend to show how the Discorso enters the scientific debates surrounding Gravina in Rome, by harnessing classical scholarship to create a philosophical evidentiary process analogous to the emerging empirical, scientific methods enacted within the Accademia fisico-matematica. Although the prevailing scholarship on Gravina has discussed his adherence to various philosophical precedents, this body of literature has not recognized the value of the Discorso for constructing seventeenth-century ways of seeing and believing, or for extracting from it a viable method of literary criticism. By focusing on the visual aspects of Gravina’s Discorso, via the immagine del vero, I will demonstrate how we can harness his analysis of L’Endimione to reconstruct the symbolic and epistemological aspects of Arcadian verisimilitude. F U SIO N A N D C O N F U SIO N In Gravina’s philosophy of light, elements of luminous symbolism from the Platonic and Neoplatonic tradition cohabit with others of the Christianscholastic tradition mediated by the Dantesque model, more or less consciously. It not being clear to what extent Gravina made a sharp conceptual distinction between the Platonic or Neoplatonic elements and the scholastic elements of his philosophy of light, one could speak more of a “confusion” than a “fusion” at work among elements of such disparate derivation.5 —annarita placella, gravina e l’universo dantesco

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Discovery and rediscovery motivate the primary tensions found in Gravina’s Discorso. Utilizing multiple classical philosophical arguments, sometimes ostensibly conflicting in nature, Gravina appears to create a patchwork of preexisting ideas. Reading the Discorso primarily from a perspective of literary borrowing leads one to conclude, as Placella does in the passage quoted above, that Gravina creates a “confusion” of his sources. Furthermore, it is challenging to discover where Gravina ceases to imitate older ideas and begins to create new approaches—how does he contribute to late seventeenth-century philosophical discourse? A pyramid constructed of Gravina’s ideas, placing the most important, overarching concepts at the top, situating interdependent ideas below, would outline the primary literary and philosophical concerns of the era, motivated by conflicts between Cartesian rationalism and the new empirical methodologies leading to the new science and the Enlightenment. Yet reading the Discorso from Gravina’s embedded cross-disciplinary approach, interacting with art, literature, philosophy, and science—rather than from his complex layers of borrowed intertextualities—uncovers how he sought to harness the authoritative classical tradition to solve ontological and epistemological questions circulating in his own intellectual culture, both within the Arcadian Academy and the Accademia fisico-matematica. For the Arcadians, Gravina endorses the truthfulness of mythology, using euhemeristic interpretations while casting a skeptical shadow on history, and constructs a utopian, egalitarian theory of pastoral literature; in this sense, both in the Parrhasian Grove and beyond it, the Discorso continues the performance of Arcadian identity embodied by Guidi’s L’Endimione.6 For the Accademia fisico-matematica (or, perhaps for the broader scientific community in the Republic of Letters, with which Gravina was well connected), Gravina answers questions arising from experimental practices and ocular devices; for this audience, Gravina asserts—in the face of a broad culture skeptical of visual observation, with many still resisting scientific cosmological explanations initiated by Galileo7—that visual mechanisms of perception render truthful results. To this end, Gravina layers arguments on vision and perception from early modern art history and from classical and Cartesian philosophy. Bringing the scientific back to the literal, Gravina fashions an unprecedented literary methodology. From this perspective, Gravina’s Discorso is far from unoriginal. At every turn in the Discorso the reader discovers a new twist on older ideas; the result is fresh, innovative, and surprising. In setting forth a new literary program for Arcadia, Gravina establishes an evidentiary process, using overt and implicit citation, reference, and allegory to establish authoritative, irrefutable, and veritable proof. Gravina clarifies the Arcadian Academy’s relationship to the past, charging his colleagues in the Parrhasian Grove not to depend on mere recycling of preexisting ideas, but to apply emerging empirical philosophical and scientific concepts to

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new literature. In my analysis, I will demonstrate how Gravina creates a “fusion” of his sources to create a novel literary method. P L AT O N IC P O L E M IC S

Gravina’s hearty endorsement of Platonic philosophy and condemnation of Aristotelian literary criticism motivates the central conflict within the Discorso. Gravina condenses nearly two thousand years of cultural influences into one central dualism— Aristotelianism, which promoted “decay” and “false interpretations,” and Platonism, which fostered the “flourishing culture” exemplified by Renaissance humanism.8 Gravina’s attitudes were already evident in his treatise, the Hydra mystica (published in 1691), which attacked Jesuit casuistry and Aristotelian scholasticism for (what he considered) modern laxist beliefs and moral heresies.9 Beyond the central Platonic/Aristotelian conflict, the Discorso’s primary diatribes generate a series of dualisms, here listed according to Gravina’s pejorative and positive values, respectively: critic/poet, rhetorician/philosopher, grammarian/scientist, secentismo/neoclassicism, Marino/Dante, falsity/truth, rationalism/empiricism, contrivance/lyricism, appealing to the ear / appealing to the eye. Gravina constructs a second layer of dualisms with equal relative value, such as heroism/pastoralism; civil law / religious law; novelty/imitation; marvelous/humble. Despite the number of intertwined oppositions, producing a surface tension in the Discorso, a clear focus emerges, not borrowed but constructed, layered from deliberately chosen classical sources familiar to the Arcadian audience. Gravina conjoins diverse materials, enlarging ideas potentially expressed by the collective members of the six-monthold Arcadia. As a founding document, Gravina’s Discorso gathers a body of knowledge into one thread, proposing a new epistemological model. After the sweeping introduction quoted above, Gravina’s Discorso articulates scathing criticism against following narrow Aristotelian precepts to create or judge new literature, to the detriment of fantasy and imagination. First, Gravina establishes that modern literature has fallen into disgrace due to misinterpreting classical principles: “That which the Greek philosophers had advised and reduced to true causes, having fallen into the hands of pedants, sophists, rhetoricians, and critics lacking in design and of starved and narrow intellect, has been contaminated and corrupted by them.”10 Placing the task of literary criticism into the hands of rhetorical pedants rather than philosophers, has caused the downfall of modern Italian poetry. Whereas rhetoricians can only judge literature according to the properties of works already published, philosophers can apply “new and continuous observations” (“nuove e perpetue osservazioni”) according to scientific principles. While the rhetorician creates rules, the philosopher seeks aesthetic explanations for artistic beauty.11 Precedent circumscribes the rhetorician’s craft, but novelty, imagination, and change fuel the philosopher-scientist.

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Gravina blames literary critics, and their narrow applications of the so-called Aristotelian principles for the prescriptive generic labeling and comparative analysis that limits new literary forms: [Poetry] would be restricted by ambitious and stingy precepts such that no work can be brought to light that is not immediately called to examination before the court of law and interrogated in the first place regarding its name and being, so that one soon sees brought forth an action which lawyers call prejudicial, and in one stroke contestation is formed about the work’s status, whether it be poem, romance, tragedy, comedy, or some other prescribed genre. And if this work deviates in any way from precepts born of false interpretation of Aristotle . . ., and if there is anything which cannot be reduced easily to these definitions, they wish that the work be banished immediately and exiled for eternity.12

Although Gravina never develops his arguments against “false interpreters” (beyond declaring the impossibility of reducing Aristotle’s ample philosophy to a handful of rules), we can surmise that he refers to the strict generic trend dominating literary criticism. Early modern Aristotelian poetics emphasized categorizing genres according to structural properties, including the narrative “unities” (which, in the early modern reincarnation, bore little resemblance to Aristotle’s original text).13 Instead of being bound to a restrictive systematic poetics, Gravina promotes literary experimentation, which generates creativity and knowledge, providing that the expression remains connected to universal truths. Gravina’s rigorous education, in the school of Gregorio Caloprese (1654–1715), and later with eminent Greek professor Gregorio Messere (1636–1708) at the university in Naples, emphasized reading and interpreting primary sources, especially from the classical tradition, but also more recent philosophers, such as Bacon (1561–1626), Descartes (1596–1650), Nicole (1625–95), and Bossuet (1627–1704), and of course the notable Italian poets, such as Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso.14 Furthermore, exposure to Neapolitan academic circles, which held profound skepticism toward received ideas, led Gravina to have an uncomfortable relationship with historiographical and philosophical authority in secondary interpretation.15 Throughout the Discorso Gravina blames critics for blindly following “authority” (“autorità”); critics are “governed by others’ authority,” and, “lacking reason, they proclaim edicts only on the authority of others.”16 Differing interpretations of the same works result in “nothing more than a stream of words”; these words fill up our minds, “usurping the space dedicated to things.”17 Gravina instead contends that each person has within himself the ability to understand everything through reasoned perception, since “the source of knowledge resides in the human mind itself.”18 Reason is the antidote to received authority: “I have not wanted authority and the fame of whichever writer to have diverted the course of my mind from that sign [symbol, signal, idea] to which it has guided itself with a direct line of reason-

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ing.”19 Gravina reveres the classical tradition, and uses his vast range of sources as evidence to build his own authority, but he does not trust interpretations of sources that have been corrupted over time by the constant repetition internal to the early modern literary corpus. Gravina’s condemnation of “false interpretations of Aristotle,” and his deep mistrust and skepticism of the scholarly tradition, may have shocked members of his Arcadian audience; they may not have been prepared for a complete overhaul requiring the rediscovery of Greek primary sources, such as Gravina demands. For the Arcadian audience, hearing Gravina criticize the Aristotelian literary tradition might have felt like an internal attack. If we juxtapose Gravina’s censure of Aristotelian criticism with Crescimbeni’s criticisms of generic mixture in opera, or his “heroic pastoral” based on the five-act Aristotelian tragic structure, we might hear in Gravina’s Discorso the earliest stages of the ensuing public rupture between Gravina and Crescimbeni, resulting in the 1711 schism.20 The Arcadian audience must have wondered whether Gravina implicated the academy in his described downfall of poetry. Although Gravina initially censures the Arcadians’ certainty in their own correctness, his tone gradually shifts to conciliation; by weaving his contentious strands into a harmonious structure supporting his eventual interpretation of Guidi’s L’Endimione, and by incorporating certain aspects of the Aristotelian vocabulary— a lingua franca for literary criticism—he placates his audience. Gravina only uses Aristotelian language to the extent that it supports his own empirical, sensory theory, and he only borrows concepts with a direct lineage from Aristotle’s original texts. As a result, it may be easy to perceive too much remaining of the Seicento Aristotelianism that Gravina claims to despise, concluding that Gravina creates a confusing, tangled disarray without realizing his own contradictions. On the contrary, Gravina presents impeccable rhetorical strategy. He engages his audience in polemic by explaining the injurious nature of recent literary criticism, using welldefined philosophical dualisms. Gradually shifting away from the initial polemic, he proposes new solutions, imbuing his Neoplatonic arguments with only those traces of Aristotelianism that explain the audience’s sensory perception of truth. He redefines the universally understood Aristotelian vocabulary by situating it in new contexts, applying the resulting methodology to contemporary literature. To expose how this rhetorical process functions in Gravina’s text, I will construct the immagine del vero, reordering the Discorso to demonstrate the process from poetic creation to audience perception, while examining the Platonic and Aristotelian language contributing to Gravina’s immagine del vero. L’ I M M AG I N E DE L V E R O . . . provided that, in these fictions, one recognizes the image of truth. —gianvincenzo gravina, discorso sopra l’endimione

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Images reside at the center of Gravina’s poetic theory. The phrase l’immagine del vero only appears in two instances in the Discorso, but these two instances reveal the most important symbolic aspects of truthful representation: how the poet embeds truthful ideas in fictional narrative (quoted above), and how such images, when clear and vivid, result in wonder.21 Other scholars have seized on the importance of the phrase in Gravina’s Discorso, but have focused on how Gravina establishes even unnatural, fantastical, or mythological representations as truthful because they symbolize real characters, emotions, or reactions.22 However, Gravina’s Discorso uses images not only as a metaphor for representational truthfulness, but creates an imagistic framework encompassing every aspect of poetry. By detailing the responsibilities of the poet to encapsulate images through language, and then explaining how audiences receive, perceive, and judge images through reading text (or watching a performance), Gravina not only establishes images as a figurative concept, he constructs a mimetic narrative process that results in a theory of sensory perception. From the creative aspect, the author must envision a subject, choose the appropriate language, style, diction, and meter, and transfer an image into the reader’s mind. Gravina elaborates in his longer, more famous Della ragion poetica of 1708. Della ragion poetica builds on both the Discorso and Gravina’s treatise Delle antiche favole (Rome, 1696), using the earlier treatises as a structural starting point or rough draft. Gravina copied portions of the earlier texts directly into the Ragion poetica, with minor alterations and expanded insertions. The relationship between the 1708 version and the 1692 Discorso allows us to see how Gravina’s thoughts evolved after giving his lecture to the Arcadian audience; it also allows us to gain insight into some aspects of the Discorso that he explained only incompletely. In the later text, we find a more explicit, concise rendering of how the poet creates and uses images: “Therefore the poet, by means of images [expresses] the natural, and by means of vivid representation corresponding to the true existence and nature of the imagined objects, moves and agitates the imagination in the same way as the real objects, and produces within us the same effects as the real events.”23 Returning to the Discorso, we read that the poet should use various tools to sculpt images: subject, narrative (favola, locuzione), language (parola), and meter (numero). Poetry represents reality, by “inventing things resembling the truth, and events that take place in the world.”24 More than a series of descriptive events, the narrative embodies representative objects, made visible only after impressing their images on the mind. Figurative characters, including marvelous creatures such as “giants, hippogriffs, Polyphemus, Hercules, Cerberus, whales, dolphins, fairies,” and “colossal statues,” elicit wonder. These figures embody art that reveals the human form, and creatures both fantastic and real, whether awe-inspiring or mythological. Although “beyond the course of nature,” each symbolizes something recognizable in the human experience, whether aggrandized or allegorical.25

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Fantastical creatures evoke truthfulness by representing inexplicable human experiences and reactions. Locution (locuzione) inscribes images onto the mind of the audience; appropriate literary devices “sculpt the image of the thing itself in the imagination.”26 We commonly associate “locution” with grammar or style—the technical aspects of literary expression, or with “utterance,” the act of speaking. Yet throughout the Discorso Gravina uses the word locuzione to refer alternately to narrative devices— the arrangement of ideas—or to literary devices—the manner of telling, and how words “speak” to the listener. Something more than individual words, locuzione has to do with how words work together. Gravina’s “locution” possesses artistic agency, inscribing visual traces on the imagination. Words also “sculpt the true essence of things in the imagination.”27 Poets should use detailed descriptions (“particolarmente descritte”) of things and people to most resemble the truth.28 As in Homer’s Iliad or Ariosto’s Orlando furioso, the language should be “rich, and ornamented with vivid, rhetorical, and poetic colors.”29 The poetic meter also represents “the nature of the thing that it expresses,” by “turning and transforming the sound” like a musician “playing the strings of a lyre.”30 Gravina uses artistic practices as a metaphor to express his theory. Poetry functions like other mimetic arts, such as music, dance, acting, painting, and sculpture. These performative arts use sound, gesture, and color (“suono, gesto, colori”) to represent “nature, actions, customs (or morals/behavior), and affections.”31 Even when not using the term immagine, Gravina’s philosophical definition of truth describes imagistic concepts—color, description, details, monumental figures, sculpting, vividness. Poetry moves the imagination, using words as gesture and sound through its imagistic traces. The Arcadian audience, inspired by ancient monuments and pastoral landscapes, would recognize activities such as sculpting, painting with vivid colors, and contemplating colossal statues as metaphors for intellectual discourse, tools that convey ideas; for the Arcadian audience, these actions would bring past narratives into the present. Gravina likens poetry to a generative, representational art. Gravina aligns literature with visual representation, and the poet with visual artists. The Language of Mimesis Gravina’s use of the word immagine in the Discorso to categorize narrative truth resembles Plato’s discussions of art, mimesis, narrative, and representation. Although Gravina never uses the word “mimesis,” and “imitation” appears rarely, the words “expression” (esprimere, espressione) and “resemblance” (rassomigliare/ somiglianza) appear frequently together, surrounded by words like “truth” (vero) and “nature” (natura); for example, Gravina states that it is the poet’s task to express resemblances to nature, and to truth.32 The parallels between Plato’s mimesis and Gravina’s imagistic resemblances are so close, that Gravina may have used

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the word immagine, and the ideas surrounding it, to “translate” a variety of Platonic concepts. The intertextuality of the Discorso challenges our ability to discern the derivations of Gravina’s philosophy; the structure of his writing, however, recalls the translation/commentary process evident in early modern philosophical texts, which frequently do not distinguish between translation, paraphrase, and extrapolated commentary.33 Like Gravina, Plato’s discussion of mimesis uses imagistic vocabulary.34 However, Plato distinguishes between narrative and imagistic forms of representation (Cratylus, 422a-d, 430a-31d, and 432a-d), rather than equating them, as does Gravina.35 In this discussion, Plato asserts that images do not necessarily duplicate exactly the things in the world; therefore, a viewer could grasp the meaning of an inexact representational image. Gravina aligns with Plato by articulating that poetic images “resemble” the truth, or that poets express truth “under the shadow of fiction” (“sotto l’ombra del finto”).36 Plato’s mimetic theory expands in the Republic books 2–3, where the philosopher defines different types of narrative discourse (logoi; similar to Gravina’s locuzione), classifying them according to inherent levels truth or falsehood; Plato also evaluates the contribution of the musico-poetic arts (mousikē) to education, and assesses mimesis as a form of rhetoric. At the beginning of book 10, Plato defines mimetic narrative as first-person storytelling inherent to drama and acting; in mimetic narrative, the author assumes the persona of the subject and thus imitates that subject’s experiences, emotions, actions, and so forth. This contrasts with third-person narrative (diegēsis), which distances the narrator from the subject.37 Plato thus defines mimesis as both authorial, generic (drama), and performative; it is also receptive, since the audience psychologically assimilates the representation. From these passages, Gravina gleans his discussion of poetry as just one of a group of mimetic disciplines, and how representation impacts the audience. In Plato’s famous critique of poetry in the Republic book 10, the philosopher uses imagistic language such as “apparitions” (phantasmata) and “appearances” (phainomena),38 to discuss representational processes. Words such as “idol” (eidōlon/ eidōla), “icon” (eikōn), “paradigm” (paradeigma), and “type” (typos/typoi) describe relative relationships between representation and truth, denoting forms of exemplarity. Plato uses visual arts as an analogy for narrative representation, but devalues arts compared to truthful concepts. Images have a propensity to deceive, and thus “likeness-making” (eikastikē), whether artistic or narrative, must be treated with caution. Since by using a mirror, one can “create” all things, but reflected images only produce an “appearance” of a thing, not “the reality and the truth,”39 images are suspect (Republic, book 10, 596a). If mirrors can reflect any object in its entirety, deceiving the viewer, then artistic renderings mislead us. For example, if a painter holds up a created image from a distance, an observer may believe it is real—which is false. Mimesis in the theater (i.e., written narrative, or dramatic

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action) is also deceptive: “the mimetic art is far removed from the truth, and this, it seems, is the reason why it can produce everything, because it touches or lays hold of only a small part of the object and that a phantom.”40 (Republic, book 10, 598b) Plato develops his visual vocabulary, not to establish a theory of truth—as in Gravina’s immagine del vero—but to explain how mimetic images are mere appearances; images neither have real substance nor convey truthful knowledge. By contrast, in Gravina, images constitute verisimilar representation, and mental processes require visual observation. Within the mind, “particular examples” (“Essempi particolari”) generate the same “art” (arte; could also mean “skill,” “ability”) that the mind had set out to contemplate.41 Gravina’s exemplarity resembles the Platonic “types” (typos/typoi), also meaning “mold” or “stamp”; carried by narrative, these “stamps” affect the mind (especially those of young children), like “soft wax receiving an imprint.” For both philosophers, narrative leaves imagistic impressions on the audience. Gravina borrows Plato’s descriptive analogy, likening the “images of nature” (“immagini della natura”) residing in poetry to an “imprint of the divine idea, whose resemblance is impressed into things, like a figure in wax.”42 In Plato, narratives, stories, or myths (mythoi)—for which Gravina uses the term favola—must convey truths to avoid contradicting the ethical, moral beliefs children should learn (and adults should follow). However, because these stories are not factual, Plato considers them “false” (pseudos and pseudē). Yet the Socratic dialogue suggests that an implied truthfulness is embedded in mythological narrative, if it represents facts and behaviors, either observable or known. Because poetry and drama represent the religious and ethical values of the republic, and because the audience is susceptible to assimilating those values presented via mimesis, the dialogue asserts that mythoi should be restricted to depicting heroic actions. In the Discorso, Gravina allows for the possibility that narratives can contain false (or at least “unreal”) images; however, he does not dwell on falsehood, since his purpose is to construct a theory of truthful narrative. Gravina’s theory of verisimilitude borrows many Platonic concepts—most importantly his discussion of poetry as but one of a group of representative mimetic arts, his imagistic language about “resemblances” and “appearances,” and his borrowed phrase about impressions in wax—but the immagine del vero would be oxymoronic in strict Platonic terms. Plato construes images as illusory, deceptive pretenses, where Gravina promotes images as mechanisms for creating, conveying, and interpreting the truth. Where Gravina departs from Plato’s more stringent definitions, he relies on Aristotle. The scholarship on Gravina in general, and on the Discorso in particular, accentuates his relationship to Plato and the seventeenth-century revisions to the Platonic tradition (Descartes, Malebranche), while not recognizing the significant aspects of Gravina’s borrowing from Aristotle’s philosophy. One of the foremost Aristotelian traces in the Discorso is Gravina’s argument that representation is

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truthful, not a mere derivative. Aristotle recognizes poetry’s imagistic nature, exploring how imitation need not be entirely realistic. In the Poetics, Aristotle categorizes three levels of conceivable representative truthfulness:43 “Since the poet, like the painter and other makers of images, is an imitator, the object of his imitation must always be represented in one of three ways: as it was or is, as it is said or thought to be, or as it ought to be” (Poetics, 25.60b). Literature, therefore, encompasses a literal reality, a reality belonging to a collective consciousness (mythology, fable, rumor, or historiography), and an ideal or utopian reality. Aristotle valued the “probable” over “improbable” events, even when both are “impossible,” and the “persuasive” over the “incredible”: “With respect to the requirements of art, a persuasive (credible) possibility ought to be preferred to an unpersuasive (incredible) possibility.”44 Gravina’s emphasis on “vivid” (vivo), “clear” (chiaro), and “detailed descriptions” (particolarmente descritte) resonates with Aristotle’s “vividness” (enargeia). According to Aristotle, vivid poetic imagery brings actions, ideas, and objects “before the eyes,” facilitating the audience’s experience of narrative truthfulness in the imagination (Poetics, 17.1455a22–26, and Rhetoric, 2.8, 1386a28–b8).45 Gravina’s idealized “imitation of nature” is also closer to Aristotelian philosophy than the Platonic; as we have seen, in Gravina all artistic crafts (arteficj), including poetry, are mimetic “images of nature” (“immagini della natura”).46 Gravina situates Homer as the ideal poet precisely because of his vivid expression (“vivamente espressa”) of universal human conditions, degrees, and customs/ behavior, depicted as “true examples of nature.”47 In the structure of the Discorso, Gravina uses Homer’s vivid, universal representation as “evidence” for Titian’s mixed representation of the humble landscapes (paesi) and serious narratives (istorie),48 that poetry should portray both the “heroic” and “humble,” because humans carry “imperfections in our nature”;49 ultimately, this reasoning leads to Gravina’s theory of mixed representation in the pastoral genre, making it one of the most important defenses of Guidi’s L’Endimione against the generic precepts of the “false interpreters of Aristotle.” Furthermore, Gravina’s long digression on Homer resonates with Aristotle’s critique of the poet in the Poetics. Aristotle praised Homer for his mixed representations: “Just as Homer was an outstanding poet in his representation of the serious . . . so he also showed the form of comedy, dramatizing the ludicrous rather than the merely censuring.”50 Other ideas from Aristotle’s critique of Homer appear in different sections of the Discorso. For example, Aristotle was more concerned with the “natural” and the “proper” than the realistic, using the term “propriety” to convey idealized reality—in the seventeenth-century literary tradition, Aristotle’s “propriety” became “verisimilitude” (verosimile); Gravina uses the term “appropriate” (convenevole) throughout the Discorso, mostly referring to poetic language and representation of character. Aristotle’s analysis of plot elements in

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Homer informs Gravina’s defense of Guidi’s L’Endimione in the final section of the treatise; similarly, Aristotle’s ideas about the audience’s appreciation of dramatic representation will become Gravina’s “contemplation” (contemplazione), to be discussed below. By borrowing these important elements of the immagine del vero from Aristotle’s Poetics, solving the Platonic challenges to imagistic and narrative mimesis, Gravina proves his position that scholars should return to original sources, and that early modern critics of “narrow-minded” and “starved” intellect have corrupted the Aristotelian tradition. “D R E A M I N G W I T H O P E N EY E S” : FA N TA SY, I M AG I NAT IO N , J U D G M E N T, A N D C HA R AC T E R

If the poet projects an image using language, how does the reader determine whether the received image is true or false? How does poetry “sculpt the image of the thing itself in the imagination”? Gravina’s Della ragion poetica elaborates on the imagination and its role in receiving, processing, and judging images. Where in the Discorso Gravina defines nature as an “imprint of the divine idea,” he expands his Platonic “impressions” (“typoi”) to images in the Della ragion poetica. Poetic images are “imprinted” by the real objects they represent. Words carry images to the mind, where they arouse pictures or portraits (“ritratti”) of those particular things.51 Exciting the imagination (“agita la fantasia”), images affect the senses, which react as if to the real objects. Because the imagination processes images in the brain, and the emotions originate nearby, they move in tandem: “the affections are processed behind the imagination in the same course and move equally with respect to it; [the affections] raise and lower themselves according to [the imagination’s] motion and rest, just as the wave by the impulse or stillness of the wind.”52 Images affect the emotions, just as the wind propels water. Gravina’s depiction explains the poetic experience—words carry images, and imagination shapes emotions. The imagination and the emotions react to percussive influences—the imagination via the eye, and the emotions via the intellect. The imagistic process— carrying images from eye, to intellect, to emotional centers—creates truthfulness since “the mind embraces a fable [or, myth] as true and real, and disposes itself toward fiction as toward true events.”53 Gravina uses fantasia to mean what we would call imagination—although the Italian cognate immaginazione is not equivalent. Fantasia is a place inside the mind, while immaginazione is the intellectual process that occurs within the mind. Fantasia possesses broader implications; it is the intellectual locus for interpretation and judgment, but the result of fantasia is the creative, original product of the author’s mind, once inscribed in poetry. Immaginazione, however, is the process of producing and visualizing images that occurs within the fantasia; immaginazione is the active striking of fictive images against the intellect. Poetic images enter,

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impressing themselves on the fantasia; processing them via immaginazione, we “dream with open eyes.”54 Gravina’s metaphor “dreaming with open eyes” evokes a state of consciousness that activates the imagination but is liminal—occupying the space between waking and sleeping, between truth and falsehood, between image and interpretation. Dreams are not real, but seem real while we experience them; thus, they can deceive—like fiction, which represents the space between reality and falsehood, dreams can either be verisimilar or false. The Jesuit mathematician Tommaso Ceva (1648–1737), an Arcadian residing in Milan, will make a similar analogy between poetry and dreams in his Memorie d’alcune virtù del signor conte Francesco de Lemene (1706), where he likens poetry to “a dream made in the presence of reason.” Gravina’s expression not only predates Ceva’s by ten years, since it originates in the Delle antiche favole (1696), but his concept differs substantially in meaning. For Ceva, the dream is both subjective and oppositional, as it describes poetry and its function, uniting two concepts considered contrary to each other—dreams and rationality; poetry is awake to reality, despite its dreamlike qualities. For Gravina, the dream is perceptual, and integral; the dream is an intellectual process by which the reader perceives and interprets the images embodied by poetry. More importantly, however, Gravina acknowledges Descartes’ discussion of dreams and imagination in the Meditations (1641/1647);55 but instead of treating dreams and sensory perceptions with great skepticism in favor of “pure intellect,” denying empirical epistemologies as in Descartes, Gravina asserts that we can use reason to organize our thoughts and determine what is truthful. Whereas for Descartes, the pure intellect is imageless, and can only tell us abstract, knowable principles (geometry, mathematics), in Gravina the fault of sensory perception is not that we judge falsely (although that is possible), but that the narrative images we encounter may be inherently false. It is then the responsibility of rational judgment to perceive the falsehood: “the cognition of truth, conjoined with sound judgment, does not arise as much from the number or variety of Ideas, as from the intelligible placement and ordering of them.”56 Gravina’s position on dreams, appearances, and reason is closer to Aristotle, who asserts that we must have a preconceived idea that would inform us that our dreams are not real: “For often when one is asleep something in the soul says that what appears is a dream. But if it escapes one’s knowledge that one is sleeping, nothing contradicts the phantasia.”57 Where Descartes asserts that dream images deceive us, Aristotle affirms that—absent other knowledge, or false judgment—we know that we are dreaming; Gravina allows that the intellect will interpret poetic dream-images as if true, but that proper judgment prevents deceit. There are some similarities to Descartes, however, in Gravina’s fantasia and immaginazione. In the Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Descartes (c. 1628) asserts that the mind (ingenium) must order ideas correctly in a process of enu-

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meration (enumeratio) or induction (inductio) to discover the truth; thus, rationality governs and organizes the imagination. The imagination (phantasia/imaginatio) is the place in the brain that stores images, and the common sense (sensus communis) imprints images on the phantasia.58 However, due to Descartes’ skepticism, Gravina’s discussion of fantasia is closer to Aristotle, who argues that the imagination (phantasia) receives and then judges external images; the phantasia provides memory by collecting images over time, imagines fictive images, and interprets images residing in the mind. Thought is formed by sensory perception alone:59 “For sense perceptions are at once a kind of alteration, and phantasia and thinking have the power of the actual things. For it turns out that the form conceived of the warm or cold or pleasant or fearful is like the actual thing itself. That is why we shudder and are frightened just thinking of something.”60 Only judgment tells the body to negate the emotional or physical reactions to perceived (such as dreams) or mimetic (such as paintings) images. Since Descartes’ philosophy intended to overthrow the Aristotelian and Epicurean empiricism in favor of rational, scientific procedures—using Aristotelian terminology while redefining their implications—we can see that Gravina aligns his position similarly. Gravina overturns Aristotelian scholasticism, appealing to Platonic philosophy, but reintroduces the empirical interpretations of fantasia into literary criticism, using primary sources. In both the Discorso and the Della ragion poetica, Gravina explains how perception, judgment, and character assist us in distinguishing between fiction and falsehood. Intellectual discernment occurs in the immaginazione. Our reactions depend on our judgment; we respond differently when we perceive truthful or false images. Our judgment then depends on two factors: our perception, and our character. Gravina considers judgment in the first chapter of the Della ragion poetica, titled “Del vero, e del falso: del reale e del finto” (On Truth, and Falsehood: On Reality, and Fiction). A series of examples establishes a confusing circumstance, demonstrating how cognition and perception affect judgment. The first example explains affirmative and negative judgment, as when two contrasting statements convey the same intended meaning. Two people may use different words to describe the sun; using “affirmative judgment” (“giudizio affirmativo”), the first defines the sun as “luminous,” while the other, using negative judgment, identifies the sun as “not dark.”61 Distinguishing truth from falsehood is more complex. True judgment encompasses the “entire cognition” of an object, whereas false judgment incorporates only “partial cognition, or none at all.”62 Distance and perspective complicate cognitive perception. A square tower, perceived from a distance, appears round; since distance hinders our perception, causing us not to see the tower fully, we make a false judgment. Gravina explains this phenomenon using visual science, referring to how rays of light enter the eye: “This occurs because the angles of the figure travel through the air, diminishing

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with distance, such that the [figure] does not reach us in its entirety.”63 Standing closer, we see the tower from the appropriate perspective, changing our cognition of its shape; from the proper distance, we can judge truthfully. The only remedy for incomplete or faulty cognition is a renewed encounter with the full object: “a false opinion, inasmuch as it is false, comprises nothing of the positive [judgment], but is a dim-witted perception, from which the mind cannot be uprooted, without encountering and perceiving the full [object].”64 Falsehood requires greater evidentiary analysis to refute its hold on the intellect. To recognize falsehood, we must apply preexisting knowledge that contradicts our perception, engaging in deductive reasoning. We err not because we imagine or perceive something incorrectly, but because we have no ability to contradict our sensory experience: “Thus the error does not consist in imagining something that has no existence in truth, but in lacking an idea apt to exclude the existence of the thing represented by the imagination.”65 Gravina’s square tower example derives from Descartes, Epicurus (an ancient Greek empiricist and atomist), and Lucretius (an ancient Roman Epicurean). Descartes uses the idea to prove how the senses deceive us into making errors in judgment (Meditations, 6); earlier, in the Optics (1637), Descartes explained the phenomenon occurs because of how images imprint themselves on the eyes: “just as a square tower seen from afar looks round, and all bodies that have only very small images in the eye cannot trace there the shapes of their angles. Finally, as regards judgement of distance by size, shape, colour or light, pictures drawn in perspective show how easy it is to be mistaken.”66 Gravina owes much to Descartes, although his philosophical position differs. As Epicurus argues, using the same square tower metaphor, doubting the senses leads to skepticism, which prevents determining the truth; instead, we must measure our senses against a canon or ruler (kanon) to test our preconceptions. Epicurus asserts that beliefs (preconceptions, prolepsis) can be false; but because we base our beliefs on sensory experiences, we perceive them as truthful.67 Epicurus’s preconceptions will reappear as “commonly held beliefs” in Gravina’s Discorso, to be discussed below. Taking up Epicurean atomism, Lucretius will approach perception in a similar way; simulacra, or atom-like images enter the eyes, forming our perceptive opinions. In the instance of the square tower, Lucretius asserts in the De rerum natura, here paraphrased by Carlos Lévy, “that the great mass of air occupying such an interval makes the angles become obtuse, then disappear. The atoms thus arrive at our eyes in a different position from the one they originally had.”68 Gravina’s phraseology resonates more strongly with Lucretius, and significantly, is closer to the Latin original than to the Italian translation available in the late seventeenth century, using several cognate words, and maintaining the sense of the original: angoli/angulus (angle), lontananza/longe (distance), perdendo/perit (dies, dimin-

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ishes), aria/aër (air), si vanno/feruntur (are carried).69 The Italian translation does not render the same meaning, blaming the distortion not on “angles” or how they travel through the air, but rather attributing the illusion to “false causes”; furthermore, the translation does not use the word “tower,” but refers to “something square that appears round from a distance.”70 It would have been impossible for Gravina to render his version without access to the original Latin. Like Gravina, Lucretius claims that the fault lies not with our senses, but with the elusiveness of the simulacra due to “frequent collisions” in the air. Also like Gravina, Aristotle asserts that judgment and opinion based on prior experience correct our faulty impressions: “In general, the ruling sense asserts what comes from each [particular] sense, unless something else more authoritative contradicts it. For in every case something appears [phainetai], but we do not in every case have the opinion that what appears is [true]; but [we do so only when] the judging part of the soul is restrained, or is not moving with its proper movement.”71 Gravina thus supports Aristotelian, Epicurean, and Lucretian trust in sensory experiences; joining these empirical theories with early modern optical science, he creates evidence for the immagine del vero, in which images strike the eye, leading to discernment and judgment of sensory, cognitive perception.72 In Gravina’s Discorso, character plays an important role in judgment. We can only perceive the truthfulness of images portraying dignity and beauty when our character allows us to eliminate the distortions caused by temporal or spatial distance, or signifying dishonor: “holding far from our imagination the image distanced by time or place, and removing all [images] expressing the absence of honor, or the countenance of the above-named passions [ambition and love], the mind embraces the imagined dignity and beauty as true and present.”73 One must possess good character—by not allowing the immaginazione to become crowded with images derived from avaricious passions—and one must have good judgment to perceive truthfully. While it is the poet’s responsibility to create truthful images, it is the audience’s responsibility to judge properly. Gravina’s immagine del vero constructs a sensory epistemology that takes a central position between Epicurean empiricism and Cartesian skepticism; for Gravina, knowledge derives from experience and observation, but is mediated by rational intellectual processes. Vero, Falso, and Finto. These challenging passages concerning imagination, judgment, and perception from Della ragion poetica pose additional questions about literary perception, and how to recognize falsehood. Gravina’s complex discussion of visual distortions creates an extended metaphor for literary style. If distance and perspective distort visual perception, then linguistic conceits—which warp natural representation—similarly distance the reader from truthful perceptions, creating false impressions. Gravina’s argument privileges fictive narratives over real ones. Since distant objects can deceive our perception, causing false

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judgments, then verisimilar images are more truthful than actual images. Therefore, the poetic finto (fiction) allows greater potential for representational “truthfulness” than real narratives. There are limits, however, to truthful fiction. Even if poetic imagination must “traverse the entire immense space of the true and the verisimilar,” encompassing all elements of human and natural existence,74 poetry can cross over into the realm of falsehood. Gravina articulates a three-part narratological distinction regarding truth, fiction, or falsehood; fiction remains in an unstable medial position. Fiction may tend either toward truthfulness, by containing the immagine del vero, or may tend toward falsehood. In the text of the Discorso, however, the word finto occurs almost exclusively in the context of discussing truth—not falsehood, signifying that Gravina intends finto to mean an embellishment of truth. If representing any human endeavor or situation—whether pastoral, heroic, sublime, lowly, or fantastical—contains the “image of truth” under the “shadow of fiction,” then what is falsehood? In Gravina’s Discorso the distinction is unclear; truth is “anything not false,” and vice versa. Therefore, it is helpful to create, by deduction, what may be considered “false” under Gravina’s aesthetic system. The opposite of “true” would comprise partial truths, incomplete representations, distracting stylistic mannerisms, or imbalanced characterizations, displaying only heroic actions. Furthermore, truth resides in mythology (favola), but history (istorie) may be false, since it uses real names (veri nomi) to portray false things (false cose) and feigned facts (finti fatti).75 Gravina expands his definition of literary falsehood in the Della ragion poetica, dividing the falso into two categories—narrative improprieties (“sconvenevolezze”) and stylistic artifices (“artifizio”). Improprieties consist in “impossible” and “implausible” action, character, and emotion; here Gravina returns to his Aristotelian traces, adjoining these to his imagistic theory. Narrative improprieties impart “contrary images.” Artifice should remain hidden “under the shadow of the natural,” by creating a “character of negligence” or carelessness; outward or superficial artifice is too “apparent,” “deliberate” or “precisely cultivated,” and therefore “obscures the natural manners.” Examples of artifice include “too much charm in each verse and word,” or metrical rhythm that is “too resounding and pulsating.”76 While images convey truth, poor style offends the ears. Gravina’s visual empiricism and sonic distaste likely motivated Crescimbeni’s similar dialectic between poetic images and linguistic noise.77 Whether arising from narrative improprieties or stylistic artifice, the falso in poetry makes “the mind aware of the fiction”; the imagination (fantasia), almost asleep, awakens, distracting the mind from participating in the finto or the “enchantment of fantasy.” Ultimately, the mind becomes “aware of the fiction and awakens as though from a sleep,” and the “enchantment is dissolved”78—thus destroying the delicate balance between image and dream, perception and imagination.

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Sublime Catharsis: Experiencing Truth and Fiction. The reader experiences fiction and falsehood in different ways. While falsehood tears the imagination away from fiction’s dreamlike enchantment, fiction leads to sublime catharsis, guiding the soul to “contemplation of the pure and eternal”: “Such inventions are not only praiseworthy in poems, but they are also necessary for the novelty and wonder they generate; exciting the attention, and drawing the mind from earthly things, they lift it above itself. Thus [the mind is] rendered more free and nimble from those ties with which corporeal nature has bound us, slowing our flight towards the contemplation of the pure and the eternal; this is one of the benefits to which Poetry is directed.”79 Novelty (novità) and the marvelous (maraviglia) lead to contemplation; poetry thus imprints ideas in the imagination, but also purifies thoughts—a cathartic effect. Commonly discussed in early modern literary treatises, maraviglia originates in Aristotle’s term “amazement” (ekplēxis).80 Aristotelian “amazement” or ekplēxis is an emotional response akin to “wonder,” or “surprise,” provoked by shocking, unexpected plot elements; amazement exists in both tragedy and epic, although for different reasons: “Tragedy should make men marvel, but the epic, in which the audience does not witness the action, has greater scope for the inexplicable, at which men marvel most” (Poetics, 24.60a).81 Aristotelian amazement is an embellishment, rhetorical device, or an artistic skill; contributing to the bare framework of narrative, it leads to pleasure: “To marvel is pleasant, as can be seen from the fact that everybody adds something in telling a story, thinking to please.”82 Novità and maraviglia were potentially contentious as rhetorical devices within Arcadian circles. In the seventeenth century, both ideas were commonly associated with Marino, the poet most exemplifying the mannerisms, conceits, and poetic style83 motivating the Arcadian reform. Now, in addition to the established Platonic-Aristotelianism dualism, Gravina’s Discorso expresses linguistic tension between mannerism and reform. Yet Gravina applies novità and maraviglia in a nonmannerist sense. Marino defines the marvelous as the “goal of the poet” (“È del poeta il fin la meraviglia”) to surprise through innovative gestures, presenting unusual ideas, and clever juxtapositions.84 As Mirollo writes: Maraviglia is most often discussed in terms of a response aroused in the reader by a concetto, a poem, a painting, a statue, etc. It frequently seems the kind of response aroused by virtuosity, technical feats, or mere nimbleness of thought—in short, a raising of the eyebrows. But in its more profound sense it refers to the impressions of beauty, the flashes of insight, the intuitions of hitherto unrevealed aspects of reality that emanate from a successful piece of witty art. It is obvious that the emphasis in both cases is on formal virtues; the artist has to find and express the marvelous hidden in nature or outdo nature by making something new.85

Gravina identifies the marvelous not as a poetic objective, but as a purifying psychological effect; in this context, Gravina rejects Marino’s stylistic novità and

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maraviglia, blending the poetic concepts found in Aristotle and Tasso. Tasso partly defines maraviglia as the portrayal of extraordinary action or fantastic creatures, which Gravina follows with his hippogriffs, whales, and colossal statues (discussed above); but further, Tasso contends that the marvelous could educate and instruct, reconciling fiction and truth in the audience’s perception.86 Consistently contextualizing maraviglia with novità, Gravina signifies something “new” or innovative must inspire the audience’s “wonder.” Poets may therefore transcend reality, by inspiring awe that resonates with lived emotional experiences. Where the audience perceives truth, by experiencing balanced, emotional, and sublime reactions, then novità, maraviglia, and finto work together to create verisimilitude. By redefining terms associated with secentismo, Gravina uses familiar concepts; creating authority through references to original texts, Gravina engages his own listeners’ beliefs before applying his critical literary philosophy to analytical purpose in his discussion of Guidi’s L’Endimione. G R AV I NA’ S N E O P L AT O N IC C O SM O L O G Y

Although the vivid details of Gravina’s treatise derive from Aristotelian and empirical readings of fantasy, imagination, and perception, the structural ideas derive from Plato; the two most important Platonic resonances include the psychological impact of drama on the audience, and an “unwritten” metatext of paradigms. Regarding the first, although both authors examine psychological impact, they differ in interpretive outcome; regarding the second, however, pronounced similarities create comparable overarching structures—this Platonic structure is perhaps more important than the surface components of imagistic mimesis. In Plato, the psychological effect of dramatic performance informs his attack on mimesis; since Plato’s educative agenda is to instill positive values in young citizens of the ideal republic, the deceptive qualities of mimesis—and the challenges of correct interpretation—are harmful. Portraying heroes in unheroic situations (such as lamenting, since that emotion is not rational) would represent falsity, delivering an incorrect message to formative minds; likewise, narratives representing the behavior of the gods should not contradict the natural order of things.87 Because acting is also mimetic, causing “psychological assimilation” of the role, requiring actors to play unheroic characters on stage is injurious.88 For Gravina, however, the psychological effect of mimesis concerns only whether the audience may believe in the verisimilitude of the performance; neither educative ideals nor moral influence figures explicitly into his arguments.89 “Psychological assimilation” occurs simultaneously and synchronically between representation and audience. An inverisimilar performance causes a psychological disjunction within individual audience members; therefore, the audience cannot participate in a mutually beneficial rapport between stage and theater; Gravina

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writes: “When one narrates something contrary to common and long-held belief, the faith of others is distracted, and a certain bitterness of the senses is generated.”90 “Commonly held belief ” renders Epicurus’s canon (kanon) or preconceived belief (prolepsis)—a standard by which to measure truth. One may argue that Gravina implies educative and moral imperatives for poetry, and he certainly emphasizes honorable character, but I sense that it would be a circular argument: images must impress truth on the audience, but if representations are false, the audience does not believe in them. Therefore, Gravina essentially negates the effectiveness of untrue narratives; the audience cannot actively participate in the drama in the way that he describes if the narrative is false; therefore, there can be no harmful psychological effects of untrue mythological representations, whether antiheroic or contradictory of natural occurrences. Gravina participates in the ancient doctrine of ethos, or the Baroque doctrine of the affections. However, when we consider Gravina’s “bitterness of the senses” together with his “dreaming with open eyes,” we recognize that he limits the psychological reciprocity between representation and reception, transforming both the Platonic philosophy, and Baroque theories of performance. Unlike the understanding of the affections that influenced monody and operatic development in the Florentine Camerata—in which the audience immediately and continuously felt the same emotions embodied by the text and the music, which modulated throughout the performance—Gravina’s immagine del vero asserts that the audience either transcends the performance (if it is true) or disassociates from it (if it is untrue).91 Perhaps the most innovative Platonic resonance in Gravina’s Discorso is his arrangement of narrative paradigms, which constructs a representative cosmology. In Plato, every object that exists in the world belongs to one of three existential realms—the Ideas, Forms, and Kinds, ordered according to their level of truthful embodiment. For the purposes of this discussion, we will call these Essence, Object, and Representation.92 Essences (or Ideas) embody pure truthfulness, stemming from the universe or a divine being; everything else is a mere copy. Representations (or Kinds), which can be artistic renderings or mirror reflections, are the least truthful because mimetic objects can deceive the viewer. Dio—Natura + (Ingegno-Industria)—Arte. Like many Neoplatonists, Gravina “translates” the Platonic Ideas, Forms, and Kinds (or, Essence, Object, Representation) into a cosmological hierarchy between God, Nature, and Art,93 asserting organic similarity between Essence (God), Object (Nature), and Representation (Art). Artistic reflections of nature are products of human invention; by applying ingegno (ingenuity, intelligence, or wit) and industria (industry, labor, or skill), we create artefici (works of art) that resemble nature and project immagini della natura. The creative act reflects the essence and will of God; everything in the universe, whether art or nature, is an imprint of the divine idea (“impronta della

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divina idea”). The likeness of the divine exists in everything: “Nature, in various guises, by ingenuity and human industry, is reflected in various and diverse artifices, all of which are images of nature; and (nature) and all the universe, with all that it gathers in its bosom, being an imprint of the divine idea, whose likeness is impressed into things, as a figure in wax, so with truth no less than with subtlety Dante called art the ‘grandchild of God.’ ”94 Favola—Parola—Numero = Verosimilitudine. Gravina’s cosmology interacts in a hierarchy with several relationships embedded within, creating an innovative, systematic theory. The second threefold process defines the technique of poetic imitation. Poetry represents the truth first through narration (favola); second, through individual words (parola), which “sculpt the true essence of things,” and third, through the rhythms of versification (numero), which are like music: Among this number is also poetry, which resembles and yet expresses nature, actions, customs, affections; and it accomplishes this first with the narrative, by inventing things similar to the truth and to those events which take place in the world; second with words, by sculpting through their means the true essence of things in the imagination; and (third) with the measure of verses by realizing and transforming their sound and harmony to the essence and nature of the thing it expresses, not otherwise than does the player of the strings of the kithara.95

These are the technical skills—like the ingegno and industria applied to nature— now applied to poetry, which create verisimilitude. Arte + (Verosimilitudine)—Immagini—Fantasia. The third threefold process represents the relationship of images to poetry, the imagination, and verisimilitude. By applying the technical skills of verisimilitude to art/poetry, the poet creates images that strike the imagination. Thus, three types of images interact with the larger cosmological hierarchy: impronta della divina idea (imprint of the divine idea), immagini della natura (images of nature), immagine del vero (image of truth). The intersecting processes, forming a cosmology of truthful signs and symbols, mediated by different types of images, creates not only a theory of representation, but a theory of poetic creation, imaginative process, and audience perception.96 Gravina’s cosmology explains why he seeks a new pastoral, encompassing all states of human existence from the heroic to the humble. Humankind creates art reflecting the truth of God because we receive divine inspiration. Because we are not divine, we fall short of the benchmark of perfection; because we fall short, “truthful” literature must reflect our failings. The missing link is inspiration; although Gravina’s argument never touches upon divine inspiration, the idea was common enough that it would be tacitly understood by Gravina’s Arcadian audience as part of the poetic process.97 The resulting artworks created are agents of

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divine truth; these artworks simultaneously reflect an encyclopedic human reality, while veiling the divine light: other ancient sages who laid the veil of poetry over the light of their doctrine, like a mist that would hide the sublimity and splendor of knowledge from the eyes of the blasphemous; in this manner, poetry was a garment of philosophy, which henceforward would appear masked to the ordinary person, since sometimes even the most sound senses, when appertaining to weak minds, are corrupted and create dangerous ideas regarding the republic and moral virtues. Hence they believed that such gems should not be exposed for all to see when worn, so that only he who can form a just and sound appreciation of them may possess them.98

The veil covering divine truth—deriving from early modern Neoplatonism and from a distinct “philosophy of light” developing in Naples in the late seventeenth century99—incurs a double meaning. In a literal sense, it protects the innocent or uninitiated from the radiant strength of God’s light. Gravina develops an elitist, Christian interpretive culture; only the enlightened can recognize the divine. Poetry also veils philosophy; thus, Gravina establishes philosophy as a corollary to, or servant of, religion. In a figurative sense, Gravina’s veil stands for poetic allegory. Without the veil, even versified texts are simply philosophy or science, but not poetry.100 The poetic veil, whether understood in the figurative or literal sense, necessitates interpretation—which in Plato’s Republic prevents access to the truth, causing Plato to banish drama from the ideal republic. Gravina’s cosmology is a much updated, modern version of “Neoplatonism,” to which he has appended an empirical, mimetic theory of images and an Aristotelian interpretation of catharsis, fantasy, and wonder. R E C O N C I L I N G T H E P L AT O N IC W I T H T H E A R I S T O T E L IA N

The apparent conflict between Gravina’s use of Platonic and Aristotelian readings in the Discorso dissolves when we consider his broader philosophical goal. Averse to building authority on secondary interpretations, he is free to construct his own arguments rather than contribute to contentious and “false” interpretations already circulating. By establishing a set of reasoned principles, Gravina constructs a new empirical epistemology; we perceive images as truthful if they accord with our existing knowledge of what is true. Images, therefore, provide a paradigmatic, iconic function in literature; the reader will perceive truth if the images represent content that already exists in the reader’s fantasia—even if those images are fictive and allegorical—because they cause similar psychological reactions. Gravina’s Neoplatonic cosmology establishes relationships between images, nature, and the universe in a definable structure; interacting with Aristotelian vividness

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(enargeia), Gravina creates a systematic approach to poetic creation and interpretation. Ultimately, he asserts that scientific principles on observation and experimentation bear validity, and are applicable to poetry; simultaneously, the Discorso addresses the new ocularcentric science occurring in Rome in the Accademia fisico-matematica. The result is a rich document that fuses complex intellectual layers into one unified analytical theory. To a modern scholar, the considerable Aristotelian content may seem to conflict with Gravina’s anti-Aristotelian stance. However, the Arcadian audience may not have read this conflict in the Discorso; Gravina’s lecture would have been contentious, not because of Aristotelian terminology and interpretation, but because of the cultural pressures mounting at the precise moment when he arrived in Rome. Bringing with him from Naples an anti-authoritarian, anti-Jesuitical, anti-scholastic viewpoint to the site of Rome and the Parrhasian Grove—both founded on classical and religious authority, and abounding in Jesuit scholars—would have been more controversial than his imagistic or poetic ideology. Furthermore, the Arcadian audience most likely perceived or understood many of Gravina’s Aristotelian references as Neoplatonic because of the complicated transmission of texts that occurred during the Renaissance. Modern classicists trace early modern Aristotelian concepts such as vividness (enargeia) and imagination (phantasia/fantasia) to various sources, including Platonic texts from late antiquity, from which these ideas subsequently joined Renaissance Neoplatonism.101 Because Gravina so vehemently rejects received authority, however, it is most likely that he brings to the Discorso his own unique reading of original Greek and Latin texts, using these to temper the skepticism and doubt that he found problematic in Descartes’ Meditations. Although in late seventeenth-century Rome, the scientific community involved in astronomical, ocular experimentation was largely Jesuit, the extent to which Gravina alluded to Epicurean empiricism, Lucretian atomism, Galilean observation, and Cartesian perception would have felt uncomfortable. Only one year after Gravina published the Discorso, in 1693, the Curia held a series of investigative proceedings concerning natural philosophy, to determine whether or not the corpus of Galileo, Gassendi (an empiricist), and Descartes should be placed on the index of banned books.102 At stake was not only the methods used to obtain philosophical truth, whether rational or empirical, but whether scientific experience and observation could overturn all of human knowledge by questioning imperceptible beliefs, such as the existence of God, or impose worldviews by scrutinizing invisible mechanisms, such as atoms—or newly visible planetary systems.103 It is for this reason—to avoid charges of heresy—that Descartes allows that we must have certainty about abstract principles and things we know to be true. Perhaps for similar motives, Gravina constructs his Neoplatonic cosmology around the divine, emphasizing virtue and good moral character to support proper intellectual reasoning. Most importantly, Gravina explicitly avoids the neo-Aristotelian doctrines

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stemming from early modern critical sources; to his Arcadian audience, who were participating in a long tradition of neo-Aristotelian text-based criticism focused on genre, unities, and character, Gravina’s Discorso would have seemed radical. Rational Empiricism. Gravina’s Platonic-Aristotelian dualism appears to create yet another conflict, a duality of rationalism/empiricism. Since we consider Platonism a rationalist philosophy, any modern scholar reading Gravina’s Discorso from a primarily Neoplatonic viewpoint will emphasize Gravina’s “confusion”; how can Gravina use such harsh condemnation of Aristotelian critical methods, while advocating an empirical viewpoint? Although part of the apparent conflict derives from Gravina’s revised Aristotelian framework, as discussed above, another motivation emerges. With new scientific practices hastening empirical methodologies and driving the philosophical conflict between rationalism and empiricism to a critical point, Gravina contextualizes the Discorso as a modernist stance, positioning himself in terms that we would now recognize as pre-Enlightenment philosophy. His ideas circulated widely, informing the theories of imagination and fantasy of Enlightenment thinkers within fifteen years his junior: his colleague and friend from the school of Caloprese, Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), Lodovico Antonio Muratori, and Antonio Conti (1677–1749). Gravina’s contentious tone serves multiple purposes: to assert that literature should accomplish different ends via different means, and that poetry and philosophy are akin to science. While the term scienza (science) appears in many guises in the Discorso, it is clear that Gravina uses the word to signify two things: in the context “scienza umana” (“human science”), Gravina means humanistic “knowledge,” while in the context of philosophy and poetry, as in “vera scienza” (“true science”), or “scienza poetica” (“poetic science”), he intends something closer to our modern idea of scientific practice—using systematic methods to discern the truth. Two examples demonstrate how art, philosophy, poetry, and science are connected; quoting Cicero, Gravina writes, “art is the daughter and offspring of science,” and “poetry was the cloak of philosophy.”104 To join these concepts to Gravina’s cosmology, we create a hierarchical position from science/knowledge to philosophy to poetry/art. Gravina, however, expresses limits to empiricism; sensory perception should be tempered by rational thought processes, which poetry assists. Poetry only sustains the mind through its imagistic properties, however; the sonic mimetic functions of poetry—while having a place in Gravina’s cosmology—do not on their own engage the intellect: “poetry, which has as its ultimate effect the good of the intellect— which has as its seat the imagination, through which it transforms for the intellect the ephemeral knowledge that it overlays with perceptible images—today, for the most part, [poetry] is reduced to [pleasing] the ear, nor does it inform or seek to express anything other than the clamor and noise of resounding words.”105 Gravina

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portrays the ears as if in a vacuum; hearing does not contribute to intellectual properties, but only satisfies vapid or sensuous cravings. Gravina’s empiricism therefore advocates not just images, but especially observation—the primary tool by which the Accademia fisico-matematica both devised and performed their experimental procedures. As Crescimbeni will soon borrow the concepts of interior meaning versus exterior structure, and the dialectics of image and sound, we see how Gravina’s philosophy soon infiltrated the broader Arcadian rhetoric, shaping the Italian Enlightenment discourse beyond. Gravina’s Discorso encompasses not only the classical meanings of philosophy (love of knowledge) and of science (knowledge, search for truth); he modernizes the terminology. Studying literature, philosophy, and science leads to truthful discernment, and these disciplines require specific critical methodologies and intellectual rigor. Gravina’s scientific acumen distinguishes the Discorso among early Arcadian literary criticism, demonstrating how the primary thinkers of the early academy—Gravina and Crescimbeni both— sought not to merely recycle ideas from the past, but to use past ideas in service of a new artistic, imagistic, and vivid literary science.

4

Reconciling Icon, Mythos, and Tupos The Role of Images in L’Endimione

The critical components of Gravina’s Discorso allow us to recapture an Arcadian perspective on truthful representation from within the Arcadian experience. Although Gravina’s Discorso was ensconced in contentious debate, plunging him into complex relationships between philosophical and scientific fault lines, the enduring impact that he had on later Arcadian sources (Crescimbeni, Vico, Muratori, Conti) demonstrates that his ideas became integral to the Arcadian ideology. As a founding Arcadian document, we can credit the Discorso with establishing the representational priorities for Arcadian literature. Since, for the field of musicology, Crescimbeni became the default first contact with Arcadian aesthetic—as the first Arcadian to publish criticisms of dramma per musica—the interpretive implications of Gravina’s text have not entered the musicological narrative. Similarly, philosophical discussions of the Discorso—which are not concerned with literary criticism—have not recognized its analytical potential.1 By focusing now on Gravina’s critical commentary on Guidi’s L’Endimione, and centering his analysis within Neoplatonic, cosmological paradigms (discussed in chapter 3), we can reconstruct a seventeenth-century process of seeing and believing that will illuminate symbolic elements of Arcadian opera. Gravina’s Aristotelian, empirical immagine del vero interacts with his Neoplatonic cosmology to create a system of “commonly held beliefs” (“credenza commune”)—truthful images from well-known sources representing objective, paradigmatic iconicity. His specific defense of L’Endimione points us to the known early modern paradigms considered commonly truthful to an educated seventeenth-century audience, showing us today how imagistic, narrative, and archetypal models inform the perception of dramatic verisimilitude. 103

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Because of the multiple interpretive levels outlined in the treatise, we can view the Discorso according to two levels of philosophical consciousness—a metalevel, or the Neoplatonic cosmology which constructs relationships between planes of truthful representation (“imprint of the divine idea, image of nature, image of truth”), and a microlevel, the scientific building blocks that fabricate the audience’s perception. The first, as an essentialist philosophy of how images relate to things in the world, constructing images as tangible objects that represent “how things are” (“come essi veramente sieno”), is ontological.2 The second, as an interior philosophy of personal reception, judgment, and perception, combined with communal belief and observation (“comune osservazione”),3 is epistemological. Images are at the crux of the ontological and epistemological; they are the liminal but objective entity that connects the outside world to the individual’s inner experience. Because of Gravina’s scientific perspective and terminology, we might consider his ontological discussion a “metascience,”4 and the epistemological discussion the scientific method itself. Because of Gravina’s imagistic intersections, images become tools for modern analysis. By reconstructing the imagistic resonances pertinent to the seventeenth-century audience’s “commonly held beliefs”—using images of “how things are” in the world derived from physical objects, such as art and narrative—we can recapture Gravina’s epistemological system. This chapter will demonstrate how Gravina’s own analysis of L’Endimione appeals to the Arcadian audience’s commonly held beliefs, using paradigmatic sources from early modern materials. A NA LY Z I N G L’ E N DI M I ON E

Gravina’s defense of L’Endimione, like his philosophy of representation, uses two different strategies to elicit the Arcadian audience’s belief in his own analysis; each strategy explains why the play is truthful even though it may defy some audience expectations. The first strategy outlines why the work is truthful according to categories typically associated with the neo-Aristotelian genre theory currently in place for literary criticism. Gravina measures L’Endimione against standard criteria such as “character,” “narrative choices,” “propriety,” and “unity.” Yet Gravina assesses such technical elements not to demonstrate how L’Endimione upholds prejudicial canonical markers, but to prevent unfair criticisms from the Arcadian audience; Gravina uses Aristotelian terminology to delimit the unusual features of L’Endimione, indicating how the play differs from earlier seventeenth-century literature, while refuting potential arguments that the work does not meet neoAristotelian standards. Invoking some aspects of the Aristotelian tradition (empiricism), while rejecting others (scholasticism), Gravina gratifies the audience’s familiarity with customary analytical frameworks, elucidating Guidi’s experimental techniques as positive inventions. Interestingly, he uses the Arcadian audience’s

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own literary-critical belief systems (its “commonly held belief ”) to explain why the internal representation—not the exterior structure—is more important, thus turning traditional literary criticism upside down. The second strategy addresses paradigmatic aspects of the representation itself, using the immagine del vero as a critical practice to illuminate how the interior representation draws on a system of precisely constructed preexisting images (a truthful source of “commonly held beliefs”). Gravina asserts that current beliefs about critical frameworks are incorrect, because they are based on “false interpretations of Aristotle” found in “corrupt” sources; but the imagistic representations inside Guidi’s play are truthful because they resonate with our perceptions of “how things are.” Those qualities are conveyed from the images in the text, which interact with the images already existing in our immaginazione after encountering them in other sources.5 Because images from different sources produce variant readings, Gravina uses his analysis to remove potential conflicts between the audience’s expectations—shaped by its collective knowledge, predicated by received truthful images—and Guidi’s performed representation. Here we see the inherent problems with “commonly held beliefs.” For the poet, constructing a narrative from these might paralyze inventiveness. But the idea allows a space for creativity and difference: the poet may alter preexisting narratives and tropes in any number of ways while still maintaining the delicate balance of verisimilitude. The only factor to consider in constructing a narrative is whether the sequence of ideas will appear truthful to an audience. Gravina’s analysis of Guidi’s L’Endimione shows us exactly how the poet builds fictional layers from preconceived truths. Gravina endorses changes to narrative paradigms (novità), within limits, because such variations elicit surprise or wonder (maraviglia).6 Gravina’a analysis of L’Endimione further justifies the play’s inherent truthfulness despite its divergence from some “commonly held beliefs” about the subject and genre, by establishing the paradigms which hold meaning and discarding those that are merely structural. My analysis will illustrate Guidi’s apparently conflicting narrative choices, annotating Gravina’s commentary with the early modern paradigms supporting his argument. Pastoral Genre At the beginning of his analysis, Gravina emphasizes L’Endimione’s connection to Queen Christina; the “sublime design” was born of her creative impulse, and expressed by the poet in a “vivid and rare style.”7 Gravina first considers the play’s genre—it is neither a tragedy, comedy, nor tragicomedy—or whether it is some “other genre dreamed up by rhetoricians.” Gravina refuses to create a generic classification, since categorizing it would only encourage neo-Aristotelian criticism, leading to further dissection and petty arguments among academics. He prefers to call it, simply, “a representation of the love between Endymion and Diana.”8 The

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internal substance of the work—its narrative subject—is sufficient to characterize its essential nature, satisfying Gravina’s ontological system by describing “how it is” and “how it came to be.” Narrative Frame Gravina also refuses to discuss whether Guidi’s play is faithful to the mythology, whether one may alter mythology or other preexisting narratives, or under what circumstances alterations are permitted—the “when, where, and how.”9 Before returning to Guidi’s L’Endimione, Gravina enters a digression on narrative truthfulness, and its various roles in comedy and tragedy, considering the historical derivation of these genres. The digression establishes classical precedent that many kinds of narrative truthfulness exist; he “observes” (“osservo”) a variety of divergences within narratives on the same subject.10 Gravina’s use of the word “observe” situates his literary digression as a form of evidence, as in scientific observation and experiment. Gravina’s “evidence”—that different genres established different levels of truthfulness according to their original historical development—derives from Aristotle’s critique of Homer in the Poetics (discussed in chapter 3).11 Gravina situates comedy as representation of everyday life, a kind of realism, or “pure truth” (“pura verità”), motivated by a particular event or peculiar circumstance affecting citizens; but then writers “left truth” and “turned to fiction” to satisfy public demand.12 Because tragedy concerned “grand and majestic events,” it necessitated origins either in a truth (“vero”) or in the “spectacular” (“favoloso”)—an event so “transfixed in the minds” of the audience that it was “clothed in the color of truth.”13 Gravina distinguishes not only between generic levels of truthfulness, but also between their force and their distance from original intentions. Comedy became less truthful since “fiction” was more popular than reality, but it retained its portrayal of common events; tragedy was never entirely truthful, but the audience would recognize significant actionable truths in its narrative cloak. To prevent his implicit Aristotelian references from being interpreted as a neo-Aristotelian “precept” or rule, Gravina asserts that these distinctions were “not rigidly observed by Authors” and lists classical precedents for divergences from known topics, whether mythological or historical, in such venerated authors as Euripides, Sophocles, and Seneca.14 Surprisingly, Gravina cites Aristotle overtly as his source for approving narrative changes to known subjects: In truth, I don’t have the heart to track down [Aristotle’s] words. I believe it is his idea that it would not be permitted to destroy narratives by altering its substance and that which is fixed in common opinion; by contrast, [concerning] that which writers leave out, and where no one can be convinced of falsity, the poet may feign liberally and lead the thread [narrative] in the manner most appropriate to the canvas and the

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knot [conflict] that he weaves. But, whether [Aristotle] had intended this or something else means nothing, because it being a correct idea governed by firm reason it is not necessary that it be supported by any authority.15

This is the only place in the Discorso where Gravina cites Aristotle explicitly in a positive argument, but he negates the importance of Aristotle’s authority—in this digressive passage structured entirely on Aristotle’s Poetics, what appears and what lies hidden betrays Gravina’s rhetorical strategy and philosophical position. Authoritative citation becomes insignificant because reason alone tells us the idea is correct.16 Gravina appeases the audience’s expectations of a literary critical argument focused on genre and narrative, while discrediting and minimizing Aristotelian dogmatism. Gravina’s evidentiary argument allows his audience to accept Guidi’s changes to the mythology’s most commonly known narrative elements in L’Endimione. Having established the poet’s liberty to invent new elements of a previously existing narrative, Gravina uses the standard of “commonly held beliefs” (in the passage quoted here, “concetta comune,” elsewhere “credenza comune”) to parse Guidi’s version of the myth of Endymion and Cynthia. Gravina asserts that ancient mythology only portrays the moon’s love for Endymion, and her subsequent power over him by maintaining him in a state of induced sleep; but the part of the tale which explains how this love came about and what happened afterward is subject to the poet’s imagination.17 Gravina then reviews Guidi’s inventions and additions to the mythological narrative. By changing the gender dynamics, having Endymion pursue Cynthia instead of the reverse,18 Guidi’s play “accords more with history,” since Endymion was the first astronomer, tracking the course of the moon.19 Concluding the play with Endymion’s apotheosis as a constellation “cannot be contradicted or refuted by any testimony.”20 According to “commonly held beliefs” from ancient mythology, and the standards for poetic license, Guidi’s novel plot elements are appropriate. Mythos and Tupos. Gravina’s discussion of narrative (favola) and alteration (alterazione) develops a theory of mythos (mythology or stories) and tupos (types, stamps, or impressions). By rendering mythos and tupos into the modern disciplines of mythography and typology, we can illuminate the paradigmatic symbolism that Gravina reads in Guidi’s L’Endimione—and which constitutes the early modern audience’s “commonly held beliefs.” Ultimately combining these strategies with Gravina’s immagine del vero—which creates a system of iconicity (icon, based on Plato’s and Aristotle’s eikōn), my cumulatively layered approach will make visible the imagistic traces left on the imaginations of Guidi’s Arcadian audience. Few classical mythological sources present one account encompassing the entire narrative range associated with the tale of Endymion and Cynthia. The

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Endymion myth encompasses four distinct typologies: (1) Endymion as a historical figure, the King of Elis; (2) Endymion portrayed in eternal sleep; (3) Endymion as a shepherd beloved by the moon, personified as the goddess Cynthia (also an epithet of Diana, the chaste goddess of the hunt); and (4) Endymion as the first astronomer.21 As we unearth the symbolic elements of the typologies, we will also add an iconographical layer, so we can understand the intertwined literary and visual associations connected with the myth. The first typology presents Endymion as the king of Elis, who creates the precursor to the Olympic games by establishing a race between his three sons that would determine the succession of the throne.22 Although portraying Endymion as king occurs least frequently in artistic and literary formats, compared to the other typologies, this narrative receives authority through later citations. Furthermore, both Pausanias and Apollodorus also mention Endymion as a mythical character condemned to eternal sleep by Zeus; therefore, even in the rare references to Endymion as a mortal, living being, he is still compatible with the mythological, sleeping figure. This typology would have been the most significant for reading Guidi’s play as a metaphor for Arcadian identity; Pausanias situates Elis and the Eleans as “aborigines” of Arcadia. Thus, Guidi’s Endymion becomes the founder of the Arcadian Academy and of its Olympic games—a historical, mythological counterpart to Queen Christina of Sweden. Typology 2—Endymion portrayed in eternal sleep—is a metaphor for transitory states of mind and soul, connecting life to death. Emblematizing life after death, Endymion offers consolation to the survivors of a deceased loved one. In both Plato and Cicero, but most extensively in the former, Endymion represents the immortality of the soul; in Aristotle, he represents contemplation.23 Endymion is a popular funerary subject of Roman sarcophagi, particularly in the second and third centuries a.d.24 Frequently, these epitaphic depictions also portray Cynthia, but not to indicate either physical proximity or a romantic relationship; rather, Cynthia signifies the connective tissue between death, night, and eternal sleep. In Figure 5, one of the most intricate sarcophagi of the many extant examples from the period, a female figure forcibly holds Endymion in his passive sleeping state, by feeding him narcotic poppy seeds. On the sides of the sarcophagus, a rising Helios (the sun god), and a setting Selene (an epithet for Cynthia, the moon goddess) represent changing life cycles. For the bereaved viewer, the allusion represents the endless sleep of death initiating the dawn of a new life. For the Arcadian Academy, the Platonic, sleeping Endymion might symbolize eternal contemplation in the sense of intellectual pursuit of knowledge and humanistic endeavor—as Gravina writes in the Discorso, “sublime contemplation,”25 the effect of poetic expression. Typology 3 focuses on the physical relationship between the goddess and the shepherd. This typology evidences the power of love, so strong that it captures even the most chaste goddess; love, therefore, is a force to be reckoned with and guarded

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figure 5. Roman marble sarcophagus with the myth of Selene and Endymion (early third century a.d.). Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 1947.

against, for even the least suspecting among us may fall victim to its strength. In classical sources, the extent of the relationship varies; in some, the portrayal is more capricious, humorous, or satirical—or presents Cynthia as a distant admirer. In others, the physical relationship extends to hyperbole—the forcible love thrust upon the passive Endymion results in his unwittingly fathering multiple children.26 In Renaissance and Baroque iconography, this typology is the dominant one, as in Annibale Carracci’s portrayal in the Farnese gallery in Rome (see fig. 6). Typology 4, like typology 1, receives few references in the classical tradition. The interpretation rationalizes the relationship between Endymion and Diana in realistic terms, seeking a euhemerist (or retrospective historicist) interpretation for the myth’s origins. Endymion is cast as the first astronomer, a scientist who tracks the trajectory of the moon across the sky. Euhemerism posits that mythological tales originate as factual histories that accrue fictional details, inspiring the eventual retelling of the myth through oral history and eventually transforming into the modern, literary version. Mythology therefore embodies an archetypal allegory, positing the gods as mortals who are later granted immortal status due to their significant contributions to culture, humanity, nature, or science.27 Few paintings portray Endymion as an astronomer, but the Guercino Sleeping Endymion depicts the shepherd holding Galileo’s canocchiale (telescope), merging the pastoral with the scientific (see fig. 7). Since Guercino’s painting belonged to Cardinal Benedetto Pamphili, an important patron member of the Arcadian Academy, this painting makes an interesting comparison to Guidi’s play. As a symbol of scientific investigation and astronomical observation, Endymion in Arcadia represents the intellectual culture developed in Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale, Ciampini’s Accademia fisico-matematica, and constitutes the literary, allegorical motivations for the empirical philosophy developed in Gravina’s Discorso.28

Photo credit: Alinari / Art Resource, NY.

figure 6. Annibale Carracci, Diana and Endymion. Fresco in the vault of the gallery (1597–1604). Palazzo Farnese, Rome.

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figure 7. Guercino, Sleeping Endymion / Endimione col telescopio (1647).

From the collection of Cardinal Benedetto Pamphili. Palazzo Doria Pamphili, Rome. eFoto / Gabinetto Fotografico Nazionale, GFN Fondo Zeri n. inv. E041551. Used with permission of the Istituto Centrale per il Catalogo e la Documentazione—Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali.

Gender and Neoplatonism. Gravina’s reading of the mythological, typological truths in Guidi’s alterations to the mythological subject accords with early modern representations of gender, Neoplatonism, and science in the Endymion narrative. Often early modern narratives conflate these aspects of the myth, either (like Gravina) using Endymion’s scientific identity to explain gendered reversals, or to describe his representation as an awake, active figure as a Neoplatonic allegory. Texts such as Boccaccio’s Della geneologia de gli dei (after 1350),29 Giglio Gregorio Gyraldo’s De deis gentium (1548), Natale Conti’s Mythologiae (1551), and Vicenzo Cartari’s Le imagini de i dei de gli antichi (1556) all portray the euhemeristic

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interpretation of the myth. Conti and Cartari both position Endymion’s daytime sleep state as resulting from his active scientific pursuits during the night: First of all it’s important to realize that the ancients invented many of these fictions to perpetuate the memory of famous men. Then they would deck these stories out in garments of myth, well-tailored to teach us and to improve our lives. Thus, the ancient poets made up stories about Endymion to keep his memory alive forever. . . . Others say that Endymion was the first real student of astronomy. His experience was easily mythologized through the Moon, because she goes through a great many shapes and changes, and lunar research was Endymion’s passion. In fact, he worked so hard on his research at night that he could sleep only during the day.”30

Early modern artistic representations of Endymion portray anxieties about the shepherd’s traditional role as a sexually passive male.31 Cima da Conegliano’s rendition of Endymion (c. 1505–10), which may be the earliest painting of the subject in the Renaissance period, displays the shepherd sleeping—clothed not in the traditional shepherd’s garments, but rather in military apparel.32 Cynthia is not present in bodily form, but is abstracted as the moon, whose rays bathe the sleeping warrior. There is no suggestion of a physical relationship, nor is the painting erotic, but more bucolic in nature. The viewer observes the slumber of a weary body in a peaceful setting. But then, one senses disjunction while pondering the relationship between the military garb and the pastoral setting; the effect mimics the unsettled narratives of soldiers, armies, and land upheavals as in Vergil’s first Eclogue; the dislocation between characters and landscape in Guidi’s L’Endimione projects a similar aesthetic.33 In the Renaissance, there are few artistic renderings of Endymion; in all of these the shepherd is fully clothed, reflecting cultural difficulties involving received notions of gender and unwillingness to accept passive male sexuality.34 Following Cima da Conegliano, Baroque art and literature frequently expresses gendered anxieties in portrayals of the Endymion myth. The art historians Clive Hart and Kay Gilliland Stevenson survey a variety of works, contextualizing the topic among other sacred and secular iconographies concerning the “woman on top,” which could have sexual connotations as in the traditional portrayal of the Endymion myth, or could have implications of spiritual elevation or dominance, as in the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. In their survey of Endymion portrayals, from a plate illustration in a 1571 edition of Cartari’s Le imagini de i dei, to other engravings, paintings, and literary works, the authors point to narrative and framing techniques that demonstrate anxieties over female agency, resulting in a “neutralization” of Cynthia’s threat through various means of satire and subversion.35 Two prominent early modern paintings—Tintoretto’s Diana and Endymion (c. 1575–85, or c. 1597), and Poussin’s Selene and Endymion (c. 1631–33; see fig. 8)— almost completely disregard the classical typologies by altering figural postures, narrative frame, and temporal sequence, either to express subverted gender relationships or to create a Neoplatonic allegory. Tintoretto’s painting captures the two lovers, not

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figure 8. Nicolas Poussin, Selene and Endymion / Diane et Endymion (c. 1631–33). Canvas, 121 × 168 cm. Detroit Institute of Arts. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

while Endymion sleeps, unconsciously available to Cynthia/Diana’s advances, but after the romantic liaison has taken place.36 Endymion interrupts a scene of maternal bliss to check in on Cynthia, who has just suckled or is about to suckle her infant child. She reclines, partially disrobed, holding the child near her bosom. As Endymion peers over mother and child, his gaze primarily focuses on his offspring, while Cynthia gazes up lovingly. Blissful peace pervades the scene, represented by the flowering garlands and amorous, celebratory putti just off to the side. Here, the artist depicts Endymion and Cynthia as equal partners; the “woman on top” figural position is negated. Her position marks Cynthia as subservient, but happily so, to her role as nurturing mother. Her identity as goddess and her connection to the night sky is also minimized, indicated only by the wash of moonlight illuminating the figures’ limbs and suffusing the clouds. The moon is absent, only a distant reminiscence. Poussin’s portrayal defies all expectations, rendering a unique subject, one that has sparked scholarly debate.37 Poussin, like Tintoretto, elongates the temporal frame; but unlike Tintoretto who shows only what happens after the traditional iconographic moment, Poussin constructs a narrative series of moments. Both approaches justify Gravina’s assertion regarding which aspects of narrative invention are permissible. In Poussin’s painting, Time draws back the curtain of Night, removing the darkness that had concealed the two lovers, while Aurora heralds the dawn of a new day, represented

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by Apollo’s chariot.38 Endymion appeals to Cynthia with a gesture of raised arm and open hand, a “pathos formula” derived from ancient art.39 Endymion’s active stance, beseeching the goddess, either represents a Neoplatonic desire for apotheosis or union,40 or a plea for scientific understanding and knowledge.41 Either interpretation provides a framework for Gravina’s allegorical, gendered, and euhemeristic reading of Guidi’s text. Furthermore, Poussin, like Guidi and Gravina, probes the relationship between images and narrative. By including multiple figural groupings in the same frame, Poussin’s painting suggests passage of time; as Thomas suggests, Poussin may have been inspired by the narrative episodes in Jean Osier de Gombauld’s L’Endimion, published in Paris around six years before Poussin’s painting, in 1624. Where Poussin juxtaposes several temporal moments, transferring text into narrative painting by visually rendering time, speech, and space, Guidi performs the opposite relationship, conveying images with text, creating ekphrastic narrative. Iconic Structure Gravina praises the structure (“tessitura”) of Guidi’s L’Endimione; it is not “strongly knotted” (“annodata”), meaning it has no complicated intrigues, and with only three characters, it could not “proceed more curiously.”42 Other poets primarily display their skill (“l’artificio”) by “entwining knots” (or, “weaving tangles”: “in tesserae viluppi”), which then are “grouped together” so that “they lead to desperation [the audience] who tries to untangle it.” Such authors have no regard “for offending verisimilitude, decorum, common usage of men, the tenor of affections, or the course of nature itself.”43 Guidi’s unusual plot structure, which unfolds in a series of descriptive monologues and short dialogues between the characters—but with few interactions between Cynthia and Endymion—mimics a pictorial narrative framework. Guidi’s play, infused with vivid, descriptive language, therefore uses imagistic techniques both for the large-scale structure and small-scale details.44 The first two acts of L’Endimione portray the lowly shepherd in the active role, while the goddess becomes increasingly passive. Endymion, the slighted shepherd, pines away from sorrow yet nourishes his unreciprocated love; his situation creates a deep, resounding pathos. He experiences rejection each time he encounters the goddess, since she prefers to remain chaste, devoting herself to sportive hunting. Cynthia becomes particularly disdainful after Endymion rejects her invitation to join her cult to cure his love-sick malaise. Guidi leads the audience through the work, which unfolds as if temporally suspended in the pastoral landscape. The middle of the third act, the exact center of the work, reveals the well-known iconographical moment. While lamenting his misfortune, Endymion falls asleep in the forested, pastoral landscape. When Cynthia accidentally discovers him, she is at first transfixed by his extraordinary beauty. She timidly approaches him, admiring for a moment, and becomes an unintentional witness to his dream-inspired murmurings.

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At this most crucial and expected moment, when the images associated with the audience’s “commonly held beliefs” finally materialize, Guidi averts the narrative trajectory, reversing the traditional narrative and subverting its gendered roles. Endymion awakens, discovers Cynthia, and speaks to her; she departs, withdrawing hastily into the forest, sensing shame and fear. After Cynthia’s departure, Cupid assures Endymion of his eventual union with the goddess; allaying Endymion’s fear, Cupid inspires his patience, thus providing the audience a temporary resolution. Cynthia, encountering Endymion asleep: Sì, sì fuggir io voglio Da queste ingrate selve. Ma come fuggir posso Da queste selve ove perdei me stessa? Ecco dal sonno avinto Il leggiadro pastore, Che le mie voglie co’ begli occhi oppresse E ruppe il mio rigore. Ora mi lice d’obliar le sfere E i maggior lumi degli eterni dei, Se posso intorno a sì leggiadre forme La vaghezza acquetar de’ desir miei. Entro la luce del mio sol che dorme Amor chiuso si giace. Ma pur l’usata face io sento al core: Da le chiuse pupille Escon care faville e care offese, Che nova ne’ pensier guerra mi fanno; E vinte dal piacer far lor difese Contra i begli occhi mie virtù non sanno. Pastorello, or tu non sai Che gli dei per te sospirano, E infiammar per te si mirano L’alte menti a’ tuoi bei rai. Endymion: Quando nel costui regno io posi il piede, Tutti i mesti pensier mi furo intorno E m’empiro di lagrime e d’orrore. Cynthia: Di che sogna e favella?

Yes, yes I want to flee From these tiresome woods. But how can I flee From these woods, where I have lost myself? There, gripped by sleep, Lies the noble shepherd, Who won over my desires with his beautiful eyes, And fractured my rigidity. Now I may forget the spheres And the greater splendor of the eternal gods, If I can, near such pleasing appearances, Calm the delight of my desires. Within the light of my Sun who sleeps, Love lies hidden. But yet I feel the accustomed flame in my heart: From these closed eyes Escape beloved sparks and beloved wounds, Which cause new conflict within my thoughts; And, overcome by pleasure, my virtues are Unable to defend themselves against such beautiful eyes. Shepherd, little do you know That the gods sigh for you, And they seek to inflame Their lofty minds with your handsome rays. Whenever I set my foot inside [Cupid’s] kingdom, All grieving thoughts entered within And filled me with tears and horror. Of what is he dreaming and murmuring? (ll. 69–100; italics indicate lines interpolated by Queen Christina of Sweden, underlining shows Neoplatonic resonances)

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While traditionally the passive Endymion unconsciously receives Cynthia’s erotic love, Guidi reverses the iconographical paradigm; the normally passive Endymion acts as aggressor, and the normally predatory Cynthia acts as rejecter, while fleeing. Why does Guidi choose, at the central, most iconic moment of his narrative, to reverse the gendered roles of the characters? One possibility is that it allows dramatic extension—now the denouement is postponed for two more acts. Another possibility is that the narrative reversal elicits the desired novità and maraviglia from the audience—qualities that Gravina and Crescimbeni attributed to Guidi’s play.45 Since the narrative frame throughout the play unfolds through emotional and psychological reaction rather than physical movement and action, Guidi must find alternate means of creating suspense. Otherwise, the audience may tire of the tensions effected by Endymion’s recurring, repeated pathos. By drawing the audience into the play by first heightening and then manipulating expectations, Guidi creates the novità and maraviglia that maintains audience interest. Nature and the Natural. The representative alterations in Guidi’s play are most striking when compared to the closest imagistic source to Guidi’s play—Annibable Carracci’s frescoes in the Palazzo Farnese. Annibale’s awe-inspiring, breath-taking depiction of Endymion (see fig. 6) is perhaps the best known in the seventeenth century, partly because of the artist’s innovative techniques, the fresco’s beauty, prominence, and scale, and partly because of the numerous copies made by other artists. Through engravings either exact or similar, Annibale’s masterpiece circulated widely throughout Europe.46 His visual narrative embodies many of the symbolisms associated with typology 2, and like many works in this iconographic tradition, the depiction blends typologies 2 and 3 together. Annibale’s fresco provides not only a paragon of the traditional iconographic values of the subject, representing the “commonly held beliefs” of Gravina’s audience, but also invites comparison with the text of Guidi’s L’Endimione.47 The physical location creates proximity to our text; the Palazzo Farnese was Queen Christina’s first residence in Rome, beginning in 1655 until 1659, and the site of her first Roman academy meetings, established in 1656.48 There is a possibility that Christina had Carracci’s interpretation of Endymion in mind when she commissioned the text from Guidi. Christina’s Accademia Reale, Guidi’s L’Endimione, Gravina’s Discorso, and the incipient Arcadia all grew out of intellectual concerns identical to those expressed by the creators of the Farnese Gallery. In the gallery, the Carracci created an artistic, intellectual primacy remaining in effect for the following century; art historians consider the spectacular fresco series as the first to bring the new, classicizing realism to Rome.49 Several aesthetic tenets developed by the Carracci academy and on display in the gallery—particularly imagination (fantasia), judgment (giudizio), and taste (gusto)—are common to Christina’s academy and the Arcadian Academy. As art historian Charles Dempsey writes:

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We have seen that in their notion of the artist as imitator the Carracci were actively embattled with intellectual issues which concerned the most serious artistic thinkers of their times, and we have suggested that they broke through the deadlock reached by mannerist thought on this issue, not by rejecting the intellectual tradition, but quite the opposite, by following that tradition through to its sources in the earlier Renaissance, to which they also returned for the sources of their style. The emphasis they laid on Judgment also has profound roots in Renaissance theoretical speculation, and here too we can discern an important contribution made in their thinking to the aesthetic implication of the concept, so much so that giudizio, fantasia, and gusto, came to occupy a central focus in the theoretical speculations of the coming century.50

We might imagine Christina’s academy arising out of an aesthetic concept immediately present, illustrated on the walls and ceiling of her palace. Christina instituted her Accademia Reale to establish buon gusto in literature. The first article in the constitution of her first Roman academy details her vision to improve literary style, purify literature of its current faults, and represent truth: “1. The principle institution of the Academy will be to cultivate, with study, application, and morals, the true conditions, of which it is instructive to speak, and to write, doing so nobly and worthily; and, in contrast with this study and application, all pedantries must be routed out.”51 Christina’s description resonates strongly with the Carracci aesthetic—bella morale (just morality), vere condizioni (true conditions), degnamente (worthily), nobilmente (nobly), fuggire le pedanterie (to flee pedantries). Christina’s academy sought a return to philosophical truth, simplicity, symmetry, and idealized representation of worthy subjects. These words alternately describe the tone of the Farnese Gallery, Guidi’s L’Endimione, and Gravina’s Discorso. Each of these figures—the Carracci, Queen Christina, Guidi, and Gravina—arrived at their aesthetic via the same mechanism, not by rejecting every aspect of mannerism, but only its stylistic effects. By redefining mannerist aesthetic terminology, these figures renewed seventeenth-century Italian culture by reconnecting to the Renaissance and classical periods.52 The resulting neoclassical program exemplifies natural artistic representation. Early seventeenth-century art critics, such as Giovanni Battista Agucchi (1570– 1632) and Giovan Pietro Bellori (1613–96; art historian and antiquarian to Queen Christina), praised Annibale for his victory over mannerism through his embellishment and idealization of nature.53 Annibale achieved his realistic aesthetic by studying the human form, relinquishing the exaggerated, distorted poses common to mannerist painting. Annibale was known especially for his naturalist depiction not just of figural positions, color, and balance, but of human flesh; by drawing from both live models and ancient Roman statuary, Annibale merged the ideal with the monumental. The drawings from which Annibale developed the herms framing the individual narratives in the Farnese Gallery—as in those in figure

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6—demonstrate the transition from real to ideal; while the drawings demonstrate Annibale’s attention to the human form, the final figures introduce the broken, fragmentary appearance of Roman antiquities.54 The colorful ignudi below the frame imitate similar figures in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel (1508–12).55 Combining realistic figures with Renaissance symmetry, Roman antiquities, and new illusionary framing devices, results in an inventive, novel wit—but one with balanced motion. Annibale’s idealized, natural figures parallel his contributions to pastoral landscape depiction, which presaged the renewed activity in this area by Claude, Poussin, and their contemporaries. Annibale’s technique of drawing from real figures anticipates Claude’s drawings created in the natural environment, which informed his idealized landscapes.56 Annibale’s new style echoes the Renaissance aesthetic of Giorgio Vasari (1511–74), the first artist to propose a Neoplatonic, idealized representation of nature reflecting the perfection of God’s universe. As Vasari wrote in the Proemio delle Vite (his introduction to Lives of the Artists, first published in 1550), “to paint is to create anew all the things of living nature” (“la pittura è un contrafar tutte le cose della natura viva”).57 Annibale strove not to imitate an artificial nature, one consciously constructed by the artist (natura naturata; literally, “nature made [to appear] natural,” in other words artificial), but a nature representing a deeper meaning, referring to inherent philosophical truths.58 Annibale’s artistic agenda is to reflect the nature of God and the universe (natura naturans; literally “nature naturing”), by shifting emphasis away from the artificial, mannerist representations, divorced from realistic context.59 The result is a natural effect revealing inherent truths. Fictive Reality. Embedded in the rhetorical and intellectual claims about truth achieved by the imitation of nature, fiction threatens to deceive the eye. The illusory techniques used by Annibale in the Farnese Gallery cause the viewer to question what is real and what is not. His use of trompe l’oeil is innovative; he layers many seemingly heavy, constructed architectural elements that would be physically impossible on a ceiling, if real. Yet these elements blend and support each other such that they draw the eye upward, causing an effect of fantasy, grace, and playfulness between light and depth, ponderousness and fluidity. Annibale uses several techniques that bring the viewer to question how the individual elements of the overall narrative relate to each other. Quadratura makes feigned architectural elements appear to be part of the real architecture of the room. Quadri riportati (“raised paintings”) are a type of quadratura; these frescoes appear to be individual works of art, contained by frames, but moved from their natural place on the wall to an unnatural place on a vault or a ceiling. To have constructed such an illusion of flat surface on a curved vault simultaneously, with illusions of depth that extend to the outside world beyond the wall in the sky-blue spaces back-

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grounding each mythological scene, is truly remarkable. Annibale unites elements that should be incompatible in nature, and yet the result, to the viewer, seems “natural.” Annibale’s lighting and foreshortened perspective, which causes each individual piece to seem as if illuminated from below (dal sotto in su) from the natural light of the room, unify the space. This innovative use of light causes so many individual fictive and feigned architectural and pictorial events to appear as one narrative, and allows the viewer to perceive the grandness of the whole design, rather than focusing on distracting, individual fragments.60 Although Annibale borrowed techniques used in sixteenth-century frescoes, such as in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, and in the Loggia of Psyche by Raphael in the Villa Farnesina, which served as models for the Farnese Gallery, his use of light far surpasses the organizing principles of those earlier works. The Farnese Gallery intentionally references the loggia of the Farnesina directly, as the Farnese family had intended to link the two properties with a bridge across the river that would lead directly to the Farnesina gardens.61 Annibale thus creates multiple spatiotemporal illusions, both inside the gallery, and extending beyond it. Carracci’s narrative, framing, and expressive devices are similar to those in Guidi’s L’Endimione. The architectural framing of each narrative event in the Farnese Gallery mirrors Guidi’s choice of plot structure. Guidi focuses on one narrative detail, one still frame from the lives of Cynthia and Endymion, turning it into a larger pictorial narrative. If, as Gravina suggests, the appropriate working process of the poet is to begin with an image, Guidi handles his subject from conception through execution superbly. Each act of L’Endimione elaborates, embellishes, and amplifies the single, iconic moment of the tale as expressed in the attributes of the primary mythological typologies. The result is a work that focuses on the emotional and psychological development of the two characters, the external influence of Love, and its transformative effects. The action of the work grinds almost to a standstill, as each act simply details the emotional situations of the characters as they interact in different settings, but with the same results—Endymion and Cynthia both feel the pathos thrust upon them by Love’s external, but hidden, force, and do not know how to correct it. Endymion recognizes consciously his emotions for Cynthia, but Cynthia either does not recognize or refuses to admit the cause of her palpable unhappiness. As a result, each encounter between the two results in Cynthia’s rejection of Endymion, and the effect intensifies after he refuses her invitation to join her cult of hunting and chastity. If Guidi’s narrative is reduced to a picture framed by limited action, thus blurring the boundaries between structure and description, and between narrative movement and emotional reflection, Annibale’s depiction of Endymion similarly blurs the boundaries between frame, subject, and narrative. The fictive elements framing the “real” narrative are layered to create an illusion of a three-dimensional

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space that draws the viewer’s eye toward the subject. Yet each of the elements external to the frame also references the pictorial narrative in some way. The two seated ignudi in natural flesh-and-blood color, one positioned on each side of the frame, appear to be sitting on fabric covering a balustrade against which the frame also rests. Their colors draw the eye to the putti inside the frame, causing a visual comparison, but in contrast to the putti the ignudi are fully mature adult figures. Both sets of figures, inside and outside the frame, situate themselves as audience members to the narrative inside the frame. The putti peer out of the greenery, indicating silence and privacy to the external audience; the external “viewers”— the statues and ignudi—turn away to respect this request. While the putti observe the scene, of which they also form a part, the external “audience” does not. The framework positions the human observer of the depiction somewhat uncomfortably as an illicit voyeur, privy to something we are not supposed to see. As the two seated figures turn away, they appear to move out of and away from the frame, and their hair is tousled by the same breeze that rustles the greenery through which the putti peer. As they hold up the garland that decorates the bottom of the frame, it seems to spill out from within the scene itself, and it is faintly colored as if to strengthen that illusion. Colors and movement from fictive elements outside the frame help to create the connection to the framed narrative. The feigned statues situated behind the seated figures also reference the framed narrative. Their classical austerity helps to situate the narrative in antiquity, while still managing to comment on it in the present moment. Their gazes, all in different directions, are somewhat unsettling to the outside viewer looking in; but they accomplish a similar effect to that of the seated figures—while consciously looking away from the subject, they still unconsciously indicate it. Their facial gestures, while impassively appropriate for statues, still seem to register disapproval; the Atlas on the direct left side of the frame mostly covers his eyes with his arms, as though he should not be distracted by the imminent improprieties within his field of vision from the arduous task of holding up the architectural framework above him. The Herm to his left self-consciously grasps his cloak around him, in a gesture of prudishness which directly contrasts the lasciviously draped cloth over the unconscious Endymion. The illusory techniques employed by Annibale also mirror Gravina’s description of the audience’s perception of narrative truths, feints, and fictions. While acknowledging that fictions are not entirely true, Gravina asserts that fictive images impress themselves on the intellect as if real. The distinction between truth and fiction is therefore blurred because of an imagistic process in literature, and because of the effects of light on the eye in art. In Annibale’s fresco, we find the perfect intersection of Gravina’s icon, mythos, and tupos; the artistic rendering follows appropriate iconographical and mythological typologies, presenting to the viewer the expected narrative paradigms. The unex-

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pected elements, the novità and maraviglia, are found, not in the subject matter or in its presentation, but in the representational framework and the artistic techniques of the artist. By infusing the image with new patterns of visual display involving design, framing, illusion, light, and perspective—all influenced by scientific techniques that help to present a “reality” that is in fact “feigned”—Annibale’s design contains all the hallmarks of aesthetic truth that Gravina endorses in the Discorso. Neoplatonism. Gravina’s Discorso emphasizes that in place of a complicated structure Guidi’s L’Endimione accomplishes the marvelous (“maraviglioso”) by its subject matter (“l’impresa”). By representing the love between a “simple Shepherd” and a “chaste Goddess,” the events “transcend the human realm.”62 The “delightful resolution,” which concerns reciprocal “love born of compassionate principles,” results from changes in emotional and social levels; the characters move from “sadness to joyfulness,” and from “wretched to felicitous.”63 Gravina now turns his Neoplatonic cosmology from the theoretical section of the Discorso to an analytical reading of Guidi’s L’Endimione; his interpretation of the subject matter and emotional compass complements the Neoplatonic aesthetic in the Carracci frescoes. Like seventeenth-century assessments of Annibale’s fresco, Guidi’s play represents idealized human emotions and actions as reflections of a higher, divine truth. Through its simplicity, the performance brings the audience to a new level of cognition, beyond the realm of human superficiality. Like the static representation of narrative inside Annibale’s frame, Guidi’s play transfers external action inward; the motion occurs inside each character in cathartic emotional compass that allows equal union at the denouement. Gravina’s Neoplatonic analysis emphasizes the “hidden, measureless power of Love,” a “fabricator of marvels.” These are universal truths, as told in mythological tales of metamorphosis; love “lowers and bows the loftiness of the Gods themselves.”64 Love wields the power to “overwhelm nature, transmute spirits, and equalize conditions,”65 thereby acting not only on people and gods, but on universal nature. Gravina’s discussion of the transformative aspects of love and its effect on states of the soul uses language derived from the “philosophy of light,” a Christian metaphysical doctrine that was spreading in Gravina’s Neapolitan academic circles, which Gravina mixes with Neoplatonism.66 The pure love between Endymion and Cynthia is inspired by the flame of love, leading toward the contemplation of the divine, of eternity and of perfection: “which was incited by the pure flames of love, and escorted by the vivid ray of beauty, and now soars swiftly towards the contemplation of eternal beauty and perfection.”67 Gravina describes the eternal and beautiful ray of light as a powerful influence that infuses Endymion, shining so brilliantly within him that Cynthia recognizes it as the same luminescence that she herself possesses; Endymion is thereby elevated

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to her status: “The ray of light, descended from eternal and universal beauty, striking against Endymion, created in him such a vivid and celestial splendor, that it captured the inclination and spirit of the goddess, who saw in Endymion part of her own nature: thus one sees that wondrous transformation of the celestial nature produced in Endymion, who is raised to a level worthy of Diana’s love.”68 This light, reflected between them, connects the mortal to the immortal, and balances contrary natures without destroying them. Gravina’s portrayal of the ray of light derives from the iconic moment in the center of Guidi’s text in act 3 (quoted above). In Guidi’s text, the light emanates from Endymion, and Cynthia cannot resist it although she seeks to return to the heavenly spheres. Cynthia characterizes Endymion as her “Sun.” The dichotomous relationship between Cynthia and Endymion, Moon and Sun, reveals another layer of Neoplatonic symbolism connected to the gender reversals in Guidi’s text. The Neoplatonists considered the Sun to be the image of God, and a source of all goodness, divine inspiration, and intellect. By casting Endymion as the Sun, he becomes the center focus of the work; Cynthia, the Moon, is placed as his corollary, possessing only the light that she reflects from him. For as Ficino writes in The Book of the Sun: The Moon changes her appearance and nature in whatever aspect she makes to the Sun. . . . For what is the light of the Moon if not that selfsame light of the Sun sent to her and reflected in the lunar mirror? . . . The Moon, the lady of generation, has no manifest light except from the Sun. When she is in perfect harmony with the Sun, she takes from it all the celestial powers which are gathered there, as Proclus says, so that she may convey similar powers down to our earth.69

Similar interpretations of Cynthia as the mirror of the moon’s light filtered into Renaissance mythography, as in Natale Conti’s description: “For while the Sun has its own brightness, the Moon has no light of its own; rather, just like a mirror, it is a transparent body which radiates light to the Earth that it receives from the Sun.”70 For Gravina, then, the Neoplatonic elements of Guidi’s text are inherently verisimilar, but they also provide justification for Cynthia’s characterization as a passive body drawn to and reflecting Endymion’s light; her very actions, faces, phases, and nature are dependent upon him. As a result, both characters must resolve their internal conflicts through each other, and it is thus that they form a Neoplatonic union. Endymion’s conflict between love for the goddess and his lowly, human stature is resolved by the common light that he shares with Cynthia; Cynthia’s conflict between chastity and her attraction to Endymion, between going and staying, is resolved by her need to acknowledge and reflect Endymion’s light so that she may meld her dual internal natures, goddess and moon, into one being. From a scientific perspective, the topics of light, reflection, mirror, moon, and sun engage with the heliocentric Galilean discourse resonating in the new scientific empiricism, the astronomical and visual experiments, and the new ocular

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devices circulating in the Accademia fisico-matematica. The Moon’s “ray of light,” “striking against Endymion” resembles Gravina’s images, which “strike against the intellect,” allowing for truthful perception. Through Aristotelian empiricism, Gravina articulates philosophical perceptions of truth; through Christian Neoplatonism, Gravina finds an appropriate allegory in the Endymion/Sun, Cynthia/ Moon that already exists in euhemerist mythological interpretation, now appropriate to the ocularcentric discourses on truth and science in Roman intellectual circles. By carefully uniting approved theological doctrines (the philosophy of light) with Neoplatonic allegory, Gravina tempers the radicalism of his empiricist philosophy. By removing the aspects of empiricism that were problematic to the Catholic Church, replacing those with a Neoplatonic cosmology situating the divine as the pure truth, Gravina avoids the more contentious controversies that surrounded Galileo, Descartes, and others under scrutiny from religious authorities.71 We have now found an appropriate typology to explain Cynthia’s character, one that excuses suitably the active/passive gender reversals in L’Endimione— motivated by nature, Neoplatonism, religion, and science. Feminine Character Gravina justifies L’Endimione’s gendered reversals also through analysis of Cynthia’s character—which conforms to his own “commonly held beliefs” about the nature of women. Gravina sees in Guidi’s representation of Cynthia the characteristics of human, female love (“un amor femminile”). In his words, she feels the burning of love in her veins, but she ignores it out of disdain and the “harshness of her character,” which is unyielding to love. Paradoxically, she nourishes Endymion’s internal flame of love, but flees when he follows. She pretends not to care, turning her “external senses” away from her “internal feelings.” She therefore uses a mask to deceive not only herself, but also the outside world. The sentiment snakes its way deeper into her (“più profondamente serpeggia”), inflaming her thoughts and desires, until she recognizes it as a divine light that satisfies her divine spirit when she encounters it in Endymion, outside of herself. Her actions are indicative of feminine dissimulation (“simulazion femminile”), and are therefore an accurate portrayal of female character, since women are more adept at holding secrets than men.72 While Endymion’s light elevates him to a quasi-divine status, Cynthia’s human, female characteristics mar her divinity. Although the surface of Guidi’s narrative structure seems to deny the most “commonly held belief ” in typologies 2 and 3 of the Endymion myth, Gravina’s extensive knowledge of classical and early modern sources, and of contemporary visual culture and optical science, allows him to offer a different interpretation, one that highlights the novità and maraviglia of Guidi’s text. The Discorso makes clear that a myriad of factors works together to create truthfulness in representation; verisimilitude is found in scientific and Neoplatonic allegories, and in

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culturally determined gender roles. Endymion is rescued from the “inappropriate” role of sexually passive male by becoming a model for scientific exploration. Most importantly, his “new” character receives justification in past models, allowing for a typologically correct interpretation of Cynthia. I C ON , M Y T H O S , A N D T U P O S

Gravina’s analysis of L’Endimione joins Neoplatonic cosmology with empirical perceptions of truth; icons portray imagistic truths, percussing against the intellect to frame realistic responses, mythos carries paradigmatic truths with historical traces, and tupos stamps individual narratives allowing for divergence from past strictures, creating a space for the novelty that excites the audience’s attention and wonder. Harnessing these analytical methods, Gravina argues that Guidi’s L’Endimione projects a version of truth—a poetic finto that we perceive as true because of our “commonly held beliefs,” the myriad images we have collectively stored from the very same paradigmatic sources that Gravina cites as authoritative images from the past: art, mythology, and typological representation. Gravina simultaneously situates Guidi’s L’Endimione in its ancient, mythological origins— appealing to the Arcadian respect for antiquarian objects and monumental structures—and in its modern, scientific allegory for empirical observation, astronomical fascination, and experimental practice. Where Gravina articulates a pastoral ideology in the Discorso to model a genre counteracting what he considers the rampant Aristotelian dogmatism of the age, it would not be lost on the Arcadian audience that natural landscape features highly in Gravina’s language and discourse. The immagine della natura not only participates as an important level in Gravina’s Neoplatonic cosmology, but also pervades the lecture as a backdrop much like the pastoral landscape in Guidi’s L’Endimione. One of Gravina’s most salient metaphors describing the problems with Seicento literature, is how it changes the “course of nature” by changing not only the “epoch” but also “human conditions, years, and seasons.” These mannerist poets “enclose more decades, even whole centuries into the revolution of one day”; they “transport the whole Ocean into a city, and encase the Heaven in the earth.” They cause the “derangement of all the Elements, and of the entire universe.”73 Although one could read these lines as an appeal to stay within the boundaries of the neoAristotelian unities that Gravina detests—indeed, it resonates with that precept— it is more significant that these outrages against nature disrupt the natural, pastoral landscape. The pastoral remains the ideal. Gravina’s analysis of L’Endimione uses the same empirical methods that he develops in the first half of the Discorso—by creating a theoretical model, comparing the narrative to observable quantities, and weighing those quantities against his initial theory, he models the process of scientific experimentation. Gravina’s

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“metascience” analogizes his own definition of how the mind perceives truth in Della ragion poetica: “When the image of a thing which is not present, or which exists only in the future, is not ruled out by another contrary image that pulls against our acquiescence, the [original] image is received by us as if present and real, or as if corresponding to a definite existence in truth.”74 Gravina systematically eliminates the doubt that is contained in the potential “contrary images” of L’Endimione, by demonstrating the alternative contexts in which Guidi’s portrayal is true: Guidi’s adherence to Catholic, Neoplatonic doctrines about the divine source of truth and the philosophy of light, and to a culturally acceptable portrayal of gender conforming to classical typologies of Cynthia as the moon. L’Endimione is verisimilar because it “corresponds to a definite existence in truth,” which existence cannot be refuted by any opposing “image of truth.”

5

Believing in Opera Visual Modes in Alessandro Scarlatti’s La Statira

The analytical perspectives that arise from the preceding study of Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso as a united performance provide a multifaceted approach to operatic repertory. At least five additional areas could be developed for libretto studies, to increase our understanding of the Arcadian operatic environment: (1) genre (mixing of heroic and pastoral types), (2) gendered representation, (3) visuality (seeing and imagining), (4) reflection and apotheosis, and (5) truth in nature. The presence of any combination of these narrative elements, when connected with the immagine del vero, might signify Arcadian symbolism at work. Furthermore, Gravina’s Discorso models an idealized plot trajectory that includes a process of recognition and catharsis under which these representative elements would be subsumed. These additional concepts form part of my ongoing research, since they take us farther afield than the scope of this study, which is bounded by the immediate consequences of Guidi’s L’Endimione. For this reason, I have chosen to focus on two operatic case studies—Alessandro Scarlatti’s opera La Statira, and Carlo Francesco Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù (see chapter 6)—which demonstrate the usefulness of icon, mythos, and tupos as analytical strategies, and further our understanding of how opera interacts with art and literature. On January 5, 1690, Alessandro Scarlatti’s opera La Statira premiered at Rome’s Tordinona Theater.1 The performance marked the beginning of carnival, which began the following day, and celebrated the reopening of the Tordinona Theater after a fourteen-year period of darkness. Since 1676, when Pope Innocent XI (Benedetto Odescalchi, r. 1676–89) banned all public theatrical performances due to moral concerns, the Tordinona had closed its doors and remained completely 126

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abandoned.2 During this period, opera in Rome was relegated entirely to the private or semiprivate sphere.3 When he was elected in 1689, the new Ottoboni pope, Alexander VIII (1689–91), lifted the long-held ban on theatrical performance, allowing the Tordinona once again to become Rome’s public theater. Pope Alexander VIII’s nephew, Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni, created the libretto for La Statira.4 We can therefore view the opera as not only ushering in the carnival season and the newly refurbished theater, but also as paying tribute to the new pope, who promised an era of great artistic and musical patronage. The opera’s subject, which despite its title actually centers on Alexander the Great, creates an allegory of the “two Alexanders”—one ancient and pagan, and the other modern and Catholic. La Statira presents a set of dramatic anomalies. The primary subject of the opera, Alexander the Great’s defeat of the Persian King Darius III in the Battle of Susa in the year 333 b.c. (which is presented in act 1), and the ensuing marriage between Alexander and his slain enemy’s daughter Statira (which is presented in act 3), suddenly veers off course in the middle, in act 2. Here the anachronistic narrative depicting Alexander’s patronage of the famous artist Apelles intrudes. By uniting these two narratives, Ottoboni creates an operatic plot without precedent. The result is unnecessarily complicated, intermingling and reordering chunks of material from two historical sources—Plutarch’s Life of Alexander and the Elder Pliny’s Natural History—and showcasing several scenes in Alexander’s picture gallery which halt the drama and create staging difficulties. While the primary narrative portrays Alexander in his military glory and his humane treatment of prisoners of war, the secondary narrative portrays Alexander involved in court life and artistic pursuits. To emphasize the connection between the “two Alexanders”— one ancient, one modern—the libretto’s original conclusion celebrated the beneficence of the Ottoboni family. This idea was nixed by the cardinal’s father, who felt it was too unseemly.5 Even without the original ending, the parallels are clear: the famous heroics, virtue, magnanimity, and artistic patronage for which the ancient Macedonian military leader was best known, are now transferred to the modern, Ottoboni leader of the Catholic world. But what is the function and meaning of the incongruous narrative contained in act 2, beyond creating a parallel between Alexander the Great’s artistic patronage and Alexander VIII’s munificence? Why would Pietro Ottoboni interrupt an otherwise sequential, unified plot with only marginally related material? The answers to these questions lie in the opera’s engagement with a broader intellectual context, involving pictorial narrative, iconography, literary aesthetics, and early modern concepts of gender. Before we delve into these symbolisms, however, it will be helpful to understand Ottoboni’s dramatic precedents, the ancient sources from which he gathered his plot elements, and the representational typologies associated with his main characters in the early modern era.

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In the seventeenth century, there were several dramatic works with Statira as a main character. With one exception, these precedents bear little resemblance to Ottoboni’s opera; Ottoboni’s Statira is a completely different character. The most prominent of these are the 1655 opera La Statira, principessa di Persia, by Giovanni Francesco Busenello and Pier Francesco Cavalli, performed in Venice, and the 1680 spoken play Statira, by Nicolas Pradon.6 Pradon in his introduction to Statira mentions a novel titled Cassandra (1644–50), by M[onsieur] [Gaultier] de [Coste] la Calprenède, which also depicts the character Statira. The Pradon play is entirely fictional; Pradon invents a relationship between Statira and Leonatus, one of Alexander’s most trusted generals. Pradon is careful to distinguish his character Statira from the one who appears in La Calprenède’s novel, who disguises herself as Cassandra to avoid Roxane’s jealousy. Busenello’s libretto is the only dramatic source for the character Statira that bears a small resemblance to Ottoboni’s libretto. This opera is a fictional account of Statira’s relationship with Cloridaspe, the young king of Arabia; Statira heals the injuries he sustained while rescuing her from being kidnapped. Although the narrative in Ottoboni’s La Statira differs from Busenello’s opera, Ottoboni does seem to borrow a ploy from this earlier libretto. In Busenello, Statira’s maidservant, Ermosilla, turns out to be a jealous lover of Statira—Usimano, prince of Egypt. In Ottoboni, the ploy is considerably tamed; Statira’s fiancé, Oronte, disguises himself as an Armenian to gain political neutrality and to be allowed into Statira’s retinue. Whereas in Busenello, this conceit becomes a significant motivation for the rest of the plot, in Ottoboni, it is a mere convenience, and bears little relevance to the actual outcome of the drama. After the Busenello/Cavalli opera, characters named Statira become quite popular. Statira appears in a series of operas in the middle of the seventeenth century: 1668, Venice. L’Artaxerse, overo, L’Ormonda costante. Aurelio Aureli, Antonio Cesti.7 Characters: Artaxerse, Ciro, Statira, Eurimene, Ormonda, Clearco, Delfa, Climero, Clito. Statira is the wife of Artaxerse, king of Persia, but in love with Eurimene, a Syrian prince. 1675, Venice. Il Dario ravivato. Sonnolento Tassista [Giovanni Antonio Bonis], composer unknown. Characters: Alessandro, Poliperconte, Lisimaco, Rosane, Clito, Statira, Dario, Besso, Parisatide, Abulite, Barsine, Lido. Statira is the wife of Dario, whom she believes dead, but he is disguised as his own general, Besso. Rosane is the wife of Alessandro, but disguised as Clito. 1684, Venice. L’incoronatione di Dario. Adriano Morselli, Domenico Freschi. Characters: Dario, Statira, Argene, Oronte, Arpago, Alinda, Niceno, Floro, Apollo. Dario is one of three contenders to the Persian throne after the death of Ciro; Dario marries Statira, Ciro’s daughter.8

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Not one of these operas, however, portrays the same Statira that we find in Ottoboni’s libretto. Each of these texts narrates some version of the historical character Statira, who was both Darius’s wife and the mother of the character appearing in Ottoboni’s opera. If Ottoboni knew of the 1675 Il Dario ravivato, the presence of both Rosane and Statira in that opera could have inspired our librettist to portray the two rivals for Alexander’s affection—Statira and Campaspe—that we find in his 1690 version of La Statira. Operas on the subject of Alexander the Great also existed before Ottoboni’s La Statira. These are fairly abundant; unlike Ottoboni’s opera, which mixes several typologies, these works focus either on Alexander’s magnanimity, his relationship with his first wife Roxana, or his military prowess: 1651, Venice. Alessandro vincitor di se stesso. Francesco Sbarra, Antonio Cesti. Characters (from the third edition, performed in Lucca in 1654): Aristotele, Efestione, Calane, Cyna, Fidalpa, Campaspe, Gloria, Bleso, Alessandro, Apelle.9 1651, Venice. Gli amori di Alessandro e di Rossane. Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, Francesco Lucio. Like Alessandro vincitor di se stesso, this opera was very popular, with librettos reprinted and revised under different titles through 1678.10 1662, Innsbruck. La magnanimità di Alessandro. Francesco Sbarra, Antonio Cesti. This work was performed for Queen Christina in Innsbruck on a return trip to Rome. Characters: Alessandro, Efestione, Arsace, Sisigambi, Statira, Timoclea, Alissa, Bleso, Clearco, Teagene, Ormino. 1663, Venice. La Rosane, con gli amori di Alessandro. Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, composer unknown. This is a revision of Cicognini’s play that was the basis for the 1651 Gli amori di Alessandro e di Rossane, above. Characters: Alessandro, Cratero, Arsace, Arsaldo, Satrape Coortano, Rossane, Oristilla, Linca, Flora, Gano, Alcone. 1667, Venice. L’Alessandro amante. Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, Giovanni Antonio Boretti. This is another revision of Gli amori di Alessandro e di Rossane, listed above. Characters: Alessandro, Cratero, Atreo, Satrape Coortano, Rossane, Oristilla, Linca, Flora, Gano; Gods: Giove, Fortuna, Virtù. 1673, Venice. L’Alessandro, overo Il trionfo di se stesso. Franceso Maria Santinelli, composer unknown. Characters: Alessandro Magno, Poro, Efestione, Apelle, Rarimonda, Campaspe, Oronta [Oronte?], Aristotele, Ostane, Trinace, Fidalma. 1684, Rome. Alessandro Magno.11 Revision of La lanterna di Diogene [1674, Vienna]. Niccolò Minato, Antonio Draghi. Characters: Diogene,

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Alessandro, Dario, Antigene, Statira, Siroe, Efestione, Parmenione, Cratero, Filota, Tirreo, Chalestre, Dinno, Onniade, Essicrite, Calane, Pleusippo, Parmenide, Euritide, Ermione, Mileno, Serite, Polistrato. The operas on Alexander the Great were most numerous in Venice, where they stem from prototypes created by three main authors: Francesco Sbarra, Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, and Francesco Maria Santinelli. Sbarra and Santinelli include the characters Aristotle, Apelles, and Campaspe, and focus on Alexander as magnanimous hero who sacrifices his own desires, a theme that emerged as one of dramatic importance in the seventeenth century.12 These dramatists cast Alexander as a wise leader, whose temperance, clemency, and generosity form the virtuous character consistent with early modern political idealism. Cicognini, on the other hand, emphasizes Alexander’s relationship with Roxana. Ottoboni’s La Statira is the only seventeenth-century work to join both typologies in one opera. Although the conclusion focuses on Alexander’s clemency toward Campaspe and Apelles, and earlier sections of the opera highlight his clemency toward Statira, the double marriage (Campaspe-Apelles and Alexander-Statira) allows for both of the typological precedents to remain in place, with greater emphasis overall accorded to the vincitor di se stesso paradigm. In La Statira’s dedication to “the Ladies of Rome,” the bookseller Francesco Leone emphasizes Alexander’s selfsacrifice: “Alexander the Great esteems being able to appear in your presence, to present an entertainment worthy of your spirit and generosity, as greater than all of his triumphs. Therefore, he presents himself onstage first as Lover of Campaspe, then of Statira; he sacrifices the former to his Friend [Apelles], and himself to the latter, expressing both his grief before your eyes and the reason for his inconstancy to your judgment—which reason, being bedecked in glory, he assures cannot displease you.”13 Although I have not discovered any operas which focus on the subject of Campaspe prior to Ottoboni’s La Statira, a significant source—John Lyly’s 1584 play Campaspe performed at the court of Queen Elizabeth—displays a similar narrative typology to the seventeenth-century Alexander operas discussed above.14 As in many of the Alexander operas, Lyly’s characters include the military leader, a philosopher, the artist, and the model, and Alexander must cede his passion to his self-control. In John Lyly’s play, some themes relating to Apelles and Campaspe are similar to those found in Ottoboni’s libretto. Apelles worries about being rival to a king: “But, alas, she is the paramour to a prince: Alexander, the monarch of the earth, hath both her body and affection. For what is it that kings cannot obtain by prayers, threats, and promises?” (3.5.31–33).15 Campaspe, cast as low-born compared to Timoclea, which relationship Ottoboni duplicates between Campaspe and Statira, meanwhile worries about the perception of her virtue.16 Another dramatic textual source for Ottoboni’s character Campaspe is the 1651 play Darlo todo y no dar nada, by Spanish playwright Calderòn de la Barca. The

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pretext for the play is a competition in which three painters vie for a position at the court of Alexander the Great. Apelles wins. Campaspe saves Alexander from a tragic hunting accident. But then the well-known story drawn from Pliny, featured also in La Statira, begins. In recompense, Alexander commissions her portrait from his new court painter, Apelles. Apelles falls in love with his model while painting Campaspe’s portrait.17 The plot elements resonate not only with La Statira, but also with the other Alexander operas discussed above. Calderòn’s play could be a significant source of this dramatic typology in Baroque Italian opera. Most significant for La Statira is the presence of the double marriage at the conclusion, with the “beautiful captive princess” as Alexander’s bride, a plot element that does not appear in the earlier Alexander operas. Although Ottoboni has borrowed several small ideas from earlier plays and operas featuring the characters Statira, Alexander, and Campaspe, his plot is completely novel. Instead of relying on dramatic precedents, Ottoboni turns to visual renderings of his classical sources, which included symbolisms familiar to his audience. R E C E P T IO N

Ottoboni’s La Statira met with mixed success; or rather, the reports of the opera’s success are somewhat contradictory. The production ran for just over a month, from January 5 through February 14; this seems to be about average for productions at the Tordinona in the 1690s, or if anything, slightly longer than average. One contemporary account suggests that the music, singers, and sets were applauded, but not the text.18 It is difficult to judge from our vantage point exactly what this may have meant. Other notices, primarily from the correspondence of an abbot to the duke of Modena, clearly favor the singer Antonio Borosini from the Modenese court and praise the “theater, scenes, costumes, accompaniments, and singers.” One of these letters suggests that La Statira was the preferred performance during the season.19 Another excerpt from this correspondence praises the production elements: “[the] comedy, or rather drama set to music, the text composed by Cardinal Ottoboni, was greatly enjoyed: I was there yesterday and the scenes, costumes, and accompaniments can be praised infinitely, as much as for those of the same genre in Venice.”20 Holmes finds additional documents, in which the text is described as “malinconico”—too melancholy or serious for the carnival season—but that the theater was full.21 In these descriptions, it is clear that the opera as a whole was enjoyable; no overt criticism of the text appears, beyond the fact that it might have been too serious for carnival, but also no specific praise of the text emerges. From a modern perspective, I see no explicit reason why the quality of the poetry should have been criticized, as the language and style are similar to other operatic texts of the period; however, one might imagine that the novel plot, containing combinations of characters and representational typologies

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that never before existed in one operatic work, could have been problematic for some theater goers. As the documents quoted by Cametti and Holmes already have shown, the singers were a major part of the opera’s success. Several broadsides addressed to individual singers give us a greater understanding of the audience’s enjoyment of the music, and their interpretation of the characters. These documents contain the closest resonance of a musical reception of La Statira. Through the author’s choices of which scenes to discuss, we can understand which moments of the production had the greatest impact. A sonnet addressed to Statira (“A Statira eremita”) pays tribute to Statira’s pastoral retreat in act 2, scene 11, where she laments her father’s death.22 The scene takes place in the mountains, with Statira’s hermitage and Darius’s mausoleum in the background (“Gruppo di Monti con l’Eremo di Statira, e Mausoleo di Dario”). The scene represents an extension of Alexander’s clemency; he granted Statira this retreat in an act of compassion, allowing her to grieve and pay proper respects to her father. It is also one of the few pastoral moments of the opera, representing an Arcadian ideal crucial both to the outcome of the plot, and to Statira’s trajectory as a character. The penultimate scene of the act, this moment sets Statira up for grave danger; as she falls asleep, dreaming of her father and his soldiers, reliving the horror of their final moments, she is left vulnerable in the next and final scene of the act (2, 12). Demetrio, sent by Campaspe, encounters Statira in the wilderness and attempts to murder her. As in many operatic scenes of this type,23 Demetrio is not sure what stops him from his murderous plot, but ultimately flees for his life in a sudden earthquake. Miraculously, both from murder and earthquake, Statira is saved. The sonnet’s first two stanzas establish a contrast between living and dead, and between grief and beauty, while constructing a large-scale simile between Statira and a songbird. In the first stanza, the songbird (“Augel canoro”), in the face of death (“in faccia alla Morte”), consoles even Avernus with its sweet melody (“Con dolce melodia consoli Averno”). The song breathes and exudes sweetness (“E traspiri dolcezze”); in a final contrast, it reaches as far as Alexander’s inner court, where her tormentor sits on the throne (“anco all’interno / Ove in Trono real siede il martoro”).24 The first stanza thus describes the narrative situation and the power of the singer’s voice in the lament aria.25 The second stanza continues this idea, and firmly fixes the drawn-out simile. Here we find Statira named—she becomes the “Augel canoro” of the first stanza (“Te pur bella statira egual ristoro”), and just as the songbird’s melody consoles Avernus, Statira’s aria comforts Dario after death (“Al morto Genitor porger discerno”).26 Scarlatti’s aria for Statira, written in F minor with largo tempo marking in ⅜ meter, contains long, melismatic phrases frequently broken by rests. (See example 1, “Quei sospir che sparsi al vento”) Echoes in the violin 1 and 2 create a musical image of Statira’s “sighs” (“sospiri”), which are thrown futilely into the wind

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(“sparsi al vento”). This musical, echoing interplay, becomes the embodiment of Statira’s torment in the B section: “[my sighs] take the form of a torment, and they return to me” (“Prendan forma dal tormento ed a me faccian ritorno”). The word “return” (“ritorno”) in the B section receives the longest melisma—a total of seven slow measures—with the least amount of echoing repetition from the violins. Statira must now reprise her burden on her own—perhaps the winds continue to buffet her, but no longer carry her lament.27 example 1. Act 2, sc. 11: Statira, “Quei sospir che sparsi al vento” (aria), mm. 5–22 and 48–60. Repro-

duced with permission of the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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This aria forms part of a larger scene complex, somewhat unusual for Scarlatti’s operas; it is preceded by Statira’s recitative “Or che lungi dal fasto,” which is addressed to her dead father as she exits her grotto retreat, and it is followed by a much shorter recitative “Così vedrò nel condensato duolo” (only four mm.) and a concluding ritornello for strings (only seven mm.) which accompanies her while falling asleep on a rock. In the ritornello we finally find the expected suspensions and dissonances frequently associated with the lament aria. It is as though Statira’s lament aria interrupts her reverie to her father as she moves emotionally and textually from the present moment to an expressive rendering of internal grief and back again, and now the delayed suspensions mimic that lament just as the winds had thrown her grief back in her face during the first half of the aria. It is clear why our broadside author chose to highlight this scene; it is not only the moment of Statira’s most intense plight and greatest vulnerability, but the musical setting with its carefully structured symmetries and delayed expectations—unlike Scarlatti’s more usual short, strophic da capo aria forms—moves forward with the character’s representation of emotion to capture depth. A second broadside honors Campaspe’s beauty (“A Campase abbandonata da Alessandro”); while this text does not reference singing, it empathizes with the character’s predicament, and her abandonment by Alexander in favor of her rival, Statira.28 In the broadside, Campaspe ultimately vanquishes Alexander the vanquisher (“Vincesti un dì del Vincitor’ più forte”) with the beauty emanating from her eyes (“altre ritorte / Non mancheran’ à lumi tuoi fatal”).29 These lines refer specifically to a moment in act 2, scene 7, where Campaspe tries to seduce Alexander through his eyes, by performing a sumptuous and sensuous visual display, dressed as the goddess Flora on stage. In her text, she predicts that one of Alexander’s triumphs (“trionfi”) will be over herself (“trionfator”). In the broadside poem, Campaspe is monumentalized as the Heart of Hearts, just as Alexander is “King of all Kings, a Warrior Hero” (“Sia Rè di tutti i Rè l’Eroe Guerriero”). The emphasis on Campaspe’s beauty may refer both to her character within the opera, and her historic stature as enduring

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figure 9. Antonio Tempesta, Spring, from The Four Seasons, etching (1592). Published by Giovanni Orlandi, Rome. The British Museum, 1856,0112.298, AN65021001.

artistic subject, through Apelles’ ancient depiction of her, which still resonates for the modern world after the passing of so many centuries since its first creation in the ancient world. As the sonnet narrates, the entire world will languish at her beauty (“Languir’ à tuoi bei sguardi un Mondo intero”).30 This broadside commemorates one of the principal musical scene complexes of the entire opera. As I will discuss below, this moment is also at the center of the opera, structurally, visually, and dramatically. The scenic instructions from the score emphasize the stunning elements of the production: “A large room in Campaspe’s apartments with a huge float of flowers in the middle, everything decorated to resemble the kingdom of Flora. Campaspe seated upon the float, which is drawn by two white chargers, dressed as Flora, surrounded by many maidens representing the most notable flowers of the world. In the air, a number of little cupids who shower flowers on the stage.”31 The description of Flora seated on a chariot drawn by chargers derives from an iconographic topic called the Triumph of Spring (see fig. 9).32 The scene begins in dialogue recitative between Apelles and Alexander (“Quanto vaga mi sembra”), in which they discuss Campase’s beauty. Apelles tries to convince Alexander of Campaspe’s worthiness in a relatively lengthy continuo air (“Se t’appaga”). It is Campaspe’s first aria in this scene (“Resista chi può al dardo d’amore”; see example 2), however, that likely captured the imagination of the broadside author.

example 2. Act 2, sc. 7: Campaspe, “Resista chi può al dardo d’amore” (aria), mm. 7–18. Reproduced

with permission of the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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This aria begins with a lengthy ritornello in the full strings, where the dotted sixteenth-note figures represent the “arrow of love” (“dardo d’amore”) that will appear in the text. The vocal line, in contrast, begins with resistance (“Resista”) with long, held notes preceded by a leap; each repetition of this figure begins on another, higher pitch of the C-major triad, so that by three repetitions we have heard a complete clarion call in the voice. Campaspe seems to be urging, commanding, even daring her audience of suitors—Apelles and Alexander—to resist their own reaction to her seductive performance. Scarlatti achieves this momentary illusion by fragmenting the first word of the text from the rest of the line, and elongating it to create an entire musical statement; together with the opening ritornello, this material occupies the first thirteen measures of the aria. The irony soon becomes apparent. Campaspe’s own lack of resistance becomes clear as her vocal line completes the first textual phrase, in a tumbling, descending scalar pattern: “Let him resist the arrow of love” (“Resista chi può al dardo d’amore”; m. 14). The voice proceeds to melismatic treatment, alternating between parallel and inverted relationships with the first violin on the repeated text: “the arrow of love” (“al dardo d’amore”; mm. 15 ff.). Finally, we realize that Campaspe’s initial use of Alexander’s own militaristic musical language (which he had introduced in his first aria, mimicking the trumpet call, in act I, scene 2; “Invitti guerrieri”) is a direct challenge to the warrior. The music tells us that she is aware that he is watching her performance (see further discussion below). Although Campaspe addresses Alexander in her aria, she does so obliquely, by asking rhetorical questions and posing aphorisms. Yet in her recitative, she turns to him directly for the first time: “Return, Alexander” (“Torna, torna Alessandro”); the dramatic mode shifts from Alexander and Apelles watching her performance, to Campaspe’s direct engagement with her audience. Campaspe shatters the fourth wall. While the full sense of her statement, “Return to your former affections” (“Torna, Alessandro, agli affetti primieri”), is yet to be completed, her first word could be ambiguous; “torna,” uttered twice, removed from the context of the full sentence, could mean “turn away,” don’t look at me for a moment, since looking is connected to loving. The aria and the recitative together, through Scarlatti’s textual fragmentations, perform a complex rhetoric of parallel ambiguous meanings: resist; don’t resist, because who can resist? return, turn away. It is a rhetoric of seduction. To mitigate breaking the performative wall, Campaspe maintains a sense of distance during her recitative. Although she addresses Alexander directly, she continues to refer to herself as Flora. Alexander does not enter the performance space by interacting with her; rather, he remains firmly in the onstage audience, continuing his discussion with Apelles, judging her beauty: “I know not how to deny, she is beautiful” (“Nol so negar, è bella”). After a few brief exchanges, Campaspe joins the conversation: “And is it indeed true, most ungrateful heart, that

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you will return to me?” (“Ed è pur vero, ingratissimo core, che a me ritorni?”). There is no time for Alexander’s response, as Campaspe’s recitative leads into her second aria (the third of four arias in the scene), seeking punishment for Alexander’s injustice toward her (“Punir ti voglio, ingrato”). Ultimately, the scene ends with the revelation of Alexander’s full plan—he will give Campaspe to Apelles. The Neoplatonic, Baroque theory of love attracted by the visual sense is crushed, along with Campaspe’s ambition. While contemporary descriptions and broadsides give us one point of view, financial reports may also complete our picture of the opera’s success. It seems that the theater manager Giacomo d’Alibert sought to continue performances during Lent (quaresima) or at Easter in order to recoup expenses: “Since monsù d’Arimbert spent much on the comedy, he has tried to stage a production at quaresima, if allowed, or rather at Easter, to reimburse himself.”33 Again, this report can be interpreted in two different ways; either box office receipts were low, indicating that the theater was not full, and the opera not popular,34 or, that the fixed expenses of the production (such as theater rental, costumes, stage sets) were greater than the nightly revenue gained even with full seating, but that recurring expenses (such as paying singers and instrumentalists) were less, so that additional performances meant greater return on initial investments. Because public theater in Rome frequently did not make a large profit, leading to the highly volatile nature of public opera in that city compared to that in Venice, I am more inclined to the second interpretation than to the first. We have seen in the documents quoted above, that the audiences filled the Tordinona. Yet one report suggests that La Statira, although initially the most popular work of the season, had stiff competition once La caduta del regno dell’ amazzoni, with text by Giuseppe Domenico de Totis and music by Bernardo Pasquini, began playing on January 15 at the Palazzo Colonna.35 A complete failure in popularity on the part of La Statira would more likely result in a very limited run of performances and an abrupt closing of the theater, cutting any production losses before the damage could get larger. D’Alibert’s willingness to continue the production means that it was profitable; receipts from the production were continuing to pay off D’Alibert’s lease on the building and his reconstruction costs. Finally, a small note from Cametti: after the carnival production run had completed, Ottoboni held at least two additional performances at his private theater in the Palazzo della Cancelleria.36 The show seems to have been fairly popular, at least by the standards of 1690s Roman opera. Another way to think about the success of La Statira should also be explored. Given that Ottoboni created a new type of operatic subject, based partly on the preexisting narrative typology of Alexander as self-sacrificing hero, we might also be able to trace the popularity of his text by how many imitations or reworkings of La Statira appear in ensuing decades. Even though Scarlatti’s opera does not seem

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to have been repeated after the close of carnival season in 1690, a new upsurge in operas which focus on the subject of Statira, Campapse, or Apelles does occur through the eighteenth century. L I T E R A RY A N D V I SUA L S OU R C E S : R E I M AG I N I N G H I S T O RY The whole opera has that sense of brilliant effect that characterizes the gorgeous frescoes with which the school of Guido Reni decorated the palaces of Rome or Bologna. —edward dent, alessandro scarlatti: his life and works

To appreciate the novelty of Ottoboni’s operatic narrative, and how it conforms to an Arcadian notion of the immagine del vero, we need to understand the opera’s relationship to its source material. Although Ottoboni does not seem to have worked directly from operatic precedents in creating La Statira, he did borrow material from a variety of pre-existing sources, both literary and visual. His working methods appear to have been quite complex, beginning with episodes from historical sources, then amplifying those with iconic visual material that would have been more familiar to most of his audience. Ottoboni embeds in his narrative a complex system of symbols attached to commonly known artworks; these symbols would have been apparent to erudite opera goers, if not to every person sitting in the theater. In this way, Ottoboni’s La Statira projects both broad visual appeal and intellectual engagement, satisfying the varying needs of his individual audience members. Where associates of the Arcadian Academy saw a dramatic and musical enactment of the immagine del vero, other letterati saw complex visual symbolism, and the general public appreciated the visual spectacle based on familiar tropes. When Edward Dent wrote that La Statira embodied the “brilliant effect” of Rome’s palatial frescoes, he was referring to Scarlatti’s prevalent, and highly unusual, use of accompanied recitative in the opera’s opening act. What I intend to show, while explicating Ottoboni’s process of using and transforming his source materials to create a sumptuous visual display necessitating imagistic interpretation in the minds of his spectators, is that the libretto literally models important works of art—many of which were indeed on Roman palace walls, and within walking distance of Ottoboni’s own Palazzo della Cancelleria. The primary episode on which Ottoboni based his libretto derives from Plutarch’s Lives (treated in acts 1 and 3), while the secondary episode derives from the Elder Pliny’s Natural History (treated in act 2).37 Plutarch narrates Alexander’s military exploits, his victory over King Darius, and his generous treatment of the Persian survivors, particularly the women, who were enabled to marry into Macedonian families:

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At Susa he brought to pass the marriage of his companions, took to wife himself the daughter of Darius, Statira, assigned the noblest women to his noblest men, and gave a general wedding feast for those of his Macedonians who had already contracted other marriages. At this feast, we are told, nine thousand guests reclined at supper, to each of whom a golden cup for the libations was given. All the other appointments too were amazingly splendid, and the host paid himself the debts which his guests owed, the whole outlay amounting to nine thousand eight hundred and seventy talents.38

Upon marrying Statira, Alexander cast aside his wife Roxana; she became so viciously jealous that she murdered Statira, stuffed her body in a well and covered it with sand: “Now, Roxana was with child, and on this account was held in honour among the Macedonians; but she was jealous of Statira, and therefore deceived her by a forged letter into coming where she was, and when she had got her there, slew her, together with her sister, threw their bodies into the well, and filled the well with earth.”39 As one can see, these two events chosen by Ottoboni for the primary thread of the opera are anachronous—one occurs while Alexander is in the prime of his military career, the second after his death. Pliny’s narrative in the Natural History concerns the court painter Apelles, who fell in love with Alexander’s mistress Campaspe while painting her portrait.40 Alexander cedes Campaspe to Apelles, allowing them to marry. The charm of [Apelles’] manner had won him the regard of Alexander the Great, who was a frequent visitor to the studio, for, as we have said, he had issued an edict forbidding any one else to paint his portrait. . . . Yet Alexander gave him a signal mark of his regard: he commissioned Apelles to paint a nude figure of his favourite mistress Pankaspe, so much did he admire her wondrous form, but perceiving that Apelles had fallen in love with her, with great magnanimity and still greater selfcontrol he gave her to him as a present, winning by the action as great a glory as by any of his victories. He conquered himself and sacrificed to the artist not only his mistress but his love, and was not even restrained by consideration for the woman he loved, who, once a king’s mistress, was now a painter’s. Some believe that she was the model for the Aphrodite rising from the sea.41

For Pliny, this narrative exemplifies Alexander’s image as stoic, enlightened patron and social “progressive.” It furthermore emblematizes Alexander’s recognition that Apelles saw more deeply and could appreciate more fully Campaspe’s beauty— because he was able to depict her in idealized form—than could Alexander himself. Both Plutarch and Pliny carefully chose excerpts from their own historical sources that illustrated the aspects of Alexander they wished to portray—Plutarch addressed character and moral issues, while Pliny represented patronage, influence, and liberalism. Plutarch’s aim in the Lives was to characterize the famous Macedonian warrior king by drawing upon isolated incidents that would create a “portrait” rather than provide an accurate, detailed, or continuous history:

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Accordingly, just as painters get the likenesses in their portraits from the face and the expression of the eyes, wherein the character shows itself, but make very little account of the other parts of the body, so I must be permitted to devote myself rather to the signs of the soul in men, and by means of these to portray the life of each, leaving to others the description of their great contests.42

Plutarch emphasized not only the virtuous and heroic, but also the moral facets of Alexander’s actions. While the narrative details, like the “lines and features of the face,” interpret Alexander’s character for the reader’s benefit, the individual stories strung together provide a symbolic, not factual, narrative thread. For this reason, scholars consider Plutarch among the least accurate of the historians who wrote about Alexander; he chose from his sources only those excerpts that suited his agenda. Plutarch paints Alexander as larger-than-life as a young man, who developed into one of the most successful ancient military leaders. He focuses on narratives that emphasize bravura—Alexander’s taming of the infamously indomitable horse Bucephalus while still a young teenager, highlights of his later military exploits, and his fearless domination of Asia and Greece. Yet for Plutarch, it is Alexander’s humanity that makes him “greater” than other famous leaders, and which merits a comparison with Caesar in his series of parallel biographies. For this reason, Plutarch depicts Alexander’s intelligence and love of learning—his tutoring by Aristotle and the dog-eared copy of Aristotle’s philosophy tucked under his pillow during military campaigns—in addition to Alexander’s humane treatment of his own soldiers and his political enemies. Plutarch minimizes elements of Alexander’s life that he considers immoral; on the one hand, he portrays Alexander’s sexual prowess, but moralizes these details by eliminating or glossing over the issues of concubinage and polygamy. In the Natural History, Pliny’s portrayal of Alexander is subsidiary to the narrative describing Apelles’ contributions to the development of ancient Greek art. The fuller treatment of Apelles concerns his contributions to art through technical innovation. A series of stories from book 35, chapters 79–97, uses lore to depict the artist at work. Pliny cites Apelles’ treatises on art; his humility in recognizing the merits of other artists while acknowledging that he alone was able to project grace (charis); his ability to draw the finest of lines, his practice of daily drawing, and his willingness to receive criticism from nonartists in order to improve the verisimilitude of his representations; his attention to likeness and physiognomy in portraiture; and his relationship with Alexander the Great. It is from this latter section (35, 85–87) that Ottoboni developed act 2 of La Statira. Ottoboni’s intent in joining together anachronistic events from two different sources in his libretto is identical to the intent of Plutarch’s and Pliny’s respective biographical accounts—to weave a narrative thread based on portraiture, thereby highlighting the most well-known events of Alexander’s life and character. Ottoboni likely chose the two separate, unrelated episodes from Plutarch and Pliny

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because they illustrated the characteristics for which the early modern period best remembered Alexander—his military exploits, magnanimity, patronage, and artistic enlightenment. In this way, Ottoboni created a dramatic verisimilitude out of literary and iconographic typologies rather than out of exact or historical representation. NA R R AT I N G STAT I R A , S T E P 1 : T R A N SP O SI T IO N A N D SU P E R I M P O SI T IO N

In fashioning his libretto, Ottoboni altered both the primary and secondary narratives in order to merge them into one drama. Examining the libretto’s narrative structure with respect to Ottoboni’s literary sources sheds light on our dramatist’s working methods, and the strategies he engaged to create an operatic text. First, Ottoboni extracts a love triangle (Alexander-Roxana-Statira) from Plutarch’s Lives, and rearranges and transposes the order of events. Ottoboni takes each event from Plutarch’s narrative, and carefully places it at an important structural point—the opening of act 1 for Alexander’s defeat of Darius, the conclusion of act 2 for Statira’s murder, and the conclusion of act 3 for the wedding. The changes that Ottoboni makes affect both the characters Statira and Campaspe. The goal point of the opera is Statira’s marriage to Alexander; Ottoboni thus transposes the historical Statira’s death into a thwarted murder plot for the opera, which provides heightened emotion to the audience at the conclusion of act 2. Ottoboni deletes the historical figure Roxana, but superimposes aspects of her historical role onto the operatic character Campaspe. Ottoboni transforms Campaspe into Alexander’s betrothed in order to preserve the historical rivalry between Statira and Roxana; it is Campaspe, then, who manipulates Demetrio’s affection, and orders him to kill Statira. A closer comparison with Plutarch’s text shows that Ottoboni takes many scenographic details from a precise reading of his source. Act 1, scene 1 opens on a plain with hills and tents in the background, at night: “Countryside with a distant view of hills and Pavilions, under which the Persian Army sleeps; a starry Sky with a full Moon.”43 These specifics draw on the description in Plutarch of the evening before the battle: Dareius . . . broke camp and marched into Cilicia, and at the same time Alexander marched into Syria against him. But having missed one another in the night, they both turned back again, Alexander rejoicing in his good fortune, and eager to meet his enemy in the passes, while Dareius was as eager to extricate his forces from the passes and regain his former camping-ground. For he already saw that he had done wrong to throw himself into places which were rendered unfit for cavalry by sea and mountains and a river running through the middle (the Pinarus), which were broken up in many parts, and favoured the small number of his army.44

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From this material we find Ottoboni borrowing the nighttime setting, the hilly terrain contrasting with the open battlefield, and the proximity of the Persians’ camp. Leading up to this passage, we find details that may have influenced Ottoboni’s newly created character, Oronte. In Plutarch, we find a Macedonian deserter, Amyntas, who has joined the Persian army, and advises Darius on Alexander’s strategy: Now, there was in the army of Dareius a certain Macedonian who had fled from his country, Amyntas by name, and he was well acquainted with the nature of Alexander. This man, when he saw that Dareius was eager to attack Alexander within the narrow passes of the mountains, begged him to remain where he was, that he might fight a decisive battle with his vast forces against inferior numbers in plains that were broad and spacious. And when Dareius replied that he was afraid the enemy would run away before he could get at them, and Alexander thus escape him, “Indeed,” said Amyntas, “on this point, O king, thou mayest be without fear; for he will march against thee, nay, at this very moment, probably, he is on the march.”45

Ottoboni superimposes Amyntas’s advice and warning of impending attack onto Oronte’s night vigil and rousing of the Persian army. The opera’s opening scene finds Oronte in a monologue, musing on the beautiful night setting, and on love. He awakens the Persian soldiers in the opening of scene 2 as the Macedonians advance. Continuing in Plutarch, we find further details of the action in Ottoboni’s libretto: “Although [Alexander] won a brilliant victory and destroyed more than a hundred and ten thousand of his enemies, he did not capture Dareius, who got a start of four or five furlongs in his flight; but he did take the king’s chariot, and his bow, before he came back from this pursuit.”46 In act 2, scene 2, we find the Macedonians capturing Darius’s chariot, placing Alexander upon it, and regaling him with the spoils of victory. At the end of the scene, Alexander drives off in victory on Darius’s chariot, leading behind him the Persian prisoners of war.47 As we can see, however, Ottoboni conflates this battle with Darius’s death, superimposing two separate narratives in Plutarch, where Darius dies not at the hands of Alexander but by one of his soldiers, Bessus, which occurs in Plutarch “Life of Alexander,” 43; Alexander then kills Bessus as punishment for his cruel treatment of a prisoner.48 In Plutarch’s biography of Alexander, Statira plays a minor role, mentioned by name only a few times: first, at her marriage to Alexander after Darius’s death (Plutarch, “Life of Alexander,” 70), and later, at her own death, murdered by Roxana.49 These passages I have quoted above; below, I will suggest other sources for Ottoboni’s development of Statira’s character in the opera. NA R R AT I N G STAT I R A , S T E P 2 : E X PA N SIO N A N D I N V E N T IO N

After using the materials from Plutarch’s Lives, Ottoboni then extracts his second love triangle (Alexander-Campaspe-Apelles) from Pliny’s Natural History. As we

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have seen, this is the most common narrative typology for seventeenth-century operas on Alexander the Great. Yet here, too, Ottoboni makes several innovations to his narrative trajectory. By superimposing the two narratives from Plutarch and Pliny, Ottoboni multiplies the number of triangulated love relationships in the drama, simultaneously expanding the scope of the plot and inventing new characters. In addition to the love triangle drawn from Plutarch (between Alexander, Statira, and Campaspe), other characters have claims on the two women: Apelles, who is in love with Campaspe, but is forced to further Campaspe’s attempts to hold on to Alexander (drawn from Pliny, the Alexander-Campaspe-Apelles triangulation); Demetrio, Alexander’s soldier, is also in love with Campase and forced to do her bidding by attempting to murder Statira (Ottoboni’s invented Alexander-Campaspe-Demetrio triangle thus intersects with the Alexander-Campaspe-Statira triangle); and Oronte, Statira’s betrothed, gains entry to her retinue by disguising himself as an Armenian (Ottoboni’s invented Alexander-Statira-Oronte triangulation). Unlike most operatic disguise schemes, Statira actually recognizes Oronte; thus we ascertain that the purpose of the disguise is not to create a Venetian-style intrigue based on mistaken identity. It is not that Oronte is disguised, but what he is disguised as that is important. The fact that he is Armenian gives Oronte political neutrality—the only means enabling him to be near his betrothed, which comforts both of them despite the eventual dissolution of their relationship. The two semiserious, but not quite comic, characters—Perinto and Demetrio—round out the cast as Macedonian soldiers. The moments in the opera drawn directly from Pliny’s narrative are greatly expanded in Ottoboni’s libretto, but the episodes are neither transposed nor superimposed, as in the material drawn from Plutarch. Rather, Ottoboni respects the original narrative trajectory found in his source. First, he draws upon the famous portrayal of Alexander the Great visiting Apelles’s art studio, contained in a passage concerning Apelles’ tolerance of censure within the bounds of the viewer’s knowledge. The passage begins with how Apelles accepted criticism from a shoemaker, who had said there were too few laces in a sandal Apelles had depicted; when the shoemaker returned the next day to criticize Apelles’ depiction of a leg, Apelles told him to stick with what he knew (Pliny, bk. 35, xxxvi, 85).50 This passage functions as a transition to Pliny’s depiction of how Apelles could discuss art with Alexander; despite the differences in status between them, Apelles could still tell Alexander when to stop criticizing—due to his lack of knowledge. Pliny portrays an easy relationship between the painter and the monarch, showing how Apelles is open to criticism while reserving judgment: In fact he also possessed great courtesy of manners, which made him more agreeable to Alexander the Great, who frequently visited his studio—for, as we have said, Alex-

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ander had published an edict forbidding any other artist to paint his portrait; but in the studio Alexander used to talk a great deal about painting without any real knowledge of it, and Apelles would politely advise him to drop the subject, saying that the boys engaged in grinding the colours were laughing at him: so much power did his authority exercise over a King who was otherwise of an irascible temper.51 (Pliny, bk. 35, xxxvi, 85–86)

For the Arcadian Academy, the symbolism here would be immense—two intellectuals from different classes can interact in a protected space as equals, despite the hierarchical roles of patron and artist. For Ottoboni, this passage would have been particularly salient, as his engagement within the Arcadian Academy worked on both levels simultaneously, as patron and poet. In fact, the very nature of the Arcadian Academy was built on this premise of minimizing differences in class through intellectual interaction, leading to Crescimbeni emphasizing the creation of a “democratic Republic” in his early descriptions of the academy. The creation of what seems like fanciful pastoral pseudonyms to us today, for the Arcadians helped to mitigate such social differences, allowing members of different classes to address each other directly, and eschewing complicated social etiquettes around names and titles.52 Act 2, scene 1 of La Statira opens in Alexander’s picture gallery, instead of Apelles’ art studio, but the gesture is identical to the characterization found in Pliny’s Natural History.53 Alexander and Apelles compare the portraits of both Campaspe and Statira, and compare Statira’s image to her actual appearance. The scene, as in Pliny, shows Apelles able to engage Alexander and even contradict him. It also highlights an important aspect of Apelles’s historical legacy, his painterly verisimilitude. Alexander remarks that Statira looks like her portrait (“e sì conforme / Porta il vago sembiante, à questa Imago”), and he is not sure which is the more beautiful, the real or feigned version (“Che frà due volti, un finto, e l’altro vero / Distinguere non sò qual sia il più vago”).54 The scene identifies important aspects of Arcadian aesthetic: verisimilitude, truth, fiction, and the immagine del vero. The picture gallery becomes a major component of the act, forming the backdrop for scenes 1 through 6.55 The next section of Pliny’s narrative describes how Apelles painted Campaspe’s portrait: “And yet Alexander conferred honour on [Apelles] in a most conspicuous instance; he had such an admiration for the beauty of his favourite mistress, named Pancaspe, that he gave orders that she should be painted in the nude by Apelles” (Pliny bk. 35, xxxvi, 86).56 Ottoboni expands the idea of Campaspe’s portrait significantly. Ottoboni uses Campaspe’s portrait as a source of invention by adding a second portrait of Statira, which allowed for the scene of comparison, criticism, and judgment in act 2, scene 1. The portraits in the picture gallery serve not only as backdrops, but also become involved in the narrative, as we will explore below.

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The narrative structure of La Statira corresponds in mode and tone to the libretto’s sources. Since acts 1 and 3 draw from the historical account by Plutarch, these sections of the opera use primarily direct, forward-moving narrative devices governed by action. By contrast, act 2, drawn from Pliny’s history of art, is governed almost entirely by reflection and the visual mode. As Ottoboni expanded this material, he incorporated multiple layers of perspective. We can discern within act 2 a three-part division, wherein each part invokes highly visual materials: 1. Scenes 1–6: Picture gallery with portraits of Statira and Campaspe. 2. Scenes 7–10: Royal Hall. A large room in Campaspe’s apartments with a huge float of flowers in the middle, everything decorated to resemble the kingdom of Flora. Campaspe seated upon the float, which is drawn by two white chargers, dressed as Flora, surrounded by many maidens representing the most notable flowers of the world. In the air, a number of little cupids who shower flowers on the stage. 3. Scenes 11–12: A group of mountains with the hut of Statira and the mausoleum of Dario.57 Structurally, the picture gallery is given dramatic weight, providing half of the scenes of the act, while the following sections provide a dramatic and musical “portrait” of the two female rivals. According to the audience’s “commonly held beliefs,” constructed from their knowledge of the visual and historical sources, the sections would provide the following symbolisms: Set 1: The paintings in the gallery become “paintings within a painting,” a double-framing device appropriate to the early modern tradition of portraying Campaspe being painted by Apelles. Set 2: A reinterpretation of Apelles’ portrait of Campaspe, portrayed as Flora. Set 3: A newly constructed portrayal of Statira. We can therefore understand act 2 as analogous to a gallery of three paintings arranged in a narrative cycle—not in the traditional sense of painting as an implied narrative framed by stillness, but as visual stasis framed by the action of acts 1 and 3. The analogy to painting goes beyond the surface allusions and the scene structure as seen in the liasons des scènes. Multiple layers of portrayal, using both visual and textual means, and playing with concepts of truth, the appearance of truth, and perspective, occur not only in the text, but also in the representation of characters and their interactions with each other. Each character acts in a separate plane, and provides a different “frame” for viewing the material presented on stage.

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Set 1: In the Picture Gallery: Paintings within a Painting Act 2 opens with Alexander and Apelles viewing and judging the respective beauty of the portraits of Statira and Campaspe on display in the gallery. Although Ottoboni derives the notion of the portraits from Pliny and from the iconographic topic Apelles Paints Campaspe (see fig. 10), he invents the portrait of Statira and juxtaposes the two in order to emphasize the role of criticism, judgment, and truth in our perception of images. Alexander is not quite sure whether Statira is more beautiful in reality, or in Apelles’ rendition of her: Aless. Viddi ò Apelle Statira La viddi, e sì conforme Porta il vago sembiante, a questa Imago. (Verso il ritratto di Statira.) Che frà due volti, un finto, e l’altro vero Distinguere non so qual sia più vago. Apell. Bella alcerto è costei, Ma lo sguardo reale Avezzo di Campaspe al più bel lume Conferma saggiamente La più bella del mondo al più Potente.

Recit., Aless. Oh Apelles, Statira I have seen, and so well Does she bear the graceful aspect of this Image. (Facing the portrait of Statira.) Between the two faces, one feigned, the other true, I do not know how to tell which is more beautiful. Apell. Certainly she is attractive, But the pleasing glance Of Campaspe toward the light Wisely aligns The most beautiful of the world to the most Powerful. (2,1, ll. 1–10)

Alexander here engages with one of the biggest concerns of early modern representation—which is preferable, the true (vero) or the feigned (finto)?58 At Campaspe’s request, but contrary to his own desires, Apelles must promote her toward Alexander. As the “picture gallery” section evolves, additional layers of visuality emerge, as Ottoboni creates dramatic “portraits” of each of the main characters. These character portraits occur on three different tiered levels of representation within the drama; each level consists of a lens through which to view a character or group of characters. This device mimics the layered perspectives found in paintings such as Willem van Haecht’s Studio of Apelles, (see fig. 11) in which multiple paintings line the walls, with ocular scientific devices on tables in the background and classical statuary at the margins, while onlookers watch Apelles painting Campaspe, and viewers from outside the frame can peer into the rooms beyond. In the opera, each characterization is expressed as an abstract concept or emotion. Campaspe, Apelles, and Oronte portray Alexander as allegorical Virtue bordering on Tyranny. Campaspe represents Jealousy personified, while Statira represents Gratitude or Compassion. Oronte embodies Fortune, an allegorical figure from the prologue, while Apelles stands outside all frames of representation. Apelles needs no allegorizing since it is his art that propels the action forward.

figure 10. Francesco Trevisani, Apelles Painting Campaspe (1720). Oil on canvas, 29× 23¾ in. (74.6 × 60.3 cm.). The Norton Simon Foundation.

figure 11. Willem II van Haecht, The Studio of Apelles (c. 1630). Mauritshuis Museum. Photo credit: Scala / Art Resource, NY.

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When Campaspe enters in act 2, scene 2 she upbraids Alexander for his tardiness in receiving her because of his preoccupation with glory, but she must hide her displeasure under ostensible flattery. Her conflict becomes particularly evident in her aria: Camp. Da che carco d’allori Con Persiane catene Unisti altre reami al tuo gran soglio Signor fuor dell’usato Tardo à me riedi, forse Il tuo gran core immerso È così ne trionfi, che disprezza Quest un dì sospirata mia bellezza. Dovrò per mia rivale Odiar la tua virtù Se fà che il cor reale À me non torni più Dovrò &c. Si rendon mie sventure Le tue vittorie ancor Se con feroci cure Marte disprezza amor. Si rendon &c.

Recit., Camp. Covered with laurel, and with Persians in chains, You have added other realms to your throne. Sire, unlike our usual custom You come late to me, perhaps Your great heart is so immersed In your triumphs, that it disdains My once sighed-for beauty. Aria, stanza 1: I must, as my rival, Hate your virtue If it forces the royal heart To never return to me. I must, etc. Aria, stanza 2: Thus your victories Become my misery, If, with harsh treatments, Mars disdains love. Thus, etc. (2, 2, ll. 1–16)

The primary meaning of the text hides a set of accusations. Campaspe veils her jealousy toward Statira by displacing it toward Alexander’s military virtù, which is now her rival (rivale). The persiane catene (Persian chains) thus become Statira’s attractions, and the trionfi (triumphs) are the conquests of love. In the musical setting (not shown), emphasis is placed on hate (odiar); embellished and sequenced, this word is stated four times, with harsh dissonances on strong beats over the basso continuo. Throughout, the tessitura of the aria remains quite high, while the phrase structure provides short, fragmented, and repeated statements, allowing the singer to express anger hidden by jaunty playfulness. As the scene progresses, the virtue with which Alexander consumes himself becomes a source of tyranny not only for Campaspe, but also for the peoples he has dominated. As it becomes clear that Alexander will discard Campaspe in favor of Statira, Apelles reframes Alexander’s famous Virtue as Tyranny: Apelles: Esser potrai crudele À chi langue per te? Che giova esser fedele Senza ottener pietà, Senza sperar merce?

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La crudeltà Con chi ti dona il cor virtù non è. parte. Apelles, aria: Can you be so cruel To one who languishes for you? One who enjoys being faithful Without receiving pity, Without hoping for mercy? Cruelty To one who gives you her heart is not virtue. Departs. (2, 2, ll. 38–44)59

This text, in the context of the scene, refers directly to Alexander’s cruelty to Campaspe. But in a broader sense, it could also apply to the general state of affairs in the opera; several characters are in the position of loving without hope60—not only Campaspe, but also Oronte and Apelles. example 3. Act 2, sc. 2: Apelles, “Esser potrai crudele” (aria), mm. 1–23. Reproduced with permission of

the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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Apelles’ aria (see example 3, “Esser potrai crudele”) exploits the modal possibilities of G Dorian, with its optional Ea, in order to reflect a conflict between crudele (cruel) and langue (languishes) in the A section, and virtù (virtue) in the B section. The opening motive, introduced in the continuo, rises up to Ea and turns downward by half-step to the dominant (m. 1); this gesture of flat scale-degree six leading to five repeats many times throughout the aria, becoming both a melodic and harmonic motive. In the A section, the cadential versions of this gesture—the Phrygian cadence—occur initially only on the words crudele (m. 4), and langue per te (languishes for you; m. 6, 8), intensifying the anguish. For a brief moment, as the A section begins to drive toward the final cadence, we have several moments of hope, as the word mercè is contextualized briefly with transitory dominanttonic cadences on Ba major (m. 11), D minor (m. 12), and in the very final cadence of the section, again on D minor (m. 15). Motivated by this harmonic shift, a largescale juxtaposition between the earlier Ea and a new E-natural becomes evident (mm. 12–15), a small, upward arc toward the realm of hope. But this hope seems doubtful as an emphatic cadence mimicking the Phrygian gesture, from Ba–A

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(mm. 13–14), punctuates the lengthy vocal melisma ending at the highest point of the voice at measure 14. Despite hope, the harmonic tinge of sadness associated with cruelty and languishing prevails. The B section provides the briefest but most searing response, on the text “cruelty to one who has given you her heart, is not virtue” (“La crudeltà / con chi ti dona il cor virtù non è”). The musical meter shifts abruptly to 3/2 from common time; this reflects the sudden shift in poetic meter from regular settenari (which had alternated between piano and tronco endings) to a quinario tronco at the first line of the B section. The second and final line of the B section is also irregular, with an immediate shift again, this time to an endecasillabo tronco (a hendecasyllable line ending on an accented syllable). Poetically, the vast and sudden shifting may reflect Apelles losing his patience, and acquiring moral outrage. Musically, the moral sententia of these last two lines is both visible on the musical page and audible to the listener. The shift to triple meter and long, repeated half-notes, on the text “cruelty,” with the new adagio tempo marking, emulates church music (m. 16). The phrase is repeated at a fourth higher in measures 18 to 19 for emphasis. Although the musical performance quickens in the next two measures, with emphatic repetition of the phrase “to one who gives you her heart” (“a chi ti dona il cor”), in dotted quarter- and eighth-note rhythmic groupings (m. 20), a single iteration of the text “is not virtue” (“virtù non è”) in the final measure applies the brakes to this momentary acceleration. Harmonically, too, Scarlatti sets the B section apart; while the A section had ended on D minor—the dominant of G which had been emphasized repeatedly through the Phrygian cadence in the first half of the aria—the B section begins in the completely new area of Ba major. The only occurrence of the word virtù appears in the final cadence (m. 22), where it is treated as a suspended sixth above the dominant that descends stepwise into an anticipation to the final Ba—but it does not actually arise from the previous chord, as a true suspension should, but rather from yet another iteration of the Ea to D gesture (which had characterized the opposing concepts of cruelty and languishing in the A section), here recast as part of a ii-V-I progression in Ba major (mm. 22–23). The minor/major juxtapositions are exploited to the fullest extent possible, in order to express the aria’s double conflicts—between love and its reward on the one hand, and cruelty and virtue on the other. Instead of a true da capo, Scarlatti rewrites the music for the final section, so that we have an ABA’ form. The first six measures (mm. 24–29; not shown) repeat the material from the first vocal entrance (mm. 3–8). The final two phrases articulate a new gesture, an octave descent which emphasizes melodic 6–5 suspensions, on the text “who languishes for you” (“chi langue per te”) over a bass figure that develops material from the very opening, which by now the audience associates with the text “can you be so cruel” (“esser potrai crudele”). The languishing cruelty is now musically contextualized as a lament for Campaspe.

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In scene 3, Statira enters and expresses her gratitude to Alexander for releasing her soldiers, allowing her to properly care for her father’s body, and granting her a pastoral retreat where she can mourn her father’s death. During this scene, Campaspe discovers Alexander’s love for Statira; no longer hiding her displeasure, she openly expresses her Jealousy (“Tiranna Gelosia mi fai morir”: “Tyrannous Jealousy, you cause me to die”). Through Statira’s eyes we see Alexander’s Virtue, but through Campaspe’s and Apelles’ we see his Cruelty and Tyranny. Act 2, scene 4 draws the portraits further into the narrative, as Statira and Campaspe discuss their relative situations. We learn that although Campaspe views Statira as her rival, the reverse is not true. Statira has no designs on Alexander, and actually thanks Campaspe for her role in convincing him to grant the pastoral retreat on which she is about to embark. Statira also learns of Alexander’s past love for Campaspe and his current change of heart. But the crucial moment of this scene is the unfolding of agency attributed to the portraits: Camp. Eccone il segno Questa Imago, che vedi Opra del detto Apelle Nè più grandi conflitti Seco portar solea. (Mostra il proprio ritratto) Camp., recit. Here is the proof, This Image, which you see, The work of Apelles; Into the great battles He used to carry it with him. (She points to her own portrait) (2, 4, ll. 9–13)61

Campaspe points to her portrait, and divulges its importance for keeping the flames of Alexander’s love alive; he used to bring it with him on military campaigns, so he could keep it with him constantly. Statira confirms the portraits’ agency both in this scene and in the following. She notices her own portrait on the wall, discerning that despite Alexander’s ongoing relationship with Campaspe, Apelles’ portrait has influenced Alexander’s changing affections. She promises Campaspe that her own portrait will no longer feed Alexander’s affections (“Da suoi sguardi m’involo / Havrà la tomba questa fiamma in fasce / Se manca l’alimento in cui si pasce”; “I flee from his glances; this flame will be entombed if it lacks the nourishment on which it feeds”).62 In the following scene (2, 5) Campaspe has departed, Oronte has entered; now Statira asks Oronte to steal her portrait so that it will no longer fuel Alexander’s desire.63 Oronte feels conflicted between his love for Statira and his friendship to Apelles. If removing the portrait of Statira causes Alexander to refocus his attentions

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on Campaspe, Apelles will lose her. Oronte decides to comply with Statira’s wishes. He takes the portrait from the wall, and hides it under his cloak. The “picture gallery” section concludes with Oronte who, alone and wondering at his fortune despite his considerable misfortunes, decides once again to dedicate himself to Apelles’ wishes. Ottoboni thus grants agency to the portraits; although they cannot act, their very presence acts upon the other characters in the opera. Representatives of the women they portray, through the visual mode, the portraits have the power to influence the outcome of the narrative. In this way, they are models for Gravina’s Neoplatonic theories of vision; the beholder reacts in the same way to images as to the objects they portray.64 The unfolding of characters’ insights, emotions, and observations in the “picture gallery” section reveals the multilayered perspective of the opera. At the center are Campaspe and Statira, identified by their portraits. The two rivals, while representing themselves through their own texts, act as moving exemplars of Apelles’ paintings. The audience sees them directly, unmediated by any other form of representation. This is a direct form of narrative, which is mimetic (according to Plato’s definition in the Republic). Standing back a bit from the portraits, we see Alexander viewing the images. We might consider that the audience attains Alexander’s perspective; while he judges the quality of Apelles’ representations, the audience sees the women from the same point of view as does Alexander. Standing back a bit from Alexander, we realize that we only see him from the point of view of the other characters. In this way, the audience perceives Alexander from a separate plane; the audience is told how to interpret his actions and character. This is an indirect form of narrative, which is diegetic. Oronte and Apelles constitute a fourth layer of perspective, holding the key to much of the narrative. Oronte appears at structurally significant points of the drama (for example, his solo scene at the end of the “picture gallery” section of act 2, and at the opening of act 1, where he announces the sound of Alexander’s approaching army and describes the ensuing battle, discussed below). As the only character to appear in disguise, Oronte has the most flexible agency in the opera overall. Throughout the drama he mediates the love triangle between Alexander, Campaspe, and Statira as an observing participant. It is Oronte, of course, who steals Statira’s portrait; therefore, he tries to influence the fates of all the other characters. Oronte’s role thus aligns him as textual narrator of the opera. Because Apelles’ portraits are the central focus of the plot, he in turn becomes the visual narrator of the opera. Such framing devices which call into question the viewers’ relationship to narrative and pictorial objects are an important aspect of the Baroque illusory devices apparent in Annibale’s Palazzo Farnese Gallery frescoes and in Guidi’s L’Endimione, discussed in chapter 4. What better way to blur the line between vero and finto than to blend the relationship between viewer, frame, and object? Just as Annibale’s fictive herms and putti indicate the subject within the frame, Apelles and Alexander

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indicate the objectified versions of Campaspe and Statira—their portraits. Yet the frame moves—when we see Alexander through the lens of the other characters in the opera, we recognize that he too receives objectification. We therefore can see the opera on two different imagistic planes—the literal and figural portraiture of Campaspe and Statira, and the verbal and dramatic portraiture of Alexander. Outside both frames, Apelles and Oronte work together to provide an authorial voice. Ottoboni thus encourages the audience to see his opera in the same way that it would see art. While smaller segments of the opera involve moving frames, as in the individual scenes of the “portrait gallery” section of act 2 discussed above, larger segments of the opera, particularly when the narrative is at a standstill, mimic iconic portraiture. Set 2: Moving Portraiture—A New Campaspe The Roman audience must have been struck by the maraviglia and novità of what happened as the set changed in act 2, scene 7. Ottoboni expands and prolongs the idea of Campaspe’s portrait as described by Pliny, by creating a life-sized moving version of it, with a twist. Campaspe appears in the royal hall, as a visual enactment of the goddess Flora. In this guise, Campaspe attempts to seduce Alexander with her image, and her music for the aria/recitative pair “Resista chi può . . . Torna, torna Alessandro” (discussed earlier in this chapter). Campaspe opens the scene with her entrance aria, suggesting that by looking at her, Alexander will not be able to resist her attractions. For the third time now in act 2, Alexander’s visual senses are invoked as an arbiter of his emotions. The scenes in this group (2, 7–10) parallel the very opening of the act—where Alexander and Apelles discuss the portraits—but now in expanded form. The section as a whole provides dramatic challenges. In the printed libretto, Alexander and Apelles both observe Campaspe’s elaborate performance, but elements of shifting frameworks are embedded into the interaction of the three characters, particularly in scene 7. Campaspe only addresses Alexander directly, while Alexander and Apelles discuss Campaspe’s beauty and her merits as a choice for royal wife, thus creating a parallel with the scene of discussion, criticism, and judgment of 2, 1. Apelles thus appears only to observe the scene from without, while Alexander and Campaspe interact from within. The oddity of this situation has been addressed by William Holmes, who suggests (based on the different ordering of the texts in some musical sources and the autograph libretto) that Alexander and Apelles are at first alone (in the picture gallery), while Campaspe enters on the elaborate float (in her apartments) to play her dress-up monologue for them.65 This interpretation only works if we follow the structure in some of the musical sources and in the autograph libretto, which divide the text for 2, 7 in the printed libretto into two halves, essentially creating a new scene (2, 8). The two spheres of action gradually come together as Apelles and Alexander enter Campaspe’s apartments. While both interpretations work, and

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the choice made for performance depends on which sources you follow—the autograph libretto, your choice of musical manuscripts, or the final, printed libretto—I suggest that the interpretation in the printed libretto matches more closely the iconographic symbolisms of Campaspe as visual object. In this interpretation, Campaspe becomes a moving portrait—a visual feast—and a living expansion of act 2, scene 1. What Holmes sees as an awkward feature of the printed libretto (“after her aria Campaspe would have to sit [unnoticed] while Alessandro and Apelle talk about her”),66 I view as a dramatic strategy that allows Alexander and Apelles to continue their criticism of the two “portraits” from the previous section. Although Ottoboni borrowed his narrative idea from Pliny, he engages early modern iconography for expansion and invention. Two of Ottoboni’s primary devices in act 2—using multiple frameworks to shift the audience’s perspective, and portraying Campaspe as Flora to create visual spectacle—while influenced by Pliny’s account, rely primarily on visual sources. For early modern audiences, Campaspe depicted as Flora engages many layers of symbolism. Early modern paintings of Campaspe—based on Pliny’s narrative—highlight her role as model, representing her in the (passive) act of being painted, showing her simultaneously as a living figure and as a work of art yet to be completed. Works on this iconographic subject abounded in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (see figs. 10 and 11).67 These paintings focus on Campaspe as nude subject; in the iconographic tradition, Campaspe’s portrait objectifies female sensuality. The male gaze focuses on her from multiple directions. Apelles studies her form with a critical and painterly eye. Alexander, however, observes both Campaspe posing and Apelles in the act of painting her. In some versions, Alexander situates himself behind Apelles to watch as the painting unfolds, but also gazes at Campaspe; in others, Alexander either gawks, almost hovering over Campaspe, or fondles her as she poses. Ottoboni’s stage directions (as found in the manuscript score in Modena, cited by Holmes) expand the iconographic subject to a moving portraiture, increasing the shifting visual frameworks to a three-dimensional narrative strategy. The effect is further heightened when we consider the symbolisms underlying Campaspe while costumed as Flora. Campaspe as Flora. The charged eroticism associated with Campaspe captures another facet of Apelles’ reputation as a painter. Campaspe is considered the model for Apelles’ sensual depiction of Venus Rising from the Sea (also known as either Venus or Aphrodite Anadyomene); the emperor Augustus brought Apelles’ painting to Rome, and from there the iconography spread. In the early modern era, knowledge of this painting led historians to conclude that Apelles was the progenitor of nude portraiture. As the genre emerged in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it was so connected to Apelles that simply engaging in painting a nude model conflated the artist with Apelles and with the classical tradition. Such paintings captured female beauty (venustas) and classical grace (charis); in this guise,

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figure 12. Titian, Venus Anadyomene / Venus Rising from the Sea (c. 1520). National Galleries of Scotland. Photo credit: Scala / Art Resource, NY.

these works allegorized Visus (Sight) and Pictura (Painting), but they could also imply a commentary on immoral female sexual behavior.68 The opening of act 2, with its necessarily staid, painted version of Campaspe, satisfies the “commonly held beliefs” of the audience by referencing the separate perspectival planes of the visual tradition.69 Yet the exigencies of stage performance do not allow the opera to display the full meaning of Campaspe as nude, erotic subject. Ottoboni thus expands the iconic tradition by using Campaspe as Flora as a performative moment, and thereby embedding the remaining, sexualized threads of her narrative. Flora, like Campaspe and Venus, embodies a double

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meaning for the early modern audience. In mythography, Flora was frequently associated with Venus; from this point of view the significance is doubled: Campaspe = Venus = Campaspe as Flora. The audience sees Campaspe as Flora through two lenses: Flora Primavera, the goddess of spring, abundance, and rebirth; and Flora Meretrice, a courtesan.70 Alexander himself alludes to the latter interpretation while deliberating whether to choose Campaspe or Statira as his wife; he characterizes Campaspe as one who has elevated herself beyond her station—she has flown too close to the sun and must now return to earth.71 Campaspe focuses the audience’s attention on the visual mode, both through her allegorical associations with sight and painting, and through her aesthetic associations with shifting perspectives, embedded narrative, and fluid framing. Campaspe as Flora adds a further visual dimension to the opera; she seduces Alexander through rich visual display, by appealing to the eye—considered the most influential of the senses, connected directly to the imagination, and a pathway to judgment.72 Flora provides visual entertainment for the audience, a tableau to be consumed for pure pleasure, but also to be avoided as a representation of female sexuality. The audience is forced to watch, all the while knowing the full implications; one cannot gaze and look away simultaneously. Campaspe subtly turns the audience into an illicit voyeur, complicit in her “public” downfall. In her attempt to use her beauty to capture Alexander, Campaspe helps to precipitate his imminent rejection of her. Understanding the underlying visual topics which the educated members of the late seventeenth-century audience immediately would have recognized in Campaspe helps us to contextualize the moral point of the opera and the reason for its dedication—to the “Ladies of Rome.” We can now see that the opera is a cautionary tale for women—not a tale of loss, betrayal, and shared sexual partners as it appears on the surface, which seems strikingly odd as a gift to Roman noblewomen—but rather a commentary on class, morality, marriage, and gender. Set 3: A New Portrait of Statira—Campaspe’s altera ea Statira closes act 2 with a visual display of her own, yet in a very different manner, becoming Campaspe’s altera ea. In scene 11, we see Statira mourning her father’s death in her own private retreat (the text, music, and the broadside commemorating this moment are discussed above). The contrasting “portrait” of Statira, in a pastoral landscape, lamenting the loss of her father, King Darius, displays an elevated type according to Baroque dramatic conventions, and provides the audience with justification for her ensuing marriage to Alexander. In fact, Alexander had already invoked her royal status by birth as a more fitting partner for his own stature. Since Statira as a historical figure receives almost no mention in any biographies of Alexander, Ottoboni may have turned to art to flesh out her character. Her petitioning gestures in act 1, requesting a retreat to properly mourn her father’s

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figure 13. Il Sodoma (Giovanni Antonio Bazzi), Sala delle Nozze, Darius’s Mother before Alexander (c. 1517). Fresco. Villa Farnesina, Rome. Photo credit: Scala / Art Resource, NY.

death, and her lament scene in act 2, resonate with a known iconography called The Tent of Darius. A prominent version of this topic in Rome was painted in 1519 by Il Sodoma (1477–1549) in the bedroom of Agostino Chigi in the Villa Farnesina.73 In this topic, we see the family of Darius—his wife, Sisigambis, and his two daughters, including Statira—kneeling before Alexander and his general Hephaestion, seeking mercy after the death of their husband and father. In the early modern period, Alexander’s gesture toward Sisigambis after she mistook Hephaestion for the great military leader, saying “this too is Alexander,” was considered a mark of his clemency. To this portrayal of Statira in deference and Alexander taking pity, Ottoboni adds the pastoral lament. As in Campaspe’s scenes, the narrative concluding act 2 is absolutely still. The opera seems to halt entirely its momentum throughout the act, allowing for reflection, representation, and both visual and musical expression. The only narrative actions that take place in act 2 are the following: Oronte steals Statira’s portrait, Alexander cedes Campaspe to Apelles, and Demetrio attempts to murder Statira. Each of these actions takes place very briefly, in a very few lines, at the end of a sequence of static, visual scenes. The rest is pure spectacle. The effect is analogous to a series of paintings framed by bits of narrative, with multiple layers of perspective.

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NA R R AT I N G S TAT I R A , S T E P 4 : E K P H R A SI S [Recitativo stromentato] had been used by Scarlatti before, but in “La Statira” it is employed with great dramatic effect, both on the first rising of the curtain, when Oronte is discovered on guard with the Persian army in the moonlight, and later in the introduction to his fine air “Rè trafitto” (“Crudo cielo, empio fato”), in which Scarlatti makes use of a more vigorous and broken style of accompaniment than he had hitherto attempted. —Edward Dent

Visual narrative exists in other parts of the opera, too; from act 2 we can expand outward to find important uses of visual materials, especially in act 1. As textual narrator, Oronte uses visual description to enhance what the audience is already seeing, or is about to see. Among all of the solo scenes in the opera, Oronte’s are unique in this respect. The opening scenes of act 1 establish his role. Oronte opens act 1, scene 1 with narrative description that conveys the visual features of the set design,74 highlighting the beauty and calm of the night stars. (See example 4, “Notte, notte serena”) To add musical interest to the visual display, Scarlatti sets this material in accompanied recitative: example 4. Act 1, sc. 1: Oronte, “Notte, notte serena” (accompanied recit.), mm. 1–16. Reproduced with permission of the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira. Grave

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Oronte: Notte, notte serena Tesoriera di pace Quante brillano in Ciel lucide stelle. Son custodi discrete Della permessa quiete. Ma per me sol non hanno Il solito poter, se il core amante Non conosce riposo un solo istante. Recit., Oronte: Night, serene night, Treasury of peace, How many gleaming stars shine in Heaven. They are the secret guardians Of promised peace. But for me they will not have Their usual power, if my heart Does not find rest for a single moment. (1, 1, ll. 1–8)75

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As Oronte turns inward, expressing how his emotions contrast with the serenity of the place, suddenly the sound of trumpets and Alexander’s approaching army interrupts his reverie. Oronte’s narrative description of this sound world precedes the audience’s perception of it; as the scene changes (1, 2), the Persian army awakes and begins its slow march: Oronte: Mà qual fiero rimbombo Di bellicose trombe Mi percuote l’udito? Oh Ciel che miro? Il Nemico in battaglia; o là Guerrieri Apprestate ben tosto Elmi, e Destrieri. (S’odono trombe, e calpestro di gente.) Oronte, Recit.: But what fierce bombast Of war trumpets Strikes my ear? Oh Heaven, what do I see? The Enemy in battle; Warriors, Gather your Helmets and Steeds! (Trumpets and marching soldiers are heard.) (1,1, ll. 17–21)76

Immediately, Alexander enters with his first aria at the scene change (1, 2), which contributes militant trumpet gestures to the layers of visual and aural materials (see example 5, “Invitti guerrieri”).

example 5. Act 1, sc. 2: Alexander, “Invitti guerrieri” (opening ritornello), mm. 1–4. Reproduced with permission of the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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Act 1, scenes 2–3 are saturated with descriptive visual and aural ideas, featuring trumpets, imitation of trumpets in the voice, and accompanied recitative. Between Alexander’s two arias in scene 2, the printed libretto provides a description of the battle: “Alexander throws himself among his enemies, and Oronte goes against him, whence a fierce battle ensues; after a long battle, the victory rests with the Macedonians, who place Alexander atop the Carriage of Dario that they found, while courting him with various spoils of the Enemy.”77 In Holmes’s score, the stage directions have the trumpets sound an additional three times. First, at the end of Alexander’s recitative, the trumpets accompany the battle; second, the trumpets enter after his soldiers place Alexander on the chariot; and a third time, the trumpets appear to accompany, or certainly to punctuate, Alexander’s second aria. Although the score does not indicate a trumpet part, the ritornello for the aria “Poiche avete vaghe stelle” is preceded by the direction “Here sound the trumpets” (“Qui suonano le trombe”); this direction is then repeated when the ritornello recurs between the two stanzas of the aria: “Here the trumpets sound at the aria” (“Qui suonano le trombe ad aria”). After Alexander’s victorious battle scene and arias, a trumpet sinfonia concludes act 1, scene 2 (see example 6, Sinfonia di trombe). The imitative entries in each instrument create an echoing sonority that describes the spacious, yet bounded physical location. Each entry is spaced a half measure apart; after the initial statement from trumpet 1, each additional instrument adds its voice—from trumpet 2, violin 1, violin 2, and to viola in turn, with the basso continuo entering simultaneously with the viola—on the triadic trumpet call.

example 6. Act 1, sc. 2: Sinfonia di trombe, mm. 1–9. Reproduced with permission of the Harvard

University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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The sinfonia mimics Alexander’s aria text at his victory (“fame resounds”). The music itself aurally signifies the armies’ physical position, in a valley surrounded by hills, as the sonic victory resounds on all sides. The printed libretto adds detail not included in the score; Alexander departs atop the carriage, pulled by black chargers, and followed by Persian prisoners.78 Act I, scene 3 contrasts Oronte’s defeat with Alexander’s recent victory. Oronte is alone, left to contemplate his fate. Scarlatti sets the entire scene in accompanied recitative, despite significant sections of text having a poetic structure (see example 7, “Crudo cielo, empio fato”).79 An opening and concluding two-measure “ritornello” leads the audience to expect an aria; dejected and confused, Oronte’s vocal entrance dissolves into less organized statements (mm. 3–5). The opening orchestral gesture (mm. 1–3) musically describes Oronte’s sudden disorientation, with a rushing ascending scalar pattern, introduced in the first violin, and repeated at the distance of a half measure by violin 2, and then in viola and continuo. Scarlatti had used this same strategy in the Sinfonia di trombe nel trionfo d’Alessandro at the end of the previous scene; the juxtaposition between conqueror and conquered is striking.

example 7. Act 1, sc. 3: Oronte, “Crudo cielo, empio fato” (accompanied recit.), mm. 1–9. Reproduced

with permission of the Harvard University Department of Music, from William C. Holmes, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira.

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Only now, the trumpets and soldiers have receded into the distance, and the new musical motive suggests not so much the echoing in the air of a very real, signifying, musical presence, but almost the opposite—a pressing in of anxiety from all directions, surrounding Oronte in his distress. In the space of only two scenes, he has moved from a peaceful night of contemplation (despite his internal agitation), to being routed by the enemy. Scarlatti continues the accompanied recitative in the following scene; here, it serves two functions: (1) as a linking device to avoid a sudden musical shift, and (2) to create an emotional connection between Statira and Oronte. Oronte exits at the end of act 1, scene 3, and Statira enters at act 1, scene 4. The scene changes to Dario’s pavilion, which previously appeared in the distance, but which now comes into closer focus. Here Statira mourns the loss of her father. A brief, G-minor largo accompanied recitative with sustained chords in the strings supports her opening lines: “Dario, my King, my father, my pain, thus you leave me?80 This is the last appearance of accompanied recitative in act 1. Throughout this first section of the opera, Oronte’s narrative occurs in the ekphrastic mode. As textual narrator, he frequently stands outside the narrative to describe its components. By using a primarily visual and descriptive narrative mode, he invokes the classical poetic tradition, most famously used by Homer, Vergil, and Ovid, of describing a work of art in rich detail, in order to bring a vision of it into the reader’s imagination.81 Oronte’s ekphrastic narrative voice suits his alignment with Apelles as visual narrator, the creator of the visual objects central to the opera. Oronte’s textual narration receives heightened attention and increased musical descriptiveness through the unusual saturation of accompanied recitative in the first three scenes,

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figure 14. Pietro da Cortona, The Battle of Alexander against King Dareios / The Battle of Issus

(c. 1644–50). Canvas, 173 × 375 cm. Pinacoteca Capitolina. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

each time portraying a different emotional character. Scarlatti links the sonic descriptive powers of accompanied recitative to the visual strategies of classical ekphrasis.82 Most significantly, the scenes of act 1 that receive ekphrastic musical treatment are also those most closely linked to the visual tradition. Although Ottoboni based his text for act 1 on Plutarch’s historical narrative, I would argue that early modern audiences knew this material best in Apelles’ own rendition of it—or rather, from knowledge of Apelles’ rendition. Since none of Apelles’ art survived antiquity in its original, physical, state, our knowledge of his output relies entirely on literary ekphrases that describe in detail its narrative content and position of figures. It became a commonplace among Renaissance authors, in their competition to become the “new Apelles of the age,” to replicate his subjects.83 Through a complicated process of textual ekphrasis and visual copies by ancient and early modern artists, Apelles’ portrayal of Alexander in battle endured through the early modern era and beyond. This iconographic subject generally bears the title The Battle of Issus, one of Apelles’ most famous works. Within the Roman environment, Pietro da Cortona’s rendition of this subject demonstrates the importance of the ekphrastic tradition (see fig. 14).84 Cortona’s painting depicts Alexander astride his famously indomitable horse Bucephalus, crushing the Persian soldiers underfoot and routing Darius on his chariot. This painting conforms in many ways to two earlier sources unavailable to early modern Italy: (1) a sarcophagus contemporary to the actual battle (see fig. 15), and (2) a mosaic from Pompeii that archeologists only uncovered in the nineteenth century.85 Due to

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figure 15. Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great. Relief with battle scene. (fourth century b.c.) Archaeological Museum, Istanbul. Photo credit: Scala / Art Resource, NY.

historical and geographical distance, the only source for Cortona’s (and other artists’) close imitation of these earlier works would be textual. The visual spectacle that opens act 1 essentially creates a moving tableau parallel to those in act 2. In this sense, the music represents a different kind of ekphrasis than the two kinds discussed here—classical and art historical. Rather than using poetic description to invoke an object of art, the physical action combined with the scenic effects mirror paintings that would have been very familiar to the audience. Whereas literary ekphrasis duplicated Apelles’ art for early modern artists, in Scarlatti’s opera the reverse happens. We do not actually “see” Apelles’ art in its original form, but his well-known subjects appear before the audience’s imagination, called up through reference. Ottoboni and Scarlatti use approaches that mimic the function of ekphrasis in ancient literature. By concentrating so heavily on portraiture and visual narrative techniques—even in this section of the opera that otherwise focuses on the primarily active, forward-moving plot drawn from Plutarch—Ottoboni references new developments in analytical techniques used in the criticism of art and literature, including in Gravina’s Discorso.86 In the early modern world, ekphrasis acquired a new focus. For example, Bellori, one of the most important commentators on Annibale’s Farnese Gallery frescoes, utilizes ekphrasis in an innovative way—not as a literary diversion, as in ancient literature, but as an analytical tool.87 This new ekphrastic mode explains

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figural relationships, elucidates stylistic elements, and judges artistic value. Ekphrastic critical analysis surpasses mere description; while ekphrasis in poetry delights the senses, used as an interpretive tool it stimulates the intellect. In the Vite Bellori self-consciously draws attention to the novelty of his approach, which describes everything from minute details to large-scale meanings: “I paused over some [images] with more particular observation; having already described the images of Raphael in the Vatican rooms, later busying myself with writing the Vite, it was the advice of Poussin that I proceed in the same way, and that, beyond the general invention [subject, invention, narrative], I consider the concept [conceit, meaning, construct, idea] and gesture of each individual figure, and the actions that accompany the emotions.”88 To continue using Annibale’s Endymion fresco in the Palazzo Farnese as a point of comparison (see chapter 4), Bellori’s description of the gallery attributes motion and emotion to the figures. We see Endymion through Diana’s eyes; we sense her amazement and Endymion’s lack of consciousness: “The beauty of Endymion is best contemplated in his sleep, which leaves him motionless before the eyes of Diana, who is also still—not due to the weakness of the depiction—due to amazement. On Mount Latmos in Caria sits the youthful shepherd, leaning against a boulder; his tender arm does not feel the roughness of the mountain, since his cloak is spread over the scraggy rock, his hand engaged in supporting his head, his hair visible, his eyes closed.”89 Bellori’s ekphrasis adds layers of meaning to Annibale’s gallery. He provides a mythographic interpretation of Endymion, and through his descriptions attributes a Neoplatonic meaning to the overall gallery. Gianvincenzo Gravina, the Arcadian theorist and author of the Discorso sopra l’Endimione, brings this approach to literature in his descriptive analysis of Alessandro Guidi’s play on the subject of Endymion, while establishing the Arcadian visual theories of verisimilitude, the immagine del vero. When we consider acts 1 and 2 together, ekphrasis plays a considerable role in the opera. In act 1, musical ekphrasis creates visual layers, while dramaturgical ekphrasis conveys Apelles’ art before the character ever enters the stage. Oronte, as textual narrator of the opera, symbolically represents the medium through which early modern readers and artists interpret Apelles’ art. In act 2, ekphrasis represents a moving portrait, by visually fleshing out the portrayals of Campaspe and Statira, and creating a new interpretation of Apelles’ craft—a reference to early modern art that could not have failed to reach a late seventeenth-century audience. Since part of the Baroque aesthetic was to create wonder (maraviglia) through novelty (novità), we find the intersection of both in Scarlatti’s opera. Maraviglia is embodied by the visual narrative, while novità occurs by referencing so many layers of Baroque symbolism and innovative artistic and literary practices in one work. The opera, indeed, projects the concept of a gallery of frescoes, as each section recalls for the audience the iconographic topics embedded within. In total, and in

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sequential order, the opera follows a narrative drawn from the following iconic images: (1) The Battle of Issus, (2) Apelles Painting Campaspe, (3) Flora Primavera / Flora Meretrice / Venus Anadyomene, (4) The Tent of Darius, and (5) The Marriage of Alexander and Roxana. These were not only the most well-known artistic renderings of Alexander’s life, but they were present in sumptuous frescoed displays in the city of Rome. Ottoboni’s approach to creating the text for La Statira bears as much similarity to the praxis of fresco design as to his literary precedents. Just as in Ottoboni’s opera, these frescoes were created to highlight the exemplary qualities of a modern Alexander—in patronage and temperament, and sometimes even in name. Each series of frescoes draws on well-known passages from different historical texts, arranging them thematically instead of chronologically or linearly to emphasize a metanarrative, often with moral implications echoing Plutarch’s Lives. The Castel Sant’Angelo contains a series of eleven scenes from the life of Alexander, commissioned by Pope Paul III (Alessandro Farnese) from the artist Perino del Vaga and completed in the years 1545–47, in order to create an allegory of Alexander the Great’s justice, temperance, continence, and modesty.90 Of this series, the only image related to the narrative in La Statira, is Alexander’s Clemency towards the Family of Darius, but analogous moral themes resonate in both works. Another extensive series of Alexander frescoes was created shortly afterwards in the Palazzo Ricci-Sacchetti by the artist Ponsio Jacquio circa 1554–55, commissioned by Cardinal Giovanni Ricci. Among a grand scheme of ten frescoed rooms dedicated to historic heroes, the Stanza di Alessandro contains twelve scenes. Drawn from a variety of texts, and organized according to similar allegories (for example, the premise of clemency unites the Alexander and the Family of Darius with the Alexander and Campaspe, shown opposite each other), almost half of the images in this series of frescoes resurface in Ottoboni’s opera.91 In addition to the smaller group in the Villa Farnesina mentioned above, two more large-scale Alexander series were completed in the sixteenth century in Roman palaces.92 It is hard to imagine that Ottoboni would have had no knowledge of these works, all of which were centrally located, within a radius of fifteen minutes’ walking distance from his residence at the Palazzo della Cancelleria, especially considering that Ottoboni was also an avid patron, connoisseur, and collector of art. It must be acknowledged, however, that he may not have had direct access to the images that were in private spaces as opposed to those in galleries on the main floor. Yet the existence of so many Alexander frescoes in Rome suggests that it was a familiar trope—even a fashion—among the influential cardinals and patrons in the city. For Ottoboni, the references to these Renaissance artworks would have had an aesthetic appeal similar to the contemporaneous reimagining of the pastoral and the stylistic imitations of Petrarch in Arcadian literature, much like the renewal of pastoral landscapes in art of the late seventeenth century.

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To the audience, then, many of whom would also be familiar with the images associated with Alexander, La Statira invokes enough of the “commonly held beliefs” of its narrative typology to enact the immagine del vero, even though the character portrayals, and their relationships to each other, are not exactly accurate according to historical and dramatic precedents. Ottoboni’s narrative still invokes the split in Alexander’s personality attributed to him by Plutarch; the jealous rivalry involving Statira still exists. Statira and Campaspe jointly represent the feminine objectivity and eroticism that Apelles’ original portrait of Campaspe evoked not only in his own time, but also in the early modern period. Most especially, by adding the anachronistic narrative of Apelles and Campaspe to the very center of the opera, Ottoboni emphasizes the famous patronage and close working relationship between the ruler and the artist, evoking the symbolism of the “enlightened and generous patron.” The opera reflects, not just literally but also figuratively, Pope Alexander VIII’s endorsement of opera and of the reopening of the Tordinona Theater. For the specifically Arcadian audience, Alexander’s perception of the portraits before him in act 2 enacts the discourse on verisimilitude embodied in both Gravina’s and Crescimbeni’s literary theories—the juxtaposition between the finto (feigned) or reale (real) can be exploited to “deceive the eye” into believing that images are truthful. The finto enacted in the opera still allows for the “shadow of truth” to surface via its moving portraits. Arcadians might read Alexander’s finti reali—and the portraits of Campaspe, Statira, and Alexander himself throughout the opera—as a musico-dramatic working out of how beauty and truth are perceived by the eye in art and literature.

6

Deceiving the Eye Mirror, Statue, and Stone in Carlo Francesco Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù

Not far in distance and time from Scarlatti’s La Statira, Carlo Francesco Pollarolo’s opera La forza della virtù premiered in Venice in 1693 at the San Giovanni Grisostomo Theater. The librettist, Domenico David (d. 1698), and the patron, Giovanni Carlo Grimani, were members of the Accademia degli Animosi, or “Academy of the Spirited,” a literary reform group founded by Apostolo Zeno in 1691, which met at the Grimani family palazzo. Grimani also owned the San Giovanni Grisostomo Theater, whose repertory reflected the new, streamlined, classically focused dramatic ideals advocated by the Animosi. The opera’s original popularity is attested to by its numerous performances and revivals, and its later settings by distinguished composers.1 The opera also prompted debate; a certain Doctor Giammatteo Giannini—also a librettist—leveled criticisms against it in a publication that apparently brought him more enemies than friends. In response, the Accademia degli Animosi held an open meeting which allowed for public debate. Apostolo Zeno presided, and vigorously defended the opera. A defense of La forza della virtù was also eventually published, possibly under Domenico David’s authorship. The entire episode created such interest that it is still mentioned in nineteenth-century bibliographies and histories of Italian literature. Unfortunately, I have not yet found a print either of the criticisms, the defense, or the debate, only references to them. By 1698, though, through Zeno’s literary activity and networking efforts, the Accademia degli Animosi joined forces with our more famous literary reform group, the Arcadian Academy in Rome. Perhaps Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, famous literary historian and leader of the Arcadian Academy, echoed some of the defenses of 173

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La forza della virtù when he wrote in his La bellezza della volgar poesia of 1700, that Domenico David—together with Apostolo Zeno—was the first to stop mixing heroic and comic characters, limit the number of arias, and leave some room in the recitatives for expressing the affections: Although [Italy] has not yet reclaimed true Comedy, nonetheless choosing the lesser of two evils, the monstrous maiming which has occurred until now has been corrected in many ways, by trying at least to clothe Dramas nobly in all things, without buffoonery, as today is practiced in Venice; and to leave some place for the affections in the recitatives, by thinning the excessive number of arias: in this our David, now passed away, and the most erudite Zeno, who remains with us, have principally cooperated, and therefore to them primarily the praise is due.2

In modern times, La forza della virtù became known to musicologists through scholarship by Nathaniel Burt. Burt’s 1955 article “Opera in Arcadia,” published in the Musical Quarterly (1955), brought acknowledgment of the Arcadian Academy’s reform of operatic drama to English-language scholarship. In this article, Burt designates La forza della virtù as the “First Arcadian Opera” based on the praise given it by Zeno and Crescimbeni in the historical sources. He also goes on to show, through structural comparison of the libretto with an earlier opera—Cesti’s 1663 La Dori, and a later opera—Porpora’s 1726 Siface (which was composed to Metastasio’s revised version of La forza della virtù)—how Domenico David’s libretto fits the prototype of Arcadian reform, through its regularized dramatic structure, absence of comedy despite the presence of one comic character who has no arias, and lack of deus ex machina interventions. While it is true that La forza della virtù might deserve the epithet “First Arcadian Opera Acknowledged in Writing as Such by Members of the Arcadian Academy,” it is not the first opera modeled after the reform ideals, nor is it the first opera written by a librettist or composer associated with the reform trend. In this book, I suggest that Alessandro Scarlatti’s La Statira, composed to a libretto by Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni and performed at the Tordinona Theater in Rome in 1690, might actually deserve the label “First Arcadian Opera” (see chapter 5). La Statira conforms to what I consider one of the most important features of Arcadian verisimilitude—the immagine del vero—through its use of iconography, narrative paradigms, and layered perspectives. Careful use of these internal narrative elements, which I call icon, mythos, and tupos—and which go beyond the external characteristics such as structure, purity of genre, and number of arias—can be the most important vehicles for transmitting “truth” to the seventeenth-century audience. In this chapter, I will show how Domenico David’s libretto La forza della virtù also uses layered symbolisms drawn from visual culture to enhance notions of verisimilitude and conform to Arcadian ideals.

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R E A S O N I N G T H E PA S SIO N S

The opera focuses on Clotilde, and her virtuous responses to the many indignities she faces upon arriving in Toledo as the promised bride of King Fernando. First, she is received coldly by her intended husband. Second, she discovers that Fernando is in love with Anagilda, who has apartments in the palace. Third, she is imprisoned for infidelity after a false trial. Through all of this, she remains constant to Fernando. She refuses the advances and protection of Rodrigo, who attempts to prevent her arrest and breaks into the prison to rescue her. She will not accept his heroic gestures because they are treasonous toward the king. Ultimately, she wins Fernando’s respect and love through her refusal to enact vengeance and her insistence on forgiveness, even at the hour of her supposedly imminent death. Fernando decides to imitate her generosity; he releases her from prison and relinquishes his relationship with Anagilda in order to crown Clotilde as his queen. As usual for opera of this era, the cast of characters forms two interlocking love triangles: Fernando-Alfonso-Anagilda on one side, and Fernando-RodrigoClotilde on the other side. What is unusual is that Domenico David provides his audience of readers with a convenient interpretation of the work—an “Allegory of the Drama.” At first glance, the allegory is quite simple, and considering how the libretto hits one over the head with constant references to Anagilda’s beauty, Clotilde’s constancy, and Fernando’s cruelty, its explication seems hardly necessary. Clotilde is a “figure of Virtue.” She becomes stronger and nobler against increasing adversity. Fernando, Anagilda, and Rodrigo “illustrate the passions of Anger, and Desire, which contrast the reasonable and virtuous.” Alfonso and Padiglio “are images of the powers of our mind, which, when they are subject to the command of an evil will, act unconscionably.” Sancio “signifies human intellect, which, being the faculty of reason, submits in favor of honesty, and by curbing the appetites.” Anagilda, refusing to listen to Sancio’s advice, shows how “our desires, when they become overwhelmingly greedy, do not listen to the reminders of the intellect.” Clotilde, by not taking up Rodrigo’s sword against Fernando, shows us “the advantages of a strong temperament as weapons against the obstinate cruelty of an opposing mind.” And of course, ultimately Virtue is victorious. Additional information about the characters comes from the “Note to the Reader.” Here, Domenico David reveals his historical source, Bartolomeo de Rogatis’s “Storie di Spagna”—actually, the full title of the book is Historia della perdita e riacquisto della Spagna occupata da i Mori; part 5, books 4–5, which contains the episode treated in La forza della virtù, was published in Venice in 1682. In Domenico David’s “Note,” we find a condensed version of Rogatis’s characterization of these historical figures. Don Pietro il Crudele, king of Castile and León from 1350

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to 1369, the model for Fernando, was “vassal to his passions, not a master of himself.” Bianca di Borbone, daughter of the duke of Bourbon, who became Clotilde in the opera, was “as well known for the splendor of her beauty, as for the purity of her character.” Maria Padiglia, the prototype for Anagilda, was “as smart in the art of seduction, as she was delightful in the beauty of her appearance.” Like earlier Venetian librettists, Domenico David is concerned about explaining the changes he made to the historical material in the operatic version, for purposes of “verisimilitude” and “moving the affections.” But his need to explain the nature of the characters, and their roles in the operatic allegory, is new. This impulse likely stems from David’s engagement with literary reform and the Accademia degli Animosi. The clear and constant characterization throughout La forza della virtù, in which every action unfolds logically from the particular viewpoint of each character, represents a distinct turn away from the earlier Venetian operatic tradition. Likewise, the libretto’s strict emphasis on morality, and on a strong contrast between passion and reason, derives simultaneously from the Greek classical and French neoclassical traditions—both precursors to the Arcadian reform. Moreover, the opera itself seems to make a statement about the nature of dramatic reform. Clotilde as a character represents the austerity of this “new” dramatic genre. In several places, she refers to the purity and morals of the French court, in comparison to the Spanish environment in which she finds herself. If that were all, it might be overlooked as a simple way for the librettist to set her apart from the other players in the drama. But the opera itself seems to defeat the Spanish comic tradition, through Clotilde’s staunch and unwavering virtue. All of the morally inferior elements in the opera derive directly from Spanish comedy— statues, a portrait, a trial, a prison, a sword, a cup of poison, and a misinterpreted letter—and all were features of the earlier Venetian operatic convention. Clotilde’s singular triumph, then, is how she “reforms” the hitherto meandering, “higgledypiggledy” nature of conventional Venetian theater. Statues and Stone Clotilde’s first victory in the opera is to melt Fernando’s “heart of stone.” The statues in La forza della virtù are the first emblem of visual culture in the opera, and also the first element derived from Spanish theater. In act I, scene 3, after Fernando has greeted Clotilde with the pomp and circumstance due to her rank, but expressing his hatred of her in asides, he leaves her so he can visit Anagilda, hidden among the statues of the garden. The language he uses imparts quasi-religious overtones. He “venerates” Anagilda’s face—Anagilda, who is also Alfonso’s “Idol”—and in Fernando’s exit aria which concludes the scene, he “delights” in her face, but the word “to delight” (bearsi) is the word from which “blessed” (beato) derives;

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finally, Fernando’s worship of Anagilda opens “eternal Paradise.” The symbolism could not be clearer; Anagilda is Fernando’s “false Idol.” He worships only her appearance. Fer. Vo’ impaziente a venerar’ un volto. Chiuso la tra que’ marmi, Che sovra il grembo a quel giardin, che miri Al piacer Villareccio alzan le terga. Al. L’Idolo mio lui Anagilda alberga. (tra se)

Fer.: Impatient, I leave to venerate a face. Concealed among the marble statues, Which raise their backs to countryside pleasure above the garden. Al.: He is housing Anagilda, my Idol. (aside)

Fer.: Tronco gl’indugi e a te ne vengo, ò bella: Ch’ ogn’ indugio è un’ offesa al tuo bel volto. Vado a bearmi il core Entro al seren d’un viso. In que’ begli occhi Amore Per mia delizia eterna Aperto ha il Paradiso. Vado, &c.

Fer.: I will end the delay, fair one: Since every delay offends your beautiful face. Aria: I go to steep my heart In the serenity of a face. In those beautiful eyes of Love Paradise has opened For my eternal delight. I go, &c. (1, 3, ll. 4–8, 38–44)

Anagilda’s face is abstracted from her person, becoming an object of art, like the statues themselves—the very reverse of personification.3 While the symbolism is clear, the language is not, exactly. What does it literally mean that Anagilda’s “face is concealed among the marble statues”? Is it “enclosed [chiuso] in marble”? Is it “hiding among the statues”? How is the audience to interpret this? If we understand the phrase with a stroke of Vergilian hyperbole, Anagilda might actually be represented by one of the statues in the garden; that is, Fernando has created a secret way to “worship” her image in stone. We may want to consider both possibilities as we move forward through the text. If she is not an actual statue, she certainly is being compared to one. Fernando’s aria conveys his impatience, his insistence, and his lust. Postponed to the third scene, Fernando’s first aria of the opera appropriately expresses his heroic stature, but in the dramatic context, his conquest is one of love, not of politics or military power. The opening ritornello, in G major allegro, articulates pervasive dotted-sixteenth and thirty-second note figures (see example 8, “Vado à bearmi il core,” mm. 1–5). This rhythmic gesture occurs within two contrasting melodic patterns: the first presents a stately, upward-reaching, small triadic motive that simultaneously deemphasizes the downbeat and frames a longer triadic descent spanning two octaves within the remaining three beats of the measure (m. 1); the second melodic pattern ascends stepwise, with the frequency of initial dissonance followed by upward resolution adding increasing tension (mm. 2–4). This second gesture suggests impetuous, headlong movement, while the contrast

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between the two motives implies instability. Fernando’s first line, “Vado à bearmi il core,” ignores both opening ideas, introducing a decisive, stepwise descending octave. The elaboration of the word “bearmi” in melismatic fashion (mm. 12–13) implies Fernando’s anticipated pleasure born of visual observation, but the smoothness of his vocal line is disrupted by the jagged dotted-eighth and sixteenth-note rhythmic pattern in the basso continuo, reminiscent of the opening ritornello gestures, but now somewhat fractured. In the second half of the aria, Fernando’s melismatic passage on the word “aperto” (mm. 26–28)—referring to paradise opening up—sometimes bears relationship to “bearmi” through inversion; yet overall, the line’s inconsistency and reversal of direction hint at Fernando’s false worship, his reckless notion that heaven has created the conditions for his physical pleasure. The continuation of the violins’ dotted figures from the first half of the aria insinuates Fernando’s stubborn persistence. example 8. Act 1, sc. 3: Fernando, “Vado à bearmi il core” (aria), mm. 1–5, 11–15, 25–30. Transcribed from La forza della virtù: Opera recitata nel Teatro di S. Gio. Grisostomo di Venezia genn. 1693. Státní oblastní archiv v Třeboni, oddělení Český Krumlov, Sbírka hudebnin Český Krumlov, karton 5, no. 69—K 1.

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Our next encounter with the statues occurs in act 1, scene 9. Here we find Clotilde in the pastoral garden setting. She engages in the locus classicus lament; despite the beautiful surroundings—the royal gardens adorned with statues— she is discontent.4 The stage directions confirm that she is near the same garden where Fernando had sought Anagilda previously, the “Royal Retreat with garden in view, and Courtyard nearby” (“Ritiro Reale con giardino in prospetto, e Cortile in vicinanza”). Of course, what the audience knows, but Clotilde does not, is that the traces of Anagilda—whether in the flesh, having visited that place while waiting for Fernando, or literally looming over the garden as a statue among the other statues—disturb her peace. For Clotilde, at least, the place is tainted. The statues present the truth, despite the deceptive beauty of the overall surroundings.

œ J

Deceiving the Eye

181

Clot.: Ah Sancio, Sancio, Quel giardin, benchè ameno, Questo Cortil, benchè di statue adorno M’è spiacente, e noioso: Non v’è delizia, ove non é il mio sposo. Dove, dove è Fernando? Lo ricerco e nol trovo Se non dentro al mio cor’. Ei m’abbandona. Clot: Ah Sancio, This garden, though delightful, This Courtyard, though adorned with statues, Is displeasing, and tedious, to me: There is no delight, where my husband is absent. Where is Fernando? I look, but do not find him Other than in my heart. He abandons me. (1, 9, ll. 5–12)

The scene places in dialogue the Arcadian controversy over images and truth. The garden appears peaceful, but is not. Its feigned appearance belies reality, creating a presentiment of worse events to come. The statues, images which might deceive, truthfully represent Fernando’s hidden motives.5 While the physical statues in La forza della virtù represent a simulacrum of the truth, their stoniness and lack of human emotion are used as a metaphor for cruelty and hatred—the qualities which Fernando embodies. We first find this reference in act 2, scene 1. Here, Clotilde opens the act in the courtyard, with an entrance aria that contrasts reason against the senses. Her position at the outset of the act dramatically juxtaposes her morality and innocence against both the unraveling deceit that will follow, and Fernando’s threats against her (“Muoia, Clotilde, Muoia / ‘Die, Clotilde, die.’ ”), which concluded the previous act. Clotilde’s opening melodic line, with its declarative text-setting, repeated pitches, and squarely-accented beats on 1 and 3, asserts her determination despite Fernando’s death threats (see example 9, “Fernando è il mio sposo,” mm. 4–6). Meanwhile, the basso continuo line, which opens the ritornello at mm. 1–4, presents a continuous stream of sixteenth notes, which could be interpreted as steadfastness, but at a faster tempo could indicate the confusion or emotion under the surface—the “senso” that Clotilde tries to negate. The possibility of discord in the first section might be strengthened by the lack of similarity in gesture between singer and accompaniment, especially since the two only imitate each other at the conclusion of the second half, on the text “ad amarlo, obliga il cor” (mm. 17–18). Clotilde reaches clarity when expressing her own duty, a clarity not entirely present in the first half.

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example 9. Act 2, sc. 1: Clotilde, “Fernando è il mio sposo” (aria), mm. 1–7, 16–20. Transcribed from La

forza della virtù: Opera recitata nel Teatro di S. Gio. Grisostomo di Venezia genn. 1693. Státní oblastní archiv v Třeboni, oddělení Český Krumlov, Sbírka hudebnin Český Krumlov, karton 5, no. 69—K 1.

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Clot.: Fernando è il mio sposo: Fernando è il mio Amor. Sia infedele, Sia crudele, La Ragion, se non il senso Ad amarlo, obliga il cor. Fernando &c. Sia un’ Idolo di sasso; Il vo’ adorar. Clot. (aria): Fernando is my husband: Fernando is my Love.

˙

Deceiving the Eye

183

Let him be unfaithful, Let him be cruel, Reason, if not emotion Obliges my heart to love him. Fernando, &c. (Recit.): Let him be a stone Idol; I will adore [love, revere, worship] him. (2, 1, ll. 1–8)

She has resolved to love Fernando even if he is a “stone Idol.” At this point, Rodrigo enters, warning Clotilde of her peril, and offers his assistance, unsheathing his sword. Clotilde refuses, since one who is “armed with innocence” needs no sword. Prison, Poison, Letter, and Sword Eventually Fernando’s wayward attentions turn from idolizing beauty to loving Clotilde, despite his hardened heart. How does this happen? A series of events unfolds, all drawn from Spanish theater, but eventually foiled by Clotilde’s reason. In act 3, scene 1, we find Clotilde in prison—placed there by Fernando as a result of a trial, in which she was accused and convicted of infidelity based on false testimony. Padiglio enters Clotilde’s prison cell with a cup of poison and a pen. The poison is for Clotilde’s forced suicide, the pen to write a farewell letter. Left alone, in act 3, scene 2, Clotilde determines that the final vestiges of her life—a suicide note—will reflect her nobility and virtue. In act 3, scene 3, Fernando enters to the side, witnessing her final moments of letter writing. He misinterprets her actions; out loud, Clotilde speaks of her father’s desire for vengeance with the sword—as Fernando remarks in an aside intended for the audience, a “Spanish sword”—Clotilde continues talking and writing intermittently, and Fernando finishes his sentence—“will not be blunt in defense.” Fernando, believing that Clotilde is using her letter to invite war against his kingdom, enters her cell, picks up the letter, and reads it out loud—it turns out that Clotilde is urging her French father to forgiveness in order to prevent war and maintain peace. Fernando’s stone heart begins to soften, but he continues in his quest to kill Clotilde so he can marry Anagilda. His recitative (at example 10, “Io sento, il dico”) turns to the “soft” (“molle”) not just in the text, but also harmonically, moving through flat key areas associated with the mollis hexachord, touching C minor (at “sento”/feel), A minor (at “molle”/softness) and G minor (at “rade”/ abolish) before finally cadencing on G on the word “pity” (“pietade”), to convey Fernando’s temporary empathy. Fernando’s resolve quickens.

example 10. Act 3, sc. 3: Fernando, “Che leggo, o Dio! . . . Io sento, il dico” (recit.), mm. 11–15; “Per darti guerra” (aria) mm. 1–6; act 3, sc. 4: Fernando, “Se non amo Clotilde” (recit.), mm. 1–3. Transcribed from La forza della virtù: Opera recitata nel Teatro di S. Gio. Grisostomo di Venezia genn. 1693. Státní oblastní archiv v Třeboni, oddělení Český Krumlov, Sbírka hudebnin Český Krumlov, karton 5, no. 69—K 1.

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Deceiving the Eye Fer.: Io sento, il dico. (tra se) Un non so che di molle, Che se tosto dal sen non mi si rade, Prenderà forza, e diverrà pietade. Di pietà non è tempo: E tempo di rigor, tempo è di morte. O la si muoìa. (Fernando si toglie la spada dal fianco, porgendola a Clotilde.) Per darti guerra, Per darmi pace, Lo stesso fianco a un Re si disarmi. Pur che tu cada Lacera a terra. La Regia destra ti rechi l’Armi. Per, &c.

185

Fer. (recit.): I feel, I will say it, (aside) A certain indescribable softness, Which, if I don’t abolish from my heart, Will gather strength, and become pity. It is not time for pity: It is time for rigor, time for death. She will die. (Fernando tears his sword from his side, extending it to Clotilde.) (Aria): To give you war, To give me peace, The king’s flank itself is disarmed. That you would slump, [My sword] rends the ground. The Royal right hand would grant you Arms. (3, 3, ll. 61–66, 77–82)

He offers her the sword, and he concludes the scene with a militant D major aria, evoking trumpets with his triadic opening vocal motive followed by brilliant coloratura (example 10, “Per darti guerra,” mm. 3–5). Clotilde prepares to use the sword as her suicidal weapon of choice, instead of the cup of poison. In act 3, scene 4, Rodrigo breaks into the prison to rescue Clotilde, to sounds of commotion. Fernando asks for his sword back so he can fend off Rodrigo’s attack; Clotilde refuses, and brandishes the sword herself against Rodrigo. As the tumult increases, the harmony shifts further in the sharp direction, reflecting strife, with the key areas A major, E minor, and B minor (not shown). In her strict, virtuous morality, Clotilde refuses Rodrigo’s aid because it reflects adulterous and treasonous actions against Fernando. As Rodrigo’s pleas become more desperate, he cadences on E major, and F♯ major, and realizing his fate he concludes on the dominant of C♯, which resolves at Fernando’s entry with the text “If I don’t love Clotilde, I am made of stone” (example 10, recit.: “se non amo Clotilde, io son di sasso”). By the end of the scene, Fernando realizes his cruelty and begins to recognize emotion. The stoniness of his heart cracks. His newfound emotion is conveyed not by the molle of his earlier presentiments in scene 3, but in the very sharp key of F♯ minor (see example 10, concluding measure). By melting Fernando’s stone heart, Clotilde’s virtue realigns Fernando’s senso with his ragione. The statues’ presence, both real and metaphorical, is a reminder that anyone who looks at images can be deceived if the intellect is not employed in the act of interpretation. Domenico David has skillfully diverted the typical conceits of Venetian opera and its Spanish origins to serve the Arcadian emphasis on reason. The Reflected Gaze While Anagilda’s face inspires Fernando’s false idolatry, he also has plenty of opportunities to worship her total physical beauty. Most of the time that Anagilda

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is onstage, she is involved in acts of gazing—either at herself in the mirror, at a portrait of Fernando, or at theatrical spectacle. These acts of seeing are reciprocal and multidirectional, involving different layers of perspective; the audience gazes at Anagilda gazing at herself, or at Fernando gazing at Anagilda gazing at herself, and so on. The first time that we encounter Anagilda, in act 1, scene 5, she sings an entrance aria addressed to beauty and seduction. (See example 11, “Lusinghe vezzose”) As she considers how she will use her appearance to steal Fernando and the crown from Clotilde, she turns to the mirror to arrange her hair into braids that will captivate, and therefore imprison, Fernando.

example 11. Act 1, sc. 5: Anagilda, “Lusinghe vezzose” (aria), mm. 14–28. Transcribed from La forza della

virtù: Opera recitata nel Teatro di S. Gio. Grisostomo di Venezia genn. 1693. Státní oblastní archiv v Třeboni, oddělení Český Krumlov, Sbírka hudebnin Český Krumlov, karton 5, no. 69—K 1. aria con strom.ti

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Ana.: Lusinghe vezzose, Ministre al mio viso, Vi chiamo a consiglio. L’arti vostre più amorose, Che dian grazia a un guardo, a un riso, Insegnate al labro, e al ciglio. Lusinghe &c. Ana. (aria): Charming attractions, Assistants to my face, I call on your advice. Teach your most amorous arts, Which give elegance to a glance, to a smile, To my lips and eyes. (1, 5, ll. 1–6)

The lack of musical connection between the dotted, downward-leaping, disjunct motive in the ritornello (example 11, mm. 15–18, which duplicate the opening) and the even, mostly conjunct, but upwardly seeking motion in Anagilda’s entrance (mm. 18–21, which repeats her first phrase) reflects the discrepancy between the visual “charm” and its deceitful “illusions” embodied by her first two words. When Anagilda requests assistance from those “charming illusions,” the two gestures merge and reflect one another (mm. 24–27), as she commits more fully to the dotted rhythms of the violin (but not its melody). Anagilda gathers the power of illusion toward her own face, lips, and eyes. In this scene, Domenico David stages a well-known iconographic typology, one that has particular meaning in Venice, where the art of glass and mirror making was supreme since the fourteenth century.6 Early modern depictions of mirrors are numerous, and diverse in their allegorical meanings; these range from positive

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figure 16. Giovanni Bellini, Young Woman at Her Toilet / Lady with a Mirror (1515). Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

connotations such as Prudence, Knowledge, Philosophy, and Beauty, to negative representations such as Luxury and Vanity, or comment self-reflexively on artistic creativity, by emblematizing Sight or Painting.7 An early example of such an allegory is Giovanni Bellini’s Allegory of Vanitas or Prudentia (also referred to as Vainglory), dated circa 1490–95. By the sixteenth-century, the iconography of the Woman at Her Toilet (or Venus with a Mirror) became prevalent in Venice, and spread quickly to artists in other areas. Among the Venetians, we find early examples by Bellini, Titian, and Veronese (see figure 16 as well as the cover of this book). These paintings have several features in common. A blonde woman, with intricately arranged hair, gazes intently into the mirror, seemingly lost in her own reflection. She is in various stages of undress, drawing attention to the eroticism of her figure. Either a suitor (as in Titian’s Woman with a Mirror) or one or two putti (as in Titian’s Venus with the Mirror) assist her by holding up the mirror. The scene offers multiple levels of perspective; the mirror presents the woman an alternative view of herself, or it presents us, the external audience, a reflection that differs from the primary view.8

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These paintings bear strong classical associations. The twisting of the torso in the representations by Bellini, Titian, and Veronese (fig. 16) repeat the pose of Praxiteles’ Cnidean Venus,9 a famous statue that bore erotic connotations despite its physical gesture of modesty (pudica).10 Similarly, the draped but very revealing clothing on these figures duplicates the tension between modesty and sensuality associated with Praxiteles’ statue.11 By signing his Lady with a Mirror in the imperfect tense “faciebat,” Bellini also refers to Pliny’s description of Apelles in the Natural History; since Apelles was always perfecting his work, the imperfect tense used here suggests that the painting was an evolving process even at the time of the signature.12 Through this gesture, Bellini also connects his iconography to Apelles’ unfinished Venus Anadyomene, a popular subject in Renaissance Venetian sculpture and painting.13 The mirror is also an attribute of Venus. Ancient art frequently depicts Venus holding a mirror, and ancient texts sometimes associate Venus with the courtesan, or as the goddess of courtesans, as Venus Meretrix.14 These portrayals carried through to the early modern world; for example, Boccaccio’s Genealogia deorum gentilium (1360) presents three topoi of the goddess: Venus Coelestis (Heavenly; i.e., as a planet), Venus Genetrix (Motherly, as in procreation), and Venus Meretrix (Courtesan).15 In Renaissance art, the mirror—both an attribute of Venus and a “tool of the courtesan”—is the iconographical instrument that conflates the goddess of love with the image of the courtesan. Domenico David replicates Gianvincenzo Gravina’s immagine del vero; he begins with an image of the subject, then depicts that subject in a vivid way, so that the images percuss against the intellect, where the audience interprets them. When the audience judges the representation by comparing it to their “commonly held beliefs,” and the preexisting true images that they already hold in their memories, they confirm its truth (see chapters 3 and 4). The Venetian audience familiar with artistic interpretations of Venus at the Mirror cannot help but see her image in the operatic rendition before their eyes—down to the golden braids and the intricate ribbon, as depicted in Anagilda’s scene-ending aria. example 12. Act 1, sc. 5: Anagilda, “Sin da’i Gallici campi . . . In compormi le trecce” (recit.), mm. 19–22; “Queste d’or crespe lucenti” (aria), mm. 1–28. Transcribed from La forza della virtù: Opera recitata nel Teatro di S. Gio. Grisostomo di Venezia genn. 1693. Státní oblastní archiv v Třeboni, oddělení Český Krumlov, Sbírka hudebnin Český Krumlov, karton 5, no. 69—K 1.

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Deceiving the Eye A lo specchio, a lo specchio. Su quel terso Cristallo A gli studi del crin stromento elletto, Perchè in nodi più saldi L’alma del Rè si leghi, In compormi le treccie, arte s’impieghi. (Si adagia allo specchio, e si acconcia la chioma.) Aria: Queste d’or crespe lucenti Stringan l’anima al mio bene. In sembianza d’ornamenti Raggruppate in torti nastri Paian treccie, e sian catene. Queste d’or &c.

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To the mirror, to the mirror. In this polished Crystal, Chosen instrument for studying the face [hair], So that the heart of the King is bound In firmer knots, Let art be used in arranging my braids. (She poses at the mirror, and styles her hair.) Aria: Let these shining curls of gold Clasp the heart of my beloved. In the semblance of ornaments Gather them in twisted ribbons, Pair them together as braids, and let them be chains. (1, 5, ll. 17–27)

Anagilda considers how she will use her appearance to steal Fernando and the crown from Clotilde, turning to the mirror to arrange her hair into braids that will both captivate and imprison the King. The arte (art/skill) of doing her hair in the mirror—emphasized through a sudden burst of fioritura in the recitative (see example 12, second measure shown)—leads to the primary gesture in the aria ritornello when the full ensemble enters, and for Anagilda’s stunning, unaccompanied vocal display, at “Queste d’or crespe lucenti” (aria, m. 6). The coloratura simultaneously represents the brilliance of her hair, and its ability to bind Fernando (aria, mm. 6–12). The B section of the aria continues the figuration of the first half, although the initial motive changes, to emphasize the deceptive “appearance” (sembianza) of her braids as “ornaments” (ornamenti) (mm. 16–17). The next phrase (m. 18), however, returns to a variation of the gesture that had first appeared in measure 1 of the ritornello, and in the opening measures of the aria. Her melodic line connects the binding action of her braids with its target: “Raggruppate in torti nastri” (“gather together in twisted ribbons,” mm.18–21). The arte of the recitative recasts itself as the weaponized attributes of her golden curls— ornaments, twisted ribbons, braids, and chains. The disjunction between ritornello and vocal line that had characterized the “illusions” of her previous aria, now is flattened into linear imitation in her second aria; but the lack of any accompaniment suggests that despite her visual elegance and beauty, something is amiss—a sense of propriety, normalcy, or even wholeness. The music provides an additional image of her character not immediately present in her text. She is frivolous and manipulative. When Fernando enters in the next scene, the impression deepens; he becomes the viewer within the iconographic frame as he approaches Anagilda’s image and addresses her mirror.

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Fer.: Avventuroso specchio, Che accogli i rai di quell gentil sembiante Ana.: Stiate meco artifizij. Ecco l’Amante tra se (Vedendo Fernando nello specchio.) Fer.: Volgi, Anagilda, volgi Da quel Cristallo in sù’l mio seno il guardo Ove più che in un spechio, [sic] Vivamente ritratta Vagheggerai l’imagine tua bella. (Levatasi dallo specchio.) Ana.: Scusami ò Re, L’immago mia scancella Da quel tuo sen, ch’è scelto Ad abbracciar’altra, che me, in Isposa.

Fer.: Bold mirror, which receives the rays (eyes) of that delicate face Ana.: Be with me, artifices. Here is my Lover. (aside) (Seeing Fernando in the mirror.) Fer.: Turn, Anagilda, turn your gaze Away from the mirror, toward my heart Where, more than in the mirror, You will contemplate your beautiful image Vividly painted. (She rises from the mirror.) Ana.: Pardon me, o King; My image is blotted From your heart, since it has chosen To embrace another as Wife. (1, 6, ll. 1–11)

Here Domenico David adds another layer of symbolism, as he simultaneously references the male gaze as shown in Titian’s Woman with a Mirror, and a Petrarchan sonnet in which the poet scornfully treats the mirror as his adversary. My enemy, in whom you are wont to see your eyes, which Love and heaven honour, makes you in love with beauties not his own, beauties gentle and joyous, surpassing mortal form. At his prompting, lady, you have banished me from my sweet refuge, a wretched exile, although I would not be worthy to live where you alone dwell. But had I been fixed there with firm bonds, a mirror would not make you, causing to hurt me, pleasing to yourself, harsh and proud. Indeed, if you remember Narcissus, your conduct and his lead to the same end, although the grass would be unworthy of so beautiful a flower. (Petrarch, Sonnet 45)16

David consciously creates a parallel structure between the two texts, even though some of the references are reversed. Fernando addresses the mirror directly (“bold mirror”); where the Petrarchan lover marks the mirror as an adversary (“my enemy”). Then, Fernando refers to the reflected image (“rays of that delicate face”)—using a mild pun, since poetically rai means “eyes,” but it also means “rays,” as in the literal reflection of light—just as the Petrarchan lover refers to the eyes reflected in the mirror and complains that the beloved becomes enamored with the image the mirror reflects. Just as Fernando implores Anagilda to turn away from the mirror to look directly at him—since her image is reflected in his own heart—the Petrarchan lover complains that the mirror has displaced him. In both instances, the lover beholds only the reflected image; in the opera, Fernando addresses the mirror, while Anagilda views Fernando’s image also from within the mirror. After she lifts her eyes from the glass, to look at Fernando directly, she returns the complaint—her image (the one hidden in Fernando’s heart) has been replaced by that of Clotilde. Where Fernando is jealous of the mirror, Anagilda is jealous of an image. Of course, readers familiar with the Petrarchan reference know the implied prediction—there is only one end to this story, and that is the

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Narcissistic metamorphosis ending in corporeal death. He who was first fixated on his own image, can now neither see nor be seen. By the end of the scene, Fernando promises Anagilda her coveted crown, and muses on her beauty. Fer.: Io ti prometto Ne un Re è bugiardo oggi Corona, e letto. De gli onori più supremi E ben degno il tuo sembiante. La tua fronte maestosa Chiama inchini, e vuol Diademi; E la bocca tua vezzosa Chiede baci da un Regnante. Degli, &. Fer.: I promise you, No King is a liar, today the Crown, and bed. (Aria): Of the highest honors Your beauty is deserving. Your majestic face Summons bows, and demands Diadems; And your charming mouth Requires kisses from a Monarch. Of the highest, etc. (1, 6, ll. 43–50)

With this promise, Fernando leaves Anagilda to her own thoughts, expressed in a monologue in scene 7; she senses her heart racing, the imminence of her future status, and the the scepter in her hand. Her aria continues the emphasis on every sense other than vision; until now, she senses emotion, and imagines the touch of her hand on the coveted instrument of regal power. The aria now moves to the sense of hearing; she hears the sound of trumpets in her ears, and feels the weight of the crown on her head. Già la Tromba à l’orecchio mi suona, Che festeggia, e mi chiama Reina. Già mi sento su’l crin la Corona, A i cui lampi Castiglia s’inchina. Già la, &c. Already the Trumpet sounds in my ear, That Celebrates, and calls me Queen. Already I feel the Crown on my brow, At whose gleam all Castile bows. Already, etc. (1, 7, ll. 14–17)

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Her internal senses become externalized through music, as her aria represents her victory with trumpets and strings in D major. Two instances of foreshadowing connect this scene to the prison scene in act 3, scene 3, one textual, and one musical. As Anagilda cajoles Fernando’s promise of marriage, he exclaims: “Listen, my heart cries out, ‘liberty, liberty’ ” (“Sento, che grida il core / Libertà, libertà”). Rodrigo, smitten with Clotilde, will echo this call for liberty when he breaks into Clotilde’s prison cell to rescue her: (“Liberty, liberty, let Clotilde live” (“Libertà, libertà, Viva Clotilde”). Neither is able to follow through on his promise; each uses false protestations of liberty while acting in betrayal. Fernando’s attempt to free himself from Clotilde (through imprisonment and murder) fails; Rodrigo’s attempt at rescue (through treason and infidelity) fails. Neither is at liberty to offer what he promises. Their concluding trumpet arias also connect these two scenes. Although the musical motives are not related, Fernando will use the same idiom in his aria “Per darti guerra,” while offering his sword to Clotilde, seeking her death. The trumpet aria connects the two lovers in their hatred for Clotilde. In Fernando’s scene, the militaristic gestures represent simultaneously a physical object (the sword) and an emotional one (victory of his love for Anagilda). For Anagilda, the victory is entirely sensory, and mostly imagined; although Anagilda has no reason to believe that Fernando will betray his promise, she claims for herself what is not yet hers. In this sequence of scenes, we see Anagilda participating in the superficial senses— ornaments, beauty, reflected images (which can be deceptive), and hearing (which is connected to pleasure, not the intellect). This episode is significant not only because it references iconography and literature, but also because of the meanings of those references within the Arcadian reform. The “image of truth” stood not just for verisimilitude—a one-to-one rendering of an imagistic subject through a verbal mechanism—but also for a poetic style, a vivid, linguistic rendering of ideas conveyed directly to the imagination of the reader. All of the leading poets of the original Roman Arcadia—Alessandro Guidi, Francesco de Lemene, and Benedetto Menzini—cultivated images through lyrical use of poetic verse, eschewing the complex, artificial, and contorted contrasts of the mannerist Baroque. By imitating a classical and early modern past that included a line of poets most known for their vivid imagery—Pindar, Dante, Petrarch, Tasso, and Chiabrera—the Arcadians merged literary aesthetic interests with the emerging “New Science” based on empiricism.17 Domenico David’s operatic portrait of Anagilda as Venus with a Mirror operates in a similar manner. Like the microscope, the telescope, and Baroque artistic illusions, the mirror is an optical device that can either help us see better, or can introduce distortions into our perspective. David specifically plays with the concept of the reflected gaze, by writing into the stage directions how Anagilda and

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Fernando view each other only through the mirror, and when exactly Anagilda should release herself from her own reflection. David links his operatic iconography with the scientific interest in visual culture and optical devices associated with Arcadian reform. With Anagilda’s self-absorbed interest in her own reflection, and the vocabulary used to describe it—“maraviglie artificiose”—we find a parallel in the problems the Arcadians found in earlier seventeenth-century literature. As Crescimbeni wrote in his L’istoria della volgar poesia in 1698, the mannerist style emphasizes only its own frivolous conceits, focuses only on its own sound, and depicts false images. Crescimbeni’s description of Giambattista Marino’s poetry—which ushered in the popularity of seventeenth-century mannerism, and engendered considerable imitation—complains about its “noisiness,” “resonance” or “sonorism,” and its deceitful “false appearances.” Gravina similarly faults poets for focusing too much on the sounds of their language, thereby flattering the ear with ornaments, to the detriment of poetic images, and to the detriment of judgment.18 When poetic language is chosen for its effect on the ear, it “obscures the object,” instead of revealing it; it creates a “reverberating exterior,” which sounds “large for the ears,” but “little of it arrives in the mind.” For Crescimbeni, literary style, like female beauty and virtue, should be aligned between internal and external characteristics;19 for Gravina, the exterior sound of poetry has little effect on the mind, and is not able to create an image, especially if it obscures the object it represents by superseding the narrative. Both Crescimbeni and Gravina advocate for balance between sound and image; images are processed in the brain, where they accumulate meaning. Sounds have little impact on the intellectual process, and therefore they do not represent anything. If Clotilde in this opera uses reason to destroy the unreasoned elements of Spanish influence in the Venetian opera libretto, then it is appropriate that Anagilda—consumed with false appearances, external beauty, and frivolous sounds—should represent the mannerist poetic style. As Anagilda’s role in the opera deepens, her interactions with other characters shed more light on her character. A group of scenes toward the end of act 1 occur in Anagilda’s apartments, at court. In act 1, scene 14, Sancio, Anagilda’s father, arrives. He pleads with her to return home; she obstinately refuses, proclaiming Fernando’s love for her and her own ambition. She interrupts him, changing the meaning of his words. Finally, somewhat exasperated, Sancio entreats her: “Oh, daughter, daughter! You have ‘sense’ [feeling] and heart.” Again, Anagilda turns his words around: “Heart, that only lives and breathes for Glory, and honor. Feeling, that listens to the empire of reason.” Anagilda redefines for her own purposes the aim of her ambition, by juxtaposing as equals heart/honor, and feeling/reason. She says what her father wants to hear. He offers her his sword, an object of honor, while yet acknowledging her faults: “You promise much, that will never be.”

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Anagilda makes a subtle threat, stating that he will soon see what she does with the sword. Sancio leaves her with an aria, saturated with the words that most represent his fear: “oltraggi” (“offenses”), “impudica” (“shameless”), “indegni Amori” (“unworthy loves”). The final lines of his aria deliver a blow, and a warning: “May the arrow of your unworthy Love not rip the garland of laurels on your hair, which long exertion wove.” Just as Anagilda used manipulation to change the meaning of Sancio’s words, he now leaves her with a double meaning. The words allori (laurels) and intrecciò (weave, braid) work together to deceive. Since Anagilda spent time braiding her hair in front of the mirror, to use it as a weapon against Fernando, Sancio could be referring to her beauty; do not let the wounds destroy you, literally. In this literal sense, it is also quite frivolous; but all of the negative words he uses in this context also point backwards to our view of Anagilda as a moving portrait, as the Woman in the Mirror. All of the “attributes of Venus” are now characterized as impudica. The meaning of the ancient statue of Venus Pudica has been clarified, and all modesty erased from the painting; we now know which version of the allegory we are supposed to understand. In the figurative sense, since Sancio’s sword stands for his reputation and the long time he spent building it, and the garland of laurels is a symbol of honor and victory, he is also saying, “Do not destroy me in the process.” As each character enters Anagilda’s apartment in turn, we see more of her deceit. The next scene, act 1, scene 15, brings Clotilde, admittedly out of jealousy, and seeking assurance. Each treats the other with respect, while voicing her inner thoughts in asides; Clotilde’s are of anxiety and uncertainty, while Anagilda’s are of her true motivations. Just as she did in the previous scene, Anagilda changes the direction of Clotilde’s words, allowing her to believe that she returns Alfonso’s affections, and not Fernando’s. They conclude with a duet in two parallel stanzas, one after the other, in which they seem to understand each other, although their meanings are opposed. The following scene is Anagilda’s last in act 1. Fernando arrives, and she pretends not to see him, instead addressing his portrait, which hangs on her wall. Her opening lines juxtapose seeing and hearing: “Great Ruler, painted in linen, who though in ‘sense’-less [mute] form seems to offer me a compassionate ear, listen to my complaints.” Just as she had controlled Fernando’s vision of her in the mirror scene, by refusing to look up, and only offering him her projected image, here she controls the dynamic by refusing to speak to him, and not acknowledging his presence. She only views his projected image. The “senseless form” also reminds us of the mute statues in the garden at the beginning of the act, among which Fernando had sought to worship Anagilda’s face. Here, the memory of that scene heightens with Fernando’s words to Anagilda later in this scene: “Stay with your Idolater, O my Idol.” Both characters use visual objects as static remnants of reality, and as

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intentional dissimulation. Here, combining Anagilda’s duplicity with specular fascination redoubles the effect of the previous scenes. She speaks to the portrait throughout most of the scene, suggesting that Fernando no longer loves her and that Clotilde dishonored her. In her next lines, Anagilda proceeds to describe the features in the painting; she simultaneously reminds us of the physical object and of the narrative ekphrastic mode, while tugging at Fernando’s emotions. She tries to draw a response from the “senseless form”: “O crowned image, here, where you emanate from your eyes (though false), here, to this place came Clotilde, audacious and tormenting, to examine my liberty and authority.” Her ploy works, as of course the implications draw Fernando into the narrative; he and his servant Padiglio are intrigued and begin to ask questions. Pretending not to notice, Anagilda continues, suggesting intimidation, accusations, and affronts to her character hurled by Clotilde. She threatens to leave the palace, shaken and tormented by the assault. As she turns to leave, she “accidentally” bumps into Fernando; of course, Fernando cannot stand for this. He resolves at that moment that Clotilde must die. Clotilde had already fallen for a trap, making it appear that she was unfaithful, accepting Rodrigo’s advances; this is the last straw. Left in Anagilda’s apartments, he begins the next scene (act 1, scene 17) with the words, “Muoia, Clotilde, muoia” (“Die, Clotilde, Die”)—words that he will repeat in the prison scene; he engages Padiglio to do his bidding, and concludes act 1 with a rage aria. Act 2 unfolds in sections that juxtapose Clotilde’s misfortunes with Anagilda’s delight. In the beginning of the act, Alfonso and his soldiers come to arrest Clotilde, and Rodrigo is unable to stop them. Anagilda, in contrast, preoccupies herself with spectacles and celebrations, increasingly drawn into the appearance of things. Act 2, scene 4 opens on a sumptuous scene; the spectacle intended for Clotilde’s wedding now entertains Anagilda instead. The stage setting describes a “Place set up for Entertainment, the top of which is surrounded by loggias, and at the bottom of which winds a River, with a shore, and a bridge, where the battle of the Amazons on the Thermodon, will be represented.”20 The set must have been quite amazing to the audience, and it included usable architectural features. At the end of scene 4, Anagilda and Alfonso ascend a staircase, leading them to the loggias on the right side; at the end of the next scene, Fernando and Padiglio join them by ascending the stairs on the other side, and Fernando sits next to Anagilda. Trumpets sound, and the battle between the Amazons and Greeks begins; afterward the scene changes to an amphitheater decked out in plants, and a dance and contest between the Amazons and Greeks begins.21 The score has additional details; the music for the trumpets is not provided but is indicated in the directions. In addition, a brief dance suite follows. After the trumpet call, the “Introduzione del Ballo” begins, led by the oboes, and then other instruments

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join in turns, until everyone plays the whole introduction.22 The “Ballo” also begins with oboes, followed by the violins in unison, then the violas, then the full ensemble. Providing varied textures and lines, including repeats, elongates the otherwise short binary dance. This repeats twice again, then the Introduction returns, before a Sinfonia. This performance within a performance provides us another venue to observe Anagilda in the act of gazing. Now, instead of beholding static, projected images, she surveys a moving image comprised of colors and textures, itself set inside a lush, visual scene. She gazes on Clotilde’s destruction, disguised as entertainment. Even still, she controls the direction of her gaze (or seems to). After the spectacle, in response to Fernando, who asks whether she found it pleasing, she claims not to have seen it: “I didn’t see it, I didn’t care for it. I disdain looking.” She preferred gazing at Fernando. Anagilda uses her eyes, her vision, and others’ vision of her, to maintain the upper hand. By the end of act 2, scene 6 Anagilda has manipulated Fernando to pledge, for the second time, Clotilde’s death. The next section juxtaposes Clotilde’s unfair trial with Anagilda in the royal throne room. While the first two groups of act 2 had juxtaposed two different outdoor scenes—the garden, which had made Clotilde uneasy, and the luxurious outdoor arena—now we juxtapose the two indoor spaces that wield the most power for the king—the courtroom, and the throne room. Another spectacle ensues, but this one of a different nature. Alfonso appears, followed by a crowd of knights and ladies of the court;23 he carries a covered basin, offering it to Anagilda as a gift from the king. At first, she reaches for it, but then hesitates; considering her zeal for Clotilde’s death, is she afraid of what might be hiding beneath? She pulls off the veil to discover the crown and the scepter. She places the crown on her head, and ascends to the throne, exclaiming, “My eyes do not deceive me: my right hand does not deceive me: my desire does not deceive me.” Although she had used her eyes and her vision to control her situation, until now she had not really doubted what she sees. It is a foreshadowing of her unraveling. Not only is Anagilda not virtuous, nor does she use her self-reflection for personal edification, but she lets her imagination run wild. She is the perfect example of how images can deceive when not connected to true judgment. Seated on the throne, the crown securely placed on her head, she begins to imagine that the entire world is celebrating her coronation: statues are made, banners are raised, drums and trumpets sound.24 Although she has heard trumpets at the spectacle, her imagined sonic world here reminds us of her trumpet aria in act 1, where she had first imagined the feel of the crown on her head. Now she lives out those sensations of seeing and feeling that had eluded her earlier. Anagilda continues her premature reverie— even after her father Sancio has tried to reason with her in act 2, scene 13— concluding the act alone in scene 14 by ordering a celebratory ballo in her own honor.

Deceiving the Eye Ana.: Qui appié del Trono, a le cui cime ascesi Coronata di merto Con inchini di ballo Mi saluti Reina il piè vassallo. Il giubilo danzi: Il giubilo suoni: Il giubilo brilli. Sin da l’alto il Ciel risuoni Per l’Ispana Regnatrice, E ogni stella danzatrice Tremolando in Ciel scintilli. Il giubilo, &c. (Qui segue il ballo, il quale compiuto Anagilda nello scendere dal Trono, così favella.)

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Ana.: Here at the foot of the Throne, to the top of which I have climbed, crowned in merit, With curtseys from the dance Let my foot servant salute me, Queen. (Aria): Dance the jubilee: Sound the jubilee: Let it gleam, the jubilee. May Heaven resound from on high For the Spanish Queen, And may every dancing star Flickering in Heaven sparkle. Dance, etc. (Here follows the dance, after which Anagilda, descending from the throne, speaks.) (2, 14, ll. 1–11)

Her aria, “Il giubilo danzi” (example 13), displays wild, lengthy coloratura passages for solo violin, with open chords for improvised arpeggiaturas and cadenzas. These roulades turn over repeatedly in a narrow range within the measure, or repeat the same triadic pattern, so that while there is constant movement forward, there is also a lack of grammatical structure, contributing to a sense of frenzied rumination. Anagilda’s vocal line is initially short, and interrupted by brief outbursts of violin virtuosity (mm. 16–17; 20–21). She begins repeating the first two lines of her text before she has finished the third line that completes her statement (mm. 22–25), reflecting her disordered frame of mind. Once she has finally uttered the full statement, she begins fracturing it again (mm. 26–28), repeating just the commands danzi, suoni, brilli; for the first time there is complete interaction between the violin and the voice. The swirl of the dance begins to overwhelm. In the next phrase, Anagilda takes up the coloratura of the violin, stretching the single word danzi (mm. 29 ff.) for seven measures, while the violin punctuates the first beat of each with double-stopped and arpeggiated chords. The entire aria is a tour de force, resembling a concerto more than an operatic aria; after the da capo, a five-part string ritornello adds emphatic punctuation to the conclusion.25 example 13. Act 2, sc. 14: Anagilda, “Il giubilo danzi” (aria), mm. 1–30. Transcribed from La forza della

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After the aria, an onstage ballo fulfills Anagilda’s demands, danced to a ciaccona that begins with two oboes and basso continuo, with unison violins and viola joining in on the second strain of the first half. The arrangement of instruments, with oboes beginning and others following, and the physical components of the dance, remind the audience of the other spectacle that Anagilda had enjoyed during her previous set onstage—the Battle of the Amazons. Although the libretto provides four lines of text for Anagilda after the dance, in which she expresses the pleasure she received from the dance, there is no music for it: (“The artfulness of your steps, o dancers, was so cheerful, and of such opulence, that it greatly pleased my Royal gaze”). Considering that the stage directions say that Anagilda “speaks” (“favella”) after the dance, is it possible that she literally speaks, rather than sings, these lines? If that is so, then the effect would be to distance her further from her own performative role, bringing to the foreground the performance within the opera, that was staged for Anagilda’s own self-aggrandizing pleasure. She devolves from her frenzied performance in the aria to a mere spectator at her own celebration. However, it is difficult to imagine that any spoken text would be audible at this point, since it is the very last utterance of act 2; after such a rousing and entrancing virtuosic aria and the visual and physical spectacle of the orchestral dance, it is likely that the audience erupted in wild applause. The next time we encounter Anagilda, in act 3, scene 6, she is still wearing royal robes, but she is now in the stanza di specchi illuminata—not just a hall of mirrors, but a hall illuminated by mirrors. She moves from one mirror to another, admiring her new queenly attire, asking herself at intervals, “What do you say, my eyes?”. The pithy contrast between seeing and saying, between animate and inanimate, between subject and specular reflection, is striking. By placing Anagilda in a hall full of mirrors, David magnifies the perspectival devices from Anagilda’s earlier scenes; we have to imagine an audience stupefied by the number of reflections and the brilliance of the light. By intensifying the effect, Domenico David approximates the multiple perspectives shown in the Woman with the Mirror paintings. He also heightens the sense of irony. What the audience now knows, but Anagilda does not, is that Clotilde has already regained her true place as Fernando’s intended bride, in just the previous scene. The contrast could not be stronger. Within the next two scenes, she is forced to give up all of her royal objects, and she is left to rage in act 3, scene 8. She resolves to kill Clotilde herself, singing a furious exit aria, “To arms, to arms” (“A l’armi, a l’armi”), which engages the full forces of the string ensemble—two violins, two violas, two violoncellos, and one bass line—with extended solo passages for two violins. Thus far, this is the only aria in the opera that uses such large forces. Anagilda reveals her true character the moment she steps away from the mirror, and from the multiple acts of gazing that she had participated in throughout the opera.

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Arcadian Landscapes The opera, in addition to its staging of iconography, mirrors, festivals, and entertainments, employs a number of opulent sceneries, heightening the emphasis on visual display already present in the dramatic action. Many of the most vivid stage sets are landscapes, several of which are highly intricate and must have had a stunning effect on the audience. Yet the action that takes place within those landscapes is contrary to the beauty that they project. While we have no existing sketches or drawings of the stage sets or apparatus for this production, the pictorial effects are clear from the libretto. Act 1 opens with a broad vista of the countryside, with two architectural features in perspective—the walls of the city of Toledo, and in the distance, Anagilda’s palace off to one side (act 1, scenes 1–4).26 The walls of the city cannot be too far away, since Fernando leaves the city gate with his courtiers to greet Clotilde as she approaches with her own entourage. The placement of several items in middle and far distance, and the depiction of medieval walls, recalls the new style of landscape painting that began flourishing in Rome about fifty to sixty years earlier.27 Despite the beauty of the environment, it is not hospitable to Clotilde. Her entrance to the city, surrounded by people from her own court, and confronted by Fernando with his own courtiers, emphasizes that this land and its beauty is not hers. Although she expects to be received honorably, her welcome is cut short when Fernando and his attendants leave abruptly. During acts 1 and 2, the landscape settings move closer and closer to the court with each occurrence. Each of these landscapes surrounds Clotilde’s action, creating a strong visual effect that prolongs her journey and highlights her loneliness, as Fernando does not accept her readily into the inner domain. She travels only gradually from outside to inside the courtly sphere. In act 1, scene 9 Clotilde is in a pleasant retreat near the royal garden, with the courtyard nearby; our perspective view has moved much closer to Clotilde’s goal. She remains outside the palace, but has moved within its outer walls. This is the garden with Fernando’s statues, where he likes to retire to worship Anagilda’s face (discussed above); Clotilde is uneasy, and confides her confusion to Sancio. (1, 9–13) During this group of scenes, Sancio and Clotilde first suspect the nature of Anagilda’s presence at court, and Fernando forces Rodrigo to confess his love to the supposed queen, which she rejects. Rodrigo is also unhappy about Fernando’s manipulation. The place is tainted for Clotilde; it bears the traces of deception and despite the openness of her surroundings, she is starting to be closed in, foreshadowing her imprisonment. In act 2, Clotilde finally reaches the courtyard, a place ensconced by the walls of the palace structure, even though it is still outdoors. We now have a limited view of the landscape surrounding the palace, and Clotilde is enclosed. Rodrigo warns Clotilde of the machinations at court, offers his protection and his sword, both of which she rejects. Fernando’s troops arrest her. The last landscape scene of the act

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is the site of the outdoor entertainments, where Fernando and Anagilda gleefully gorge themselves on visual splendor, while Clotilde sits in prison. Despite the ubiquitous presence of landscape in this opera, Pollarolo uses pastoral musical themes sparingly. His music does not represent the place, but the emotions and the actions that emanate from it. There is one exception to this; only one pastoral landscape warrants a mimetic musical setting, where the locus amoenus is true to its name, where the characters themselves delight in their surroundings. Yet even this landscape is fraught with danger. After Clotilde’s release from prison, her unification with Fernando, and Anagilda’s divestment of all the royal symbols, in act 3, scene 9 Fernando and Clotilde enjoy a touching moment in a beautiful scene with a garden. They forgive each other for their past conflicts, and sing a duet in parallel stanzas, expressing how the pastoral world reflects their gladness. Fern.: I nostri contenti Augelli cantate. E in garruli accenti Per l’aria scherzate Clo.: I nostri contenti Bell’aure narrate. E in tremoli accenti Su i fiori scherzate. Fern. (aria): Birds, sing Our delight. And jest throughout the air In chatty tones. Clo. (aria): Wonderful breezes, Tell our delight. And in warbling accents Jest among the flowers. (3, 9, ll. 18–25)

Clotilde remains in the garden, as other characters enter and exit, sharing in her happiness. By scene 11, the sonic attraction of the place draws Clotilde closer to the fountain: “At the base of this fountain, I will lie down, Alfonso, and here, to the sound of the trickling water, I will sing of my pacified fate in sweet tones.” Cascading, flowing melodic lines, with only basso continuo accompaniment, and a short string ritornello introduction, imitate both the sweetness and simplicity of the moment, and the flowing fountain, while her voice intermingles with the sounds of the water, and the singing of birds. Her text, however, is not mimetic of the environment, but rather narrates how fortune now caresses her instead of fighting against her.28 Despite her enjoyment of the place, there is not yet total equilibrium between landscape, beauty, enjoyment, sound, and text. It is Alfonso’s response that deepens the impression for us: “Praising your singing, may every song bird warble.” Enchanted by the environment, Clotilde is drawn ever more

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closely into the sounds of the landscape; the whispering of the fountain and the murmuring of the breeze put her to sleep. She sets aside all anxious thoughts, resting in a sweet oblivion. Her aria, “Pensieri addio,” is the only one that rivals Anagilda’s rage aria in orchestration (“A l’armi, a l’armi,” discussed above). The two arias place in relief their respective prototypes: Anagilda’s room illuminated with mirrors, now reflecting her true intentions, stripped bare, and the virtuous queen, finally in tune with her natural environment. The setting is for two flutes (the only indication for flutes in the entire score), and muted strings—two violins, violas, cello, and basso continuo (see example 14). At the beginning, each group of instruments has its own melodic idea (mm. 1–10); the flutes begin first, and the strings respond with their own statement. Clotilde weaves in yet a third melodic idea with her opening line, “Pensieri addio” (“Farewell, thoughts”; mm. 8–10). For a brief moment, the flutes and strings trade a truncated version of the strings’ motive after Clotilde’s first entrance, overlapping with a repeat of her addio (mm. 10–13). The full ensemble concludes this brief A section with cascading, parallel thirds (mm. 13–17). Although the B section moves to the minor mode, and begins with a new melody in the voice, the orchestra plays a limited role, punctuating with chords derived from the string melody in the first half (mm. 22–24), and then dropping out completely, with Clotilde’s final utterance: “Riposate in dolce oblio” (“Rest in sweet oblivion”; mm. 25–30). Her impending sleep blocks out all thoughts, and all perception of the narcotic sounds that had wooed her to sleep. Although she does repeat the first section, its very truncated length and fragmented repetition reinforces the sense that she falls asleep in mid thought.

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Now is when the treachery begins. In act 3, scene 12, Anagilda, driven to extremes by the disjunction between her imagination, her senses, and her circumstance, attempts to murder Clotilde in the garden. Anagilda stands over Clotilde with a blade while Clotilde sleeps. Anagilda finally reveals her intentions with Sancio’s sword. In a moment reminiscent of Lully’s Armide, several times Anagilda hesitates, without knowing what stops her. Just as she determines to strike the

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blow, Alfonso steps in to stop her. Suddenly, everyone is in the garden, witness to the terrible event. Clotilde asks Fernando for permission to exact punishment, which he grants. That punishment turns out to be forgiveness. Then, all is well. Everyone who has done anything wrong seeks and receives forgiveness from the offended party. Anagilda reconciles herself to Alfonso. Rodrigo is still in love with Clotilde, who still rebuffs him but forgives him nonetheless. At Clotilde’s coronation in the final scene, Anagilda steps in at the last moment to place the crown on Clotilde’s brow. The final scene is a grand outdoor festival, in a piazza with an amphitheater and the throne. All of the opera’s previous moments of spectacle come together in perfect alignment; the scene opens to reveal the kingdom of the River Tagus; the river god, accompanied by nymphs, joins in the chorus, “Viva Clotilde,” there are dances, and Virtue rises above the scene in a machine, trampling Vice under her feet. Throughout the opera, Clotilde is uneasy in landscapes. There is no safe spot for her anywhere in Toledo until the conclusion. Except during her trial and imprisonment, all of Clotilde’s action takes place in landscape settings. Similarly, except for her murderous attempt on Clotilde’s life, and her usurpation of Clotilde’s wedding spectacle, all of Anagilda’s action takes place within the court. The association of character and place creates an appealing contrast. Just as in Scarlatti’s La Statira, the landscape marks Clotilde as a virtuous character, even though evil penetrates the pastoral world. Just as in Guidi’s L’Endimione, the locus amoenus creates disjunction with our heroine’s emotional state. Just as Gravina and Crescimbeni had endorsed for the new, reformed pastoral genre, the landscape has become a site for the tragic, the heroic, the virtuous, not just the rustic. Just as in Roman landscape painting, and in the Parrhasian Grove performance of villeggiatura, the discourse of the pastoral rebalances the landscape from background to narrative subject. The frontispiece to the libretto summarizes the conclusion to the opera (see fig. 17). The image displays strong classicizing elements. In the foreground, we see Clotilde crowned by Anagilda. Clotilde rests her right hand on a pedestal which appears to be a living figure, the base of which however mimics an inverted Corinthian-style pedestal. Anagilda turns her back on a sinister putto, presumably representing Vice. Above Clotilde, an angel hovers in the air, carrying a large, ornate crown, behind which peeks a trace of cloud that billows into a scrollwork pattern above and to the left. To the right, a banner displays the title of the opera, La forza della virtù. Beneath this, an archway opens onto the public space beyond; in the archway, we catch a glimpse of the audience, in Romanized clothing. The audience gazes onto the coronation scene; the lack of detail in their expressions suggests a distance between them and the focus of the scene. The entire design mimics the theatrical setting, and perhaps exemplifies the stage set used in the production. The archway seems to indicate a stage within a stage, and the audience seems to sit slightly elevated, on a stage-like platform. Thus, we, as external view-

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figure 17. Libretto frontispiece, La forza della virtù (1693). Library of Congress.

ers, observe the action while gazing past it to watch the internal theater audience watching the same performance while also gazing beyond the performance back toward us, the external audience beyond the frame. As a frontispiece, this design renders a conscious metatheatrical event; while referring to the “performance” we are about to read, or perhaps watch from within the theater, the depiction also encapsulates its allegory for us to consume in a single instant. The illustration, while commenting on the visual frameworks within the opera, which focuses on modes of seeing and the reflection of images, also comments on the distinction between narratives in art, text, and music. Although it

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takes but a moment to comprehend visually an entire narrative in the static medium of art, it takes longer to comprehend verbally dramatic literature or theater; music only draws out the process, elongating syllables, meanings, and actions, even if the staging and characterization model the framework of a moving painting. In this way, the libretto frontispiece, and indeed the entire opera, engages with another allegory associated with mirrors in painting. The famous early modern art historian Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) recorded in his life of Giorgione (1478–1510)— who was a student of Bellini—that he had depicted a man from different angles using a mirror in his portrait, allowing the viewer to see all sides simultaneously.29 The point was to continue the ancient paragone narrated by Pliny in his Natural History; Giorgione responds to the ancient debate concerning the supremacy of painting or sculpture. In Pliny’s classical text, sculpture wins, because one can walk around it and see it from all angles. Giorgione adds a new dimension to the argument; now, painting can accomplish the same goal as sculpture, but can improve on sculpture, by removing the necessity of movement and time on the part of the viewer. Although this painting no longer exists—if it ever did—the story was well known and repeated throughout the early modern period and beyond. A similar issue was of concern for Arcadian critics of opera. For example, Lodovico Antonio Muratori complained about the amount of repetition necessitated by music; he included in this category the number of scenes in which words and phrases are repeated in situations requiring a hasty departure, or while characters are dueling, or when characters sing a beautiful aria while dying. I suggest that the frontispiece and the use of mirrors in the opera add yet another layer to the classical paragone, transferring it to music. By using visual symbolism, by staging iconography, we hasten the audience’s understanding of character and narrative, even if sometimes the words are unclear, as Crescimbeni complained about music’s impact on locuzione (see chapter 1). The frontispiece, at one glance, encapsulates the main narrative point of the opera, creating a situation similar to the experience of seeing all angles at once through a mirror. We may read the frontispiece design as a commentary on verisimilitude, and its effectiveness in the theater. The classicizing elements of the depiction encapsulate the Arcadian aesthetic, monumentalizing the goal of Arcadian reform—to imitate ancient ideals while creating new forms of expression. The inherent contrasts in seeing and performing through the visual medium meet the Arcadian contrasts between pastoral and heroic, between ancient and modern, and between imitation and novelty—a fitting decoration to a work once dubbed “The First Arcadian Opera” in modern scholarship, and lauded by the early Arcadians in its own time. A N EW PA R AG O N E

I would like to conclude with an additional paragone of my own. I have suggested Alessandro Scarlatti’s 1690 opera La Statira as a more likely candidate for the epithet

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“First Arcadian Opera,” rather than Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù—a claim made by Nathaniel Burt in his seminal 1955 article on Arcadian reform.30 Now, I would like to demonstrate the similarities between La Statira and La forza della virtù. Both operas are derived from historical sources, involving a king who repudiates one woman to marry another, leading to attempted murder; both operas use the pastoral mode to illustrate the virtuous character of the woman who succeeds. Both operas create moving portraiture by dramatizing an iconographic subject well known in its respective performance locale. Through choice of iconographic subject, both operas allude to portraits originally by the ancient Greek painter Apelles, who was famous for his innovations in line, color, drawing, and imitation of nature—ideas that would have appealed to the Arcadian immagine del vero. Each of these iconographic subjects refers to the dubious morality of the woman who sits for the portrait, thereby stigmatizing her as a courtesan, and focuses on projecting multiple layers of perspective to the viewer. Finally, the iconographies associated with these operas draw on artworks owned by Queen Christina of Sweden, or used by her to project her self-fashioning. Of course, Queen Christina famously spearheaded the literary reform movement in her Accademia Reale, subsequently becoming nominal patron of the Arcadian Academy; these prominent letterati in turn continued her aesthetic goals after her death. No wonder Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni and Apostolo Zeno admired Domenico David’s La forza della virtù.

Epilogue

Constructing Gender and Politics Queen Christina’s Image

Queen Christina is both present and absent from the material discussed in this book. She is physically absent from the activities of the Arcadian Academy, but her spirit and her aesthetic ideology live on through the reform group, as its basilissa. Many narratives of Arcadia’s founding assert that the first group to meet informally after Christina’s death included members of her original Accademia Reale. While this may not be completely accurate, those who would soon take up the guise of Arcadian shepherds were aware of, and consciously emulated, Christina’s literary philosophy. As a fitting tribute to Christina’s contributions to patronage of the arts and sciences, this epilogue will trace the resonances of her identity in the Arcadian project. C H R I S T I NA A N D P H I L O S O P H Y

Christina was highly educated, from a young age. Her father insisted that she receive instruction normally reserved for male heirs to the throne; he likely anticipated that she would be Sweden’s primary ruler after his own death. She studied a wide range of subjects, from ancient and modern languages to philosophy, and from horseback riding to a variety of other outdoor physical pursuits.1 It was said that she spoke fluent Latin, and knew eleven languages, including some Hebrew, Aramaic, and Arabic.2 Both in Sweden and in Rome, Christina maintained large library collections, organized scholarly discussions, and actively participated in musical, artistic, and scientific culture. Her position on philosophy is complex, due to the variety of influences she received; these are reflected in her copious writings.3 210

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Christina accepted some facets of Cartesianism, while rejecting others. She considered the passions vital, writing, “The passions are the salt of life; which without them would be insipid. That undisturbable tranquillity [sic], so much boasted by philosophers, is dull and insipid; it is a fine chimera.” This view of human emotion likely derived from her correspondence with Descartes, who sent her the draft of his Passions of the Soul in 1647. At this point, Descartes was working on defining the extent to which reason should temper excessive passions.4 Contrary to Descartes, however, who posited that animals were little more than machines since they lacked feeling, rationality, and communication, Christina believed in the sentience of creatures: “If animals had the use of speech, they would convince men, that they were little more beasts than they.”5 Christina also expressed some ambivalence toward Stoic morality. She wrote on one occasion (probably influenced by her early interactions with Descartes), “Passions are only triumphed over when they are weak.”6 Yet in other contexts, Christina advocated a heroic virtue arising from self-control. The distinction between utilizing and mastering the passions depended on intentional projection of identity. Dissimulation, masking, and role-playing were important components of constructing an authoritative public persona: “True cleverness is no less a matter of letting sentiments appear than of hiding them.”7 Christina’s choice to project Stoicism outwardly suited her personally and politically; she portrayed her rejection of marriage and of the crown as virtuous actions that sublimated her own interests to those of her kingdom and faith.8 The performance of heroic virtuosity in her abdication appears in a medallion that she commissioned, on the subject Victoria Maxima, with a laurel wreath and a palm frond above her portrait. She described the allegory herself: “This great Queen brought forward so many celebrated victories over all of her enemies . . . so many as to expand her reign with many and beautiful provinces . . . but so much glory she has surrendered to her abdication in which she herself triumphed with the most splendid of victories, placing the world at her feet.”9 C H R I S T I NA A N D T H E AT E R I N S W E D E N

Christina performed Stoicism in a variety of contexts. Prominent among them is her allegorical representation in the court ballets staged during her reign in Sweden. A series of ballets à entrées in the French manner portray virtuous aspects of Christina’s character. The Ballet de phantaisies de ce temp (1643) depicts Christina’s virtue and beauty as forces that unify all of Sweden, but also urges her to marry to protect the kingdom from strife.10 Similarly, Le monde reiovi (1645), which marks Christina’s accession to the throne, urges her to marry while celebrating her heroic virtue. The ballet compares Christina to her father, Gustavus, whose reign demonstrated reasoned thought over passion. The character La Vertue Heroïque, which

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allegorizes Christina, enters the ballet in the fourth scene to interact with Honour, Wisdom, and Justice.11 The entrées in the third part of Le monde reiovi depict pastoral themes and characters, including the goddess Diana, shepherds and shepherdesses, Pan, and nymphs. This group of entrées projects the delicate balance of war and peace through allegory. The ballet compares Christina to both Diana, the goddess of hunting and chastity, and Bellona, the goddess of war; it concludes that she more resembles Bellona—this justifies Sweden’s continued military action to protect Protestant Germany in the Thirty Years’ War, a bellum iustum.12 While earlier works pronounce Christina’s heroic virtue in concert with the virtues of marriage, later works begin to shift in tone. Virtue is not just an ideal trait in a ruler, associated with peace for the kingdom, but a triumph over passion. Christina dons a Stoic mask to reject marriage as a prerequisite to the success and happiness of her reign. In 1646, two ballets begin to portray the negative characteristics of love: Les effectes de l’amour (1646) and L’amour constant (1646).13 In 1649, Christina announced to her government council that she would not marry. That same year, Les passions victorieuses et vaincues and Le vaincu de Diane both portray the new allegory, Stoic virtue that conquers love.14 The second of these stages a confrontation between Cupid and Diana. Cupid declares his power over all. Diana resists his arrow, and ultimately imprisons the god of love. Influenced by Pallas’s rationality and erudition, Diana converts to chastity.15 The ballet La naissance de la Paix (1649) marks a significant shift in Christina’s portrayal. Commissioned to commemorate Sweden’s role in negotiating the Peace of Westphalia (1648), which concluded the Thirty Years’ War, and to celebrate the queen’s twenty-third birthday, Christina also used this performance to assert cultural and political parity with France.16 Whereas previous ballets had allegorized Christina as Bellona to justify war, or Diana, to reject marriage, here she is the Queen of Peace. Mars, earth, fire, and water portray the violence and destruction of war. Pallas is the rational “head” of her own army, which acts to restore peace, a remedy for war; the other gods dare not question her authority: Pallas alone is one and the same, On peace and war best. Therefore none of us should dare to claim To check or control her judgment.17

While La vaincue de Diane represented Pallas influencing Christina, in La naissance de la Paix, Christina danced the role of Pallas. If we consider all of these ballets as one trajectory, we see Cupid and Mars as enemies of Christina’s reign, while Christina embodies the heroic virtues, wisdom, and peace of Diana and Pallas. Chastity, wisdom, justice, and peace triumph over love, discord, and militancy. Christina’s Stoic mask allowed her to represent both her refusal to marry, and later her abdication of the throne and removal to Italy, as a form of “heroic virtue.”

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Instead of allowing her allegorical representation to continue to characterize her as under the sway of Cupid, Bellona, or Mars, Christina portrays herself as Pallas in the court ballets performed between her official accession to the throne and her eventual coronation. As Pallas, Christina promoted rationality, peace, knowledge, and the arts against succumbing to passion and war. Staged performance of Christina’s identity also occurred outside the theater. At her coronation in Stockholm, the planned festivities portrayed her as Semiramis, Minerva, and Queen of Sheba. Christina also began portraying herself as Alexander, planning an “Alexanderplatz” with equestrian statues designed after Alexander’s famously wild horse, Bucephalus.18 Among these, the identities that most resonate with Christina’s activities in Rome, and in her afterlife as Arcadian basilissa, are Minerva and Alexander. In 1649, an engraving by Polish artist Jeremaias Falck (c. 1609–77) renders Christina as Minerva.19 This engraving works together with the symbolism of La naissance de la Paix from the same year, to portray Christina as arbiter of knowledge, art, and peace. Later official portraits replicate several features displayed in Falck’s engraving, even when the physical symbols of Minerva (such as the owl, the helmet, the laurel wreath, and the olive branch) are not present. Among these are the depiction of an animated facial expression atop a plinth, creating the effect of a living, yet ancient, bust; this posture signifies Sapientia Constans (constant wisdom), and Scientia Immutabilis (permanent knowledge). The intentional duplication of this posture by other artists suggests a pervasive and enduring legacy of Christina as intellectual.20 C H R I S T I NA’ S AC C A D E M IA R E A L E

Christina’s Accademia Reale, founded soon after her abdication and transfer to Rome, also functions as a mechanism for self-fashioning. She created the first academy in 1656, after moving into the Palazzo Farnese (see chapter 4). This academy gave preference to music and rhetoric: “poetry is banished, except that which is sung, and among those are banished elegies and adulations of the queen. The argument of the cantatas [songs] will be moral and pathetic; it is not required that they be tailored to the topic of discussion.”21 Many of the subjects for discussion were on topics such as love, and often improvised on the spot.22 At one meeting a poetic “lottery” occurred, and the poet Francesco Melosio (1609–70) drew the subject “piccolo candeliere” (“small candlestick”). He chose to improvise a poem with the title “La Bugia”—a pun on “lies”, and “candleholder.” This double entendre allowed the poet to make connections between light and truth—an inherently Neoplatonic treatment. Topics such as these, which required interpretation or reflection, were common.23 After settling in the Palazzo Riario, Christina founded the second installment of her Accademia Reale, in 1674. The first academy, while supposed to meet every

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Monday evening, likely did not continue for long due to Christina’s frequent travels during that period. The second academy was much more successful. This academy operated on two levels: a closed group of elected members (designated segreto), and a public group. Although founded in May, the first public meeting occurred on November 11. In this new format, Christina gathered a much larger audience for her performance of identity, and had a greater impact on Roman scientific and literary culture. During her patronage in the Palazzo Riaro, Christina hosted several other learned groups. A group of devoted alchemists conducted experiments in her garden and in the laboratory above her stables, and in 1686 Christina created an academy of sculpture with her antiquarian, Giovanni Pietro Bellori.24 The meetings of the Accademia Reale took place on the second level (primo piano) of the Palazzo Riario, where attendees could marvel at Christina’s vast art collection.25 In her Galleria, Christina displayed fifty-seven paintings by Titian, Correggio, Bellini, Lanfranco, and Andrea del Sarto. In the Stanza dei Quadri on the same floor, Christina displayed an additional forty-seven paintings, plus a bronze statue of Alexander the Great and a famous mirror by Bernini. In this room, Titian and Veronese were the most prominently displayed artists in both number and position of canvases; fifteen of the currently identifiable extant paintings were by these artists. Although there is no overall thematic design to the space—the works are primarily mythological, but also historical, and religious— half of the mythological works, comprising a total of one quarter of the paintings in the room, were depictions of Venus. Among these were Titian’s Venus Anadyomene and the copy from his workshop of Titian’s Venus with a Mirror (see fig. 12 and cover).26 There were a considerable number of large-scale, prominently placed nudes, and a series of works depicting Leda and Ganymede, collectively contributing a sense of eroticism to the entire space.27 The Stanza dei Quadri was open to the public; guests could view her collection, and visitors with a more intimate connection could sit with the queen while talking and listening to music. Several of Christina’s paintings depict themes analogous to those represented in L’Endimione, and in the operas by Scarlatti and Pollarolo discussed in chapters 5 and 6. Two works by Rubens, Hercules and Omphale and Venus and Adonis, will serve as illustration.28 Each of these works has gendered associations, projecting Queen Christina’s ideas about marriage and relationships. They were pendants, hung together to create a larger commentary. The Hercules portrayal shows the mythological hero feminized, mocked by his wife, who subjects him to her power by twisting his ear.29 As an object of self-fashioning displayed near the meeting space of Christina’s academy, this portrayal could reflect Christina’s rejection of marriage, the triumph of female heroic virtue, and the refusal to give over her power to men. Although the Venus painting portrays a lament, the story leading up to Adonis’ death resonates with the plot of L’Endimione. Just as Adonis refuses Venus, Endymion refuses to join Cynthia’s cult. In Rubens’s painting, Venus hovers over

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Adonis, physically asserting her authority and superiority; although she laments, she also indicates Adonis’s error. The physical positioning matches typical portrayals of Cynthia and Endymion, and highlights the common Neoplatonic similarity between sleep, death, and dreams.30 The continued appearance of narrative and iconographic themes derived from Christina’s self-fashioning among works performed for the Arcadian Academy suggests a longer trajectory of influence on the Roman cultural and intellectual sphere than is typically recognized. The membership of Christina’s Accademia Reale was a rarified cross-section of the most educated people in Rome. The poet members of Christina’s Accademia Reale included Alessandro Guidi, Vincenzo Filicaia, and Francesco de Lemene, who would become the primary poets of early Arcadia.31 In addition to musicians and letterati, scientists and philosophers were also regular members. Among them were Crescimbeni, Giovanni Giustino Ciampini, Athanasius Kircher, Alfonso Borelli, and Giovanni Francesco Albani (the future Pope Clement XI).32 Despite the presence of these notable literary and scientific figures, a majority of the discussions concerned philosophy.33 The primary purpose of the academy was to discuss science, moral philosophy, and literature, although in reality the topics did not divide equally among these disciplines.34 Debates explored the superiority of Aristotelianism or Platonism, why one cannot separate the beauty of the soul from the beauty of the body, and whether Stoicism or Epicureanism is the more dangerous philosophy.35 These debates were nestled between musical performances, with each opposing side of the argument assigned to a different speaker.36 In these arguments, we find the primary tensions and themes that will reappear in Gravina’s Discorso, in Guidi’s L’Endimione, and in the Arcadian aesthetics of “truth.” The performance of science and literature occurred not only inside Christina’s palazzo, but also in her garden. For example, a performance of knightly jousting occurred in her garden on April 22, 1684: “in the garden of Queen Christina many knights performed the noble game of the biscia under the supervision of the Colonna constable in order to make up for its austerity during the past carnival. . . . Her Majesty looked on from a balcony, along with eight cardinals.”37 The combination of visual splendor, theatrical movement, and musical performance must have lent Christina’s garden a lively atmosphere. Her palace resounded with music by Scarlatti, Corelli, Stradella, and other prominent composers, and serenatas were performed outdoors. Contemporary descriptions characterize her garden as a site famous for its grand scope, scale, and dramatic vistas.38 Christina cultivated her garden with rare plants, and with fragrant native oranges and lemons,39 but there were also sections left quasi wild, creating a landscape pasticcio that juxtaposed structure and improvisation, rustic landscape and intentional design, and the visual and aural senses. This site, with its performance of music, courtly rituals, and science, became the model locus amoenus and scholarly villeggiatura that the Arcadians sought in their own Parrhasian Grove.

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Christina’s interest in astronomy (and astrology) dates back to the years around her coronation. From at least 1652, we know that Christina became fascinated with Galileo’s heliocentric system.40 A series of works commissioned by and dedicated to the queen demonstrates her persistent interest in astronomy and observatory science. For example, in Rome, Athanasius Kircher dedicated his astronomical dream that explores Tycho’s planets, the Itinerarium exstaticum quo mundi opificium id est coelesti expansi (1656) to Christina, and she commissioned the Theatrum cometicum from Stanislaus Lubienecki, which was published in 1667.41 The latter work was a history of comets that correlated their presence with other observable events; this work belongs to the genre of empirical astrology. It is astrological because it attempts to connect celestial movements with their potential impact on earthly events, but it is empirical because it uses observation and the collection of historical experience to understand the world. The same year that Christina initiated the commission, in 1664–65, she sponsored the astronomer Giovanni Domenico Cassini in his work observing and documenting the comets that had appeared that year, using an astral globe. He invited her to his observatory and gave her a gnomon, used to track the position of the sun.42 Christina’s fascination with comets and astronomical observation continued throughout the remainder of her life. After observing the comets of 1664–65, she tried to hire Cassini to build an observatory in her garden in the Palazzo Riario. When that did not come to fruition, she asked the scientist Giovanni Giustino Ciampini to assist her in that project. That effort failed also. Inspired or prompted by Christina, Ciampini founded the Accademia fisico-matematica in 1677, which initially met in the queen’s palace. This group included the most prominent members of the Roman scientific community, who were actively engaged in designing and experimenting with optical devices, such as telescopes, microscopes, and the camera obscura. When the Great Comet of 1680 appeared, which was visible to the naked eye, Christina’s fascination with astronomy deepened. She and Ciampini ordered new instruments for the scientists in the academy, including two large telescopes that became part of Ciampini’s personal “museum” of scientific devices in his palazzo. It is possible that subsequent comets in the 1680s lent Christina the allegorical subject of Guidi’s L’Endimione, which performs Christina’s interest in visual observation and empirical science. The site of theatrical and scientific endeavors, Christina’s famous garden was the perfect place for the Arcadian Academy’s later meetings, and ultimately the backdrop for performing L’Endimione. Guidi’s play projects many of the symbolisms inherent in Christina’s scientific and literary endeavors. Chief among these is the fascination with visual culture and optical devices, which are present not only in Guidi’s imagistic language and Gravina’s immagine del vero, but also in the allegory of Endymion as astronomer—even of Galileo.

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C H R I S T I NA A N D E N DYM IO N

Scholars have suggested multiple allegorical meanings for Christina in Guidi’s L’Endimione. The relationship between Cynthia and Endymion could reflect Christina’s close friendship with Cardinal Decio Azzolino (1623–98), or it could represent a Neoplatonic melding of minds between Christina and Guidi as poet. Christina’s performance of identity, however, suggests another interpretation. As Cynthia, Christina represents the chaste patron who seeks Platonic knowledge by inviting “lowly shepherds” into her academic realm, an allegory that would be patent for the early Arcadian Academy. This interpretation of Cynthia accords with the other female subjects of representation that Christina chose throughout her life: Athena, Dea Roma, and Melpomene. It also somewhat shifts the earlier representations of Christina as Diana in the Stockholm theater productions. No longer needing to protest marriage due to her changed political circumstances, Christina as Cynthia in Guidi’s play is allowed to enter into a chaste partnership of equality. Yet there is still a possible political allegory. Christina’s representation as the moon goddess places her in a position of political parity with France, whose King Louis XIV projected the identity of the Sun King. Endymion is the Sun, whose light reflects on the Moon. Christina sought political, cultural, and social equality with France throughout her life, from the staging of French-style ballet in Stockholm, to her modeling of French bon goût and philosophy, and her failed political alliance with the French king; Cynthia/Diana as moon goddess is the sister of Apollo (who could also represent the Sun King). The allegory deepens when we consider the placement of Apollo’s statue opposite Christina’s throne in her Sala delle Muse, thus staging herself in intellectual and political discourse with the god of the sun, who also represents poetry and music. As a political allegory, L’Endimione reverses the power dynamics between the two monarchs, casting Endymion as the Sun King who seeks alliance with the Moon. Furthermore, the arrangement of the statues in the Sala delle Muse positions Christina in the role of Melpomene as the “ninth muse,” the muse of tragedy.43 In the context of L’Endimione, Cynthia becomes the great promoter and patron of poetry and opera, the role played by Queen Christina as the owner of the Tordinona Theater. Previous scholars have not considered how Endymion could also map onto Christina’s self-fashioning. Christina as Endymion casts Christina in the role of scientist, astronomer, and seeker of knowledge. The gender reversals that allow Endymion to pursue Cynthia represent Christina’s continual search for intellectual stimulation, her vast library and manuscript collection, and the multiple academies that she established throughout her life. The double representation of Christina as male and female in Guidi’s L’Endimione matches her gendered performance of masculinity. Christina’s writings express ambivalence about her own gender, positing the superiority of the male sex, and revealing that she believed for a time in the 1680s that she was physically

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transforming into a man.44 Her physical performance of masculinity in hairstyles and dress was famous in her lifetime, and her eccentric postures and clothing choices manifest in several of her portraits. Although performance of masculinity may have begun as a means of maintaining, projecting, and preserving her authority as queen of Sweden, and although her parents and regents foisted this identity onto her deliberately from her early days in order to preempt political instability and treasonous attempts to wrest her throne, her performance of masculinity also became inherently mental and physical. It is possible that these two sides— biological and cultural—influenced each other. As an adult, Christina despaired at “the feebleness of [her] gender,” but exulted at her “soul as well as [her] body having been rendered masculine by the grace of God.” This statement extends well beyond the cultural commonplace, to which both women and men ascribed, of defining femininity as the “weaker sex.” It also transcends the use of masculine metaphors to describe Christina’s unusual education, her mentally and physically rigorous activities, and her participation in maledominated spaces such as the academy and church politics.45 Her point of view demonstrates her preference for physical and cultural masculinity not just as a metaphor to justify her accomplishments; she expresses a personal experience of masculinity as an internalized self-perception and body awareness. Her mental and emotional masculinity has generated an antifeminine body dysmorphia that in turn projects outwardly in philosophical and performative gestures. Christina perceived femininity as a defect, not just a condition: “The female sex is a great embarrassment and a great obstacle to virtue and merit. This fault is the greatest that one could have; it is practically uncorrectable and very few escape with honor from this quandary.”46 If we consider the projection of Christina’s identity in Guidi’s L’Endimione alongside her depiction of identity in art, we see a clear pattern. Via sculpture, paintings, engravings, medallions, and theater, Christina renders herself as Athena, Melpomene, and Dea Roma. These figures, like Christina, were patrons, and like Christina, they ruled neither territory nor kingdom; like Christina, each projected masculinity, and each was unmarried or chose virginity.47 The connections to Cynthia in this context are clear; to understand Christina as Endymion in Guidi’s play, we need to recognize Endymion as symbol of Neoplatonic and Stoic suppression of passion in favor of intellect and learning—which resonates with Christina’s other projected identities. C R I S T I NA A L E S S A N D R A

Scarlatti’s La Statira also resonates with Christina’s self-fashioning. Although the premise of the libretto establishes a comparison between the new Pope and Alex-

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ander, the famous hero and art patron of the ancient world, Christina also fashioned herself as Alexander throughout her life. She admired Alexander’s heroic virtue, and wrote a biography detailing his exploits and his Stoic character. When she converted to Catholicism among much pomp and public festivity in 1655, she took the new name Cristina Alessandra—ostensibly to honor Pope Alexander VII, who performed the ceremony and who promoted her as a model for Catholicism. However, we must wonder at how this convenience allowed Christina to play out her own role emulating Alexander the Great. La Statira embodies many of Queen Christina’s values. Cardinal Ottoboni, the opera’s librettist, was a close associate to Queen Christina’s intellectual circle, and became a member of the Arcadian Academy when it was instituted in the fall of 1690. Alessandro Scarlatti, our composer, had been a court musician for Queen Christina. Christina was responsible for Scarlatti becoming the most sought-after opera composer in Rome during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Scarlatti, along with his colleagues from Christina’s court, Bernardo Pasquini and Arcangelo Corelli, in 1706 became the first composers inducted into the Arcadian Academy. However, the continuous patronage of these musicians by former members of Christina’s circle (who later, of course, were members of the Arcadian Academy), indicates their close association with the group in the meantime. We must consider, then, that La Statira not only celebrates the generosity of Pope Alexander VIII, but also Queen Christina of Sweden, who would have been so much in the minds of the theater public in January 1690, after her recent death. The allegory of Alexander as patron fits the public persona that Christina cultivated as an active and visible member of the Roman intellectual, literary, scientific, and artistic worlds. Two of the numerous objects from Christina’s collection that represent her as Alexander demonstrate how an Arcadian audience could have seen Christina in La Statira, as a eulogistic immagine del vero. Her official portrait by artist Sebastien Bourdon depicts Christina with the flowing hair, and the physical pose used in classical busts of Alexander; furthermore, her attire is masculinizing (see figs. 18 and 19). A second portrait by Bourdon makes the reference more explicit; in similar attire and pose, Christina now sits astride a horse, reminiscent of the famous depiction of Alexander atop Bucephalus (see fig. 20). For the initiated members of the audience, who had access to Christina’s picture galleries, Campaspe’s performance of Flora Meretrice may have recalled the stunning paintings by Titian, the numerous nude figures, and the many portrayals of Venus in Christina’s collection—including Titian’s own Venus Anadyomene, referenced by iconographical association in the opera. For these same members of the audience, the scenes staged in Alexander’s picture gallery—with their multiple perspectives, gendered discussions of virtue and heroism, and allusions to seeing

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figure 18. Sebastien Bourdon, Queen Christina of Sweden (1652). Photo: © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

and believing—must have reminded them of stepping back into Christina’s academy. By restoring the Tordinona Theater, and at least nominally supporting performances there, Christina essentially inaugurated public opera theater in Rome. Christina’s support of the Tordinona was so monumental, that many people referred to it as the “queen’s theater.” By invoking the topic of Alexander, Apelles, and Campaspe as symbols of Christina, Pope Alexander VIII, art patronage, and the visual mode in La Statira, Ottoboni projects a prototypically “Arcadian” aesthetic in this “first Arcadian opera.” He also projects the opera as a bridge between past and present, between his former queenly associate and his papal uncle, between Christina’s buon gusto and the visual aesthetic of the soon-to-be-formed Arcadian Academy.

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figure 19. Alexander the Great as Helios. Roman copy after Greek

original (330–300 b.c.). Vatican Museums, Vatican State. Photo credit: bpk Bildagentur / Art Resource, NY.

R E F L E C T IO N S I N T H E M I R R O R

Although the environment of Pollarolo’s opera La forza della virtù is removed further from Christina’s Accademia Reale, we can understand the opera’s portrayal  of symbolisms associated with Queen Christina from the vantage point of her scientific and artistic legacy, and her influence on intellectual culture, via the Arcadian Academy. Because of the distance of time and place, we cannot assume that any members of the audience would have made any symbolic connections to Queen Christina. Rather, the intellectual environment of the Arcadian Academy has absorbed enough of Christina’s own aesthetics that it now has a life of its own.

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figure 20. Sebastien Bourdon, Christina of Sweden, on horseback (1653). Museo del Prado, Madrid. Photo credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

Likewise, the symbolisms do not have personal meanings for Christina, and have no role in her self-fashioning or in others’ portrayal of her personality. None of the characters in the opera can be said to represent Christina in any way, unlike the very close, personal meanings articulated in both L’Endimione and La Statira. Here, we can only speak of traces, of resonances, and parallels. La forza della virtù echoes Christina only in abstract terms; her garden, her mirrors, her optical fascination have been subsumed and translated to Arcadian values: the landscape, the immagine del vero, and the specular gaze.

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Christina’s fascination with mirrors ranged from the scientific, to the artistic, and the personal. As a scientific device, mirrors were symbolic outgrowths of Christina’s patronage of the Accademia fisico-matematica, and her intellectual pursuits, namely optical instruments and astronomical observation. She maintained a predilection for mirrors as art objects, as evidenced by her famous Bernini mirror, which depicted the Triumph of Truth Revealed by Time. The mirror was positioned so that when Christina looked at her own reflection, she could see her prized ancient bust of Alexander the Great in the reflection next to her.48 By looking in the mirror, she could enact the performance of Alexander and his heroic virtues. Bernini’s mirror is modeled after the Petrarchan triumphs, and therefore resonates both with the symbolism of the final scene of La forza della virtù, and with Angilda’s mirror scene. The opera’s mirror scene itself is modeled after Titian’s painting, a copy of which was in Queen Christina’s collection. Fueled equally by her passion for collecting art and for mirrors, together with her obstinate and libertine personality, Christina apparently stole a mirror belonging to Cardinal Leopoldo de’ Medici from his own agent, before it could physically enter the cardinal’s collection. The agent, Monsignor Falconieri writes to the cardinal in 1671: Last Tuesday after dinner I was called to dinner to attend the Queen. . . . Her Majesty told me that she had learned of a certain antique mirror in my possession which she was curious to see. . . . I made it clear in the course of conversation that I was only holding the mirror for Your Highness. The next Wednesday Her Majesty sent for me, since it perhaps seemed that I was delaying excessively in bringing it to her. As soon as she had it in her hands, she began to make much of it. Then getting down to business, the Queen told me that I should do her the favor of contenting myself that the mirror should remain in her possession, adding as a joke that it was better suited to women than to churchmen. At this moment, a message arrived . . . and the Queen set about taking her leave of me without returning the mirror.49

Mirrors were prominent in Christina’s Sala delle Muse. Venetian mirrors decorated with painted flowers, placed on the walls and the doors, would have reflected her large statues of the muses and of Apollo playing the lyre, as well as the rich colors emanating from the marble columns and ceiling fresco.50 This arrangement allowed Christina to project from multiple angles the juxtaposition of herself, staged as Melpomene, across from Apollo.51 In one room, Christina emblematizes the three areas of her greatest cultural impact, which would become the foundations of the Arcadian Academy. Images, literature, and music.

notes

I N T R O D U C T IO N

1. The title basilissa most commonly referred to emperors’ wives or daughters in ancient Greece and in the Byzantine Empire, but does not translate exactly to either the English or Italian equivalents of “queen” or regina, since the term connotes a status conferred more by birth than by marriage; a more accurate term might be “royal woman” or “female royalty,” as suggested by Elizabeth Donnelly Carney, in Women and Monarchy in Macedonia (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000), 225–28. Since Christina was the daughter of a king, but no longer in possession of a kingdom, this title appropriately conveys her status. For discussion of the term in Byzantium, see Barbara Hill, Imperial Women in Byzantium, 1025–1204: Power, Patronage, and Ideology, Women and Men in History, ed. Patricia Skinner (New York: Longman, 1999), 108–14. This term also could have saintly connotations. As “queen of heaven,” the Virgin Mary could be called basilissa, and there were many saints named Basilissa in both the Greek Orthodox and western Catholic churches. Given Christina’s recent death, the term basilissa may confer a sense of reverence or martyrdom in addition to underscoring the Arcadian interest in the classical past. For the honorific basilissa in Byzantine religious usage, see Diliana N. Angelova, Sacred Founders: Women, Men, and Gods in the Discourse of Imperial Founding, Rome through Early Byzantium (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015), 241, 255. 2. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, Poesia di Alessandro Guidi, non più raccolte: Con la sua vita nuovamente scritta dal Signor Canonico Crescimbeni, e con due ragionamenti di Vincenzo Gravina, non più divulgati (Venice: Tommasini, 1730), xiii. 3. Vernon Hyde Minor, The Death of the Baroque and the Rhetoric of Good Taste (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 115–16. For a visual reference of the open space surrounding the Castel Sant’ Angelo, see the landscape paintings by Gaspar van Wittel (1656–1737), showing the idealized vistas from this spot, both completed in the second half 225

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of the seventeenth century—View of the Prati di Castello towards St. Peter’s (n.d.), and View of the Tiber at Castel Sant’Angelo (1683). Both are reproduced in Anna Marzia Positano, “Precise Visions,” Art on Paper 7, no. 5 (2003): 48–51. 4. The latter is designated the “Orti Palatini di Casa Farnese a Campo Vaccino” in “Elogio del Sig. Alessandro Guidi, Pavese,” Giornale de’ letterati d’Italia, 11: 267 (Venice: Ertz, 1722). See also Crescimbeni, La bellezza della volgar poesia, spiegata in otto dialoghi da Giovanni Mario de’ Crescimbeni, custode d’Arcadia, con varie notizie, e col catalogo degli Arcadi (Rome: Buagni, 1700), 218. For detailed physical descriptions of the various meeting places, see Crescimbeni, “Breve notizia dello stato antico e moderno dell’adunanza degli Arcadi” (1712), in Dell’istoria della volgar poesia, vol. 6 (Venice: Lorenzo Basegio, 1730), 309–10. Some Arcadian written accounts portray conflicting chronologies of when they used these spaces; see Susan M. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal: The Accademia degli Arcadi and Its Garden in Eighteenth-Century Rome (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2006), for a full treatment based on archival research. 5. The detailed series of depictions of Roman fountains, palaces, villas, and gardens in the printed maps marketed to tourists by Giovanni Battista Falda (1643–78) as visual guides to the city, indicates both an increased demand for realism spurred on by foreign visitors and the subsequent influence of realism on landscape painting. See Selena Anders, “Patronage in the Golden Age of the Capriccio,” in Architectural Capriccio, edited by Lucien Steil, Ashgate Studies in Architecture (London: Routledge, 2014), 50. For more on the rising popularity of Roman pastoral landscape paintings among French and English visitors to that city, see Mirka Beneš, “Pastoralism in the Roman Baroque Villa and in Claude Lorrain: Myths and Realities of the Roman Campagna,” in Italian Baroque Art, edited by Susan M. Dixon (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 293. 6. On the seventeenth-century cultivation of villeggiatura in the hillside estates of aristocratic Roman families, and the concomitant duplication of countryside landscapes in designed gardens attached to palaces and villas within the city, see Allan R. Ruff, Arcadian Visions: Pastoral Influences on Poetry, Painting, and the Design of Landscape (Oxford: Windgather, 2015), 44–50: “For [the elite of early modern Rome] villeggiatura was a time for learned leisure and contemplative recreation, as well as displaying their good taste and good breeding” (44). Mirka Beneš credits shifts in land ownership and usage among the emerging papal aristocracy, resulting in topographical changes surrounding Rome, for increasing artistic interest in landscape. Such shifts were mirrored in garden design and art patronage, motivated by transposing rural activities from the countryside to within the confines of the villa, and influenced the development of pastoral landscape painting; see “Pastoralism in the Roman Baroque Villa,” 283–98. For the concept of disabitato and its impact on landscape painting, see Charles Waldheim, Landscape as Urbanism: A General Theory (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2016), 94–104. 7. For the characterization of the Arcadian gatherings as performance, see Stefanie Stella Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit: Musical Drama and the Influence of Opera in Arcadian Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 32–34. 8. See Malcolm Andrews, Landscape and Western Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 77–93. On the eventual separation between mapping and landscape painting, Andrews writes: “Mapping co-ordinates cities with the rural environment; pastoral detaches the two. Mapping relishes topographical specificity and documentary record; pastoral idealizes and

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generalizes its subjects and settings. Mapping emphasizes the continuities of history; pastoral arrests history and mythologizes it: the ‘Fair Golden Age’ is sharply opposed to the ‘Base present age’. Seventeenth-century Roman pastoral painting tried to elevate landscaping according to the ideological principles suggested in this sequence of antitheses” (93). 9. For a comprehensive history of the development of landscape painting in Rome by foreign artists, especially those from the Netherlands and France, with biographies of artists and examples of their work, see Ann Sutherland Harris, Marcel Roethlisberger, and Kahren Hellerstedt, Landscape Painting in Rome, 1595–1675, A Loan Exhibition, January 30–March 23, March 1985 (New York: Feigen, 1985); the introductory essay by Harris (13–25) provides an overview of the genre in Europe as a whole. 10. For the two opposing typologies of the pastoral in seventeenth-century Rome, and their influence on Romantic aesthetic, see Arne Neset, Arcadian Waters and Wanton Seas: Iconology of Waterscapes in Nineteenth-Century Transatlantic Culture, American University Studies, Series 19, General Literature 36 (New York: Lang, 2008). Rosa’s early landscapes evoke hoary, threatening depictions of nature (more closely aligned with the Neapolitan aesthetic of the artist’s birthplace), which influenced the later picturesque and Romantic aesthetics, but his middle and later works balance realism with idealism. For this perspective, and for both a trajectory of Rosa’s career and his aesthetic position among artists in Rome, see Luigi Salerno, “Salvator Rosa,” in Collana d’arte del club del libro 5 (Milan: Edizioni per il Club del Libro, 1963), 10–49; and Andrews, Landscape, 129–36. See also Hans Gross, who asserts that “despite his realism Rosa also introduced the fictitious landscape with the architectural perspective of the ancient ruins, which would wed together the art of the landscapist and the vedutist,” in Rome in the Age of Enlightenment: The Post-Tridentine Syndrome and the Ancien Régime, Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 350. Finally, within the idealized landscape, for the distinctions between Poussin’s heroic narratives, which place mythological subjects in the foreground of landscapes designed to elicit emotion, and Claude’s more bucolic depictions of idealized naturalism in a golden age setting, see Andrews, Landscape, 94–102. 11. For a discussion of the various influences on this development of capriccio among artists in Rome, which include archeological investigation, rising antiquarianism, public museums, and demand from tourists for realistic mementos of their Grand Tour, see Anders, “Patronage,” 41–60. 12. As Andrews writes in Landscape, 93: “In Roman pastoral landscapes . . . the city, if it appears at all, is pushed into the far distance as a huddle of vague, generalized architectural forms. If any such forms feature in the foreground or middle distance they are usually seen in various states of overgrown, picturesque decay, slowly being assimilated into the world of nature. As urbanization invades the countryside and threatens its fabric, so there is a fascination with the reverse process as nature reclaims territory in the greening of ruins. The two worlds—one of innocence and a modest subsistence economy, the other sophisticated and commercially aggressive—are forced far apart, and it is on that accentuated separation that pastoral thrives.” 13. I am grateful to Vernon Hyde Minor for the opportunity to explore this site, which is now in private ownership, with our seminar group funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities and hosted by the American Academy in Rome in 2011. For Crescimbeni’s metaphorical discussion of Arcadian place, performance, and discourse in his work

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L’Arcadia (1708), see both Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, 178–83, and Minor, Death of the Baroque, 85–95. 14. The major study in English on Bramante’s Tempietto is Jack Freiberg, Bramante’s Tempietto, the Roman Renaissance, and the Spanish Crown (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014); for its legacy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see especially 161–64. Several artists referenced the Tempietto in paintings and other artistic media as a symbol of church victory; perhaps the work most connected to the Arcadian symbolism is Agostino Carracci’s (1557–1602) Aeneas and His Family Flee Troy (1595), after Federico Barocci’s (1528–1612) painting of the same name. This work connects the church to the founding of Rome, values that would resonate with the Arcadian pastoral and antiquarian ideology. For the relationship between the Carracci aesthetics and the Arcadian Academy’s visual theories, see chapter 4 of this book. 15. Juvarra reconstructed the theater and designed productions for Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni’s Palazzo della Cancelleria, as well as for numerous Arcadian operas. For Juvarra’s designs for Costantino Pio (Rome, 1710; text by Pietro Ottoboni, music by Carlo Francesco Pollarolo), Teodosio il Giovane (Rome, 1711; text by Ottoboni, music by Filippo Amadei), and Il Ciro (Rome, 1712; text by Ottoboni and music by Alessandro Scarlatti), see Susan M. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal. For Juvarra’s work in theater, see Mercedes Viale Ferrero, Filippo Juvarra scenografo e architetto teatrale (New York: Blom, 1970). For Arcadian use of perspective on the operatic stage, and the notion of “deceiving the eye,” see chapters 5 and 6 of this book. 16. Giovanni Battista Falda, Nuova pianta et alzata della città di Roma con tutte le strade, piazze, et edificii de tempii (Rome: G. G. de Rossi, 1676), viewed at (accessed January 12, 2017). The Palazzo Riario is now the Palazzo Corsini, and is the site of the Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei; Christina’s gardens are now the Botanical Gardens of the University of Rome “La Sapienza.” 17. The second half of this book explores ways in which Arcadian performance continues aspects of Christina’s self-fashioning through symbolic use of iconography. For Christina’s relationship with Descartes and excerpts from their correspondence, see J. B. Schneewind, Moral Philosophy from Montaigne to Kant: An Anthology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 216–36; on Christina’s involvement with good taste in literature, see Minor, Death of the Baroque, 32–35, 115, and Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, 188. For Christina’s intellectual and scientific activities, see Susanna Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle: The Transformation of a Seventeenth-Century Philosophical Libertine, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 21 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), and for her musical activities, see Per Bjurström, Feast and Theatre in Queen Christina’s Rome, Nationalmusei Skriftserie 14; Analecta reginensia 3 (Stockholm: Nationalmuseum, 1966); and Tessa Murdoch, “Queen Christina of Sweden as a Patron of Music in Rome in the Mid-Seventeenth Century,” in The Music Room in Early Modern France and Italy: Sound, Space, and Object, edited by Deborah Howard and Laura Moretti, Proceedings of the British Academy 176 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 259–73. For Christina’s contributions to operatic culture in seventeenthcentury Rome, see Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, 20–45; and Valeria De Lucca, “L’Alcasta and the Emergence of Collective Patronage in Mid-Seventeenth-Century Rome,” Journal of Musicology 28, no. 2 (2011): 195–230, and “Strategies of Women Patrons of Music and Theatre in Rome: Maria Mancini Colonna, Queen Christina of Sweden, and Women of Their Circles,”

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Renaissance Studies 25, no. 3 (2011): 374–92. Lilian Zirpolo demonstrates Christina’s interest in programmatic iconography in her Sala delle Muse (Hall of the Muses) in the Palazzo Riario; see Lilian H. Zirpolo, “Christina of Sweden’s Patronage of Bernini: The Mirror of Truth Revealed by Time,” Woman’s Art Journal 26, no. 1 (Spring–Summer 2005): 38–43. 18. For visual reference, see Campo Vaccino (1636), by Claude Lorrain. Claude was known for revitalizing interest in open-air sketching to enhance the naturalism of his portrayals; he incorporated elements of these sketches into otherwise idealized landscapes. Among this artist’s works, the representation of the Campo Vaccino is unusual for its realistic landscape, captured in its entirety in an earlier sketch; Claude’s methods would soon represent the trend toward realism in Roman landscape painting, mirroring the quest for verisimilitude in Arcadian reform. 19. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal, and Minor, Death of the Baroque, both investigate the physical and symbolic elements of the Arcadian’s final Parrhasian Grove. 20. These patrons cultivated opera, oratorio, cantata, and instrumental music in their private theaters, and revitalized a strong tradition of public opera in the Teatro Tordinona and Teatro Capranica. Major studies include: Edward J. Olszewski, Dynamics of Architecture in Late Baroque Rome: Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni at the Cancelleria (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015); Stephanie C. Leone, ed., The Pamphilj and the Arts: Patronage and Consumption in Baroque Rome, conference at Boston College, October 15–16, 2010 (Boston: McMullen Museum of Art, Boston College; distributed by University of Chicago Press, 2011); Stefanie Walker and Frederick Hammond, eds., Life and the Arts in the Baroque Palaces of Rome: Ambiente Barocco (New Haven, CT: Bard Graduate Center for Studies in the Decorative Arts; Yale University Press, 1999); Ursula Kirkendale, “The Ruspoli Documents on Handel,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 20, no. 2 (1967): 222–73; and Lina Montalto, Un mecenate in Roma barocca: Il cardinale Benedetto Pamphilj (1653–1730), Critica e storia (Florence: Sansoni, 1955). 21. The direct lineage between the Arcadian Academy and the Enlightenment tends to be better documented in Italian sources. For some prominent studies, see: Il Settecento e le arti: Dall’Arcadia all’illuminismo; Nuove proposte tra le corti, l’aristocrazia e la borghesia, Atti dei convegni lincei / Accademia nazionale dei Lincei 246 (Rome: Bardi, 2009); Mario Fubini, Dal Muratori al Baretti: Studi sulla critica e sulla cultura del Settecento, Universale Laterza 330 (Bari: Laterza, 1975); Domenico Consoli and Giorgio Petrocchi, La letteratura italiana, vol. 3, Arcadia, illuminismo, romanticismo (Florence: Sansoni, 1973); Domenico Consoli, Dall’Arcadia all’Illuminismo, Universale Cappelli 133 (Bologna: Cappelli, 1972); John George Robertson, Studies in the Genesis of Romantic Theory in the Eighteenth Century (1923) (New York: Russell & Russell, 1962). 22. The polemics between French and Italian literature is well documented, originating in an attack leveled by Dominique Bouhours (1628–1702), in his 1687 La manière de bien penser dan les ouvrage d’esprit, to which both Gian Gioseffo Orsi (1652–1733) and Lodovico Antonio Muratori (1672–1750) responded; ultimately, a comprehensive literary aesthetic grew out of the Arcadian Academy as more literary philosophers joined the fray. See: Paola Gambarota, Irresistible Signs: The Genius of Language and Italian National Identity (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011), 59–98; Minor, Death of the Baroque, 32–35. 23. For the impact of these thinkers on the Italian philosophical tradition, see: Eugenio Garin and Giorgio Pinton, History of Italian Philosophy (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008); Rena A. Syska-Lamparska, Letteratura e scienza: Gregorio Caloprese teorico e critico della letteratura

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(Naples: Guida, 2006); Giuseppe Mazzotta, The New Map of the World: The Poetic Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999); Harold Samuel Stone, Vico’s Cultural History: The Production and Transmission of Ideas in Naples, 1685–1750 (New York: Brill, 1997). Although Vico’s contributions to the broader Enlightenment environment were not recognized until much later, his philosophy was influential within Italy during his lifetime; for one example, which traces Vico’s influence on Tiepolo’s fresco Allegory of the Power of Eloquence, see Christopher Drew Armstrong, “Myth and the New Science: Vico, Tiepolo, and the Language of the Optimates,” in Italian Baroque Art, ed. Susan M. Dixon (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 230–50. See Anna Maria Giorgetti Vichi, Gli arcadi dal 1690 al 1800: Onomasticon, edited by Anna Maria Giorgetti Vichi (Rome: Arcadia, Accademi Letteraria Italiana, 1977). 24. It can be somewhat difficult to differentiate the artistic aesthetic of the Arcadian Academy as a group from that of the individual patron members who supported artists. There is also some intersectionality between patrons of the Arcadi and of the Accademia di San Luca, the prevailing art academy in Rome. Scholarship on art and architecture within the Arcadian Academy is therefore somewhat limited. The primary scholars in this area are Vernon Hyde Minor and Susan Dixon, whose recent monographs I have cited. See also: Paola Giuli, “Prospero Lambertini and the Accademia degli Arcadi (1694–1708),” in Benedict XIV and the Enlightenment: Art, Science, and Spirituality, edited by Rebecca Messbarger, Christopher M. S. Johns and Philip Gavitt (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2016), 315–40; Edgar Peters Bowron and Joseph J. Rishel, eds., Art in Rome in the Eighteenth Century (Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art / Merrill, 2000); Vernon Hyde Minor, Passive Tranquility: The Sculpture of Filippo della Valle (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1997). 25. For background on this development, see Tim Carter, Understanding Italian Opera (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 75–77; and Francesco Cotticelli and Paologiovanni Maione, “Metastasio: The Dramaturgy of Eighteenth-Century Heroic Opera,” in Cambridge Companion to Eighteenth-Century Opera, edited by Anthony R. DelDonna and Pierpaolo Polzonetti (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 70–72. See also the discussions in Stefanie Stella Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, 31–45; Mercedes Viale Ferrero, “Stage and Set,” translated by Kate Singleton, in Opera on Stage, edited by Lorenzo Bianconi and Giorgio Pestelli, The History of Italian Opera 5, pt. 3, Systems (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2002); and Michael Collins, “Dramatic Theory and the Italian Baroque Libretto,” in Opera and Vivaldi (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1984), 15–40. 26. Although Vivaldi and Handel have been at the center of the Baroque performance revival, similar reevaluation of these other composers is also merited. Partly for this reason, in this book I focus on two composers who have been influential within the circulation of Arcadian opera, but who have received less attention in both scholarly focus and performance on the operatic stage. 27. Since all three were associated with Queen Christina of Sweden and the musical activities at her Palazzo Riario, the priority accorded them by their literary colleagues reflects the group’s continued desire to project her influence and aesthetics into the eighteenth century. 28. For these various viewpoints, see: Melissa Dabakis, “Angelika Kauffmann, Goethe, and the Arcadian Academy in Rome,” in The Enlightened Eye: Goethe and Visual Culture, edited by Evelyn K. Moore and Patricia Anne Simpson (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 25–40;

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Hanns Gross, Age of Enlightenment; Frances Amelia Yates, Renaissance and Reform: The Italian Contribution, vol. 2 of Collected Essays (London: Routledge, 1983), 6–29; and Robertson, Genesis of Romantic Theory. For discussion of women’s roles in the Arcadian literary movement as an extension of Enlightenment ideology, see Paola Giuli, “ ‘Monsters of Talent’: Fame and Reputation of Women Improvisers in Arcadia,” in Italy’s Eighteenth Century: Gender and Culture in the Age of the Grand Tour, edited by Paula Findlen, Wendy Wassyng Rowort, and Catherine M. Sama (Stanford, CA.: Stanford University Press, 2009), 303–30. 29. Ofer Gal and Raz Chen-Morris, Baroque Science (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2013), 233–70; Christine Buci-Glucksmann, The Madness of Vision: On Baroque Aesthetics [La folie du voir], 1986, translated by Dorothy Zayatz Baker (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2013); J. M. Cocking, Imagination: A Study in the History of Ideas, edited by Penelope Murray (London: Routledge, 1991). 30. Buci-Glucksmann, Madness of Vision; Laura R. Bass, The Drama of the Portrait: Theater and Visual Culture in Early Modern Spain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008); Herbert Grabes, The Mutable Glass: Mirror-Imagery in Titles and Texts of the Middle Ages and the English Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); and M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (1953) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971). 31. Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit; Ellen T. Harris, Handel as Orpheus: Voice and Desire in the Chamber Cantatas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001); Minor, Death of the Baroque; Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal. 32. Lisa Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy: The Making of a New Genre, Italian Perspectives, edited by Zygmunt Barański and Anna Laura Lepschy, vol. 15 (London: legenda; Modern Humanities Research Association and Maney Publishing, 2006); and Alessandro Guidi, Endimione, edited by Valentina Gallo, Manierismo e barocco 14 (Alessandria, Italy: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2011). 33. David Summers, Vision, Reflection, and Desire in Western Painting (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007); Stuart Clark, Vanities of the Eye: Vision in Early Modern European Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); David C. Lindberg, Theories of Vision from al-Kindi to Kepler (1976), University of Chicago History of Science and Medicine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). 34. Camilla Guaita, Per una nuova estetica del teatro: L’Arcadia di Gravina e Crescimbeni (Rome: Bulzoni, 2009); Annarita Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, Studi vichiani 38 (Naples: Guida, 2003); Tiziana Carena, Critica della ragion poetica di Gian Vincenzo Gravina: L’immagine, la fantasia, il delirio e la verosimiglianza, Collana morfologie (Milan: Associazione Culturale Mimesis, 2001); Domenico Consoli, Realtà e fantasia nel classicismo di Gian Vincenzo Gravina, Pleion (Milan: Bietti, 1970); Amedeo Quondam, Filosofia della luce nelle egloghe del Gravina: Documenti per un capitolo della cultura filosofica di fine Seicento, Studi vichiani 3 (Naples: Guida, 1970). 35. Mazzotta, New Map of the World. C HA P T E R 1 . F O U N D I N G A R C A D IA

1. See the following: Alison Finch, French Literature: A Cultural History (Cambridge: Polity, 2010); Faith Evelyn Beasley, Salons, History, and the Creation of Seventeenth-Century

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France, Women, and Gender in the Early Modern World (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2006); Don Fader, “The Honnête homme as Music Critic: Taste, Rhetoric, and Politesse in the 17thCentury French Reception of Italian Music,” Journal of Musicology 20, no. 1 (Winter 2003): 3–44; Georgia Cowart, introduction to French Musical Thought, 1600–1800, edited by Georgia Cowart, Studies in Music 105 (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1989), 1–6; Michael Moriarty, Taste and Ideology in Seventeenth-Century France, Cambridge Studies in French (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); and Georgia Cowart, The Origins of Modern Musical Criticism: French and Italian Music, 1600–1750, Studies in Musicology 38 (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1981). 2. For general references on these trends, see Gianvittorio Signorotto and Maria Antonietta Visceglia, eds., Court and Politics in Papal Rome, 1492–1700, Cambridge Studies in Italian History and Culture, edited by Gigliola Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Marie-Louise Rodén, Church Politics in Seventeenth-Century Rome: Cardinal Decio Azzolino, Queen Christina of Sweden, and the Squadrone Volante, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Stockholm Studies in Economic History 60 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 2000); Alain Mérot, French Painting in the Seventeenth Century (1994), translated by Caroline Beamish (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995); Gloria Staffiere, “L’Athalie de Racine e l’oratorio romano alla fine del XVII secolo,” Revue de musicologie 77, no. 2: Musique française et musique italienne au XVIIe siècle (Villecroze, 2–4 octobre 1990) (1991): 291–310. 3. See Jacqueline Broad, Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 33, 38; Stephen Gaukroger, Descartes: An Intellectual Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 412–17; and Susanna Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle: The Transformation of a Seventeenth-Century Philosophical Libertine, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 21 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 44–69. 4. Gunilla Dahlberg, “The Theatre around Queen Christina,” Renaissance Studies 23, no. 2 (2009): 165–85. For the influences on Christina’s theatrical program, see: Stefano Fogelberg Rota, “Anti-Protestant Heroic Virtue in Early Modern Europe: Queen Christina (1626– 1698) and Senator Niels Bielke (1706–1765),” in Shaping Heroic Virtue: Studies in the Art and Politics of Supereminence in Europe and Scandinavia, edited by Stefano Fogelberg Rota and Andreas Hellerstedt, Brill Studies in Intellectual History 249 (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 95–130; R. Darren Gobert, The Mind-Body Stage: Passion and Interaction in the Cartesian Theatre (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013), 17–47; Stefano Fogelberg Rota, “War and Peace in the Court Ballets Performed during the Reign of Queen Christina of Sweden (1644–54),” in Seventeenth-Century Ballet: A Multi-Art Spectacle. An International Interdisciplinary Symposium, edited by Barbara Grammeniati (Bloomington, IN: Xlibris, 2011), 112–29; Richard A. Watson, Descartes’ Ballet: His Doctrine of the Will and His Political Philosophy (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2007). This last work, and the article by the same author, “René Descartes n’est pas l’auteur de ‘La naissance de la paix,’ ” Archives de philosophie 53, no. 3: La politique cartésienne (1990): 389–401, rejects Descartes’ authorship of a well-known ballet performed at Queen Christina’s court in Sweden. 5. It is important to note that the French pastoral drama also experienced a resurgence in the middle of the seventeenth century, although literary scholars trace their models to the sixteenth-century Italian tradition, and to a certain extent the Spanish tradition. See Maria Grazia Accorsi, ed., “Ultimo seicento: Un poeta galante e spiritoso,” in Francesco de

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Lemene—scherzi e favole per musica, Il Lapazio: Collezione di letteratura italiana moderna 10 (Modena: Mucchi, 1992), xxvii–xxxi. 6. Melania Bucciarelli, Italian Opera and European Theatre, 1680–1720: Plots, Performers, Dramaturgies, Speculum musicae 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000); and Reinhard Strohm, Dramma per musica: Italian “Opera Seria” of the Eighteenth Century (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 121–200. 7. Due to the political separation of these spheres, the historical narrative has tended to minimize the participation of women in these culturally important aesthetic and philosophical stances. More recent scholarship has not only tried to rebalance the record but has also shown how salon culture informed and influenced courtly spheres and artistic production. In addition to the studies by Beasley and Moriarty cited above, see the following: Erec R. Koch, The Aesthetic Body: Passion, Sensibility, and Corporeality in Seventeenth-Century France (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008); Jolanta T. Pekacz, “The Salonnières and the Philosophes in Old Regime France: The Authority of Aesthetic Judgment,” Journal of the History of Ideas 60, no. 2 (1999): 277–97; and Patricia Howard, “Quinault, Lully, and the Précieuses: Images of Women in Seventeenth-Century France,” in Cecilia Reclaimed: Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music, edited by Susan C. Cook and Judy S. Tsou (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991), 70–89. 8. “To remove any regard for distinction or precedence among members, it was decided to mask everyone as Shepherds of ancient Arcadia.” Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, La bellezza della volgar poesia (Rome: Buagni, 1700), 217. 9. Paola Giuli, “Women Poets and Improvisers: Cultural Assumptions and Literary Values in Arcadia,” Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture 32 (2003): 69–92; this article also provides an historiography of the topic, with additional references. See also Susan M. Dixon, “Women in Arcadia,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 32, no. 3: Constructions of Femininity (1999): 371–75. 10. Crescimbeni, “Breve notizia dello stato antico, e moderno dell’Adunanza degli Arcadi” (1712), in Dell’istoria della volgar poesia, vol. 6 (Venice: Lorenzo Basegio, 1730), 309–10. 11. Crescimbeni, La bellezza, 217. 12. For further details on women’s participation in the Arcadian Academy, see Dixon, “Women in Arcadia.” 13. Lyle Massey, Picturing Space, Displacing Bodies: Anamorphosis in Early Modern Theories of Perspective (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007), investigates theories of perspective in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, including artistic devices that contribute to illusion, or deceiving the eye. Stuart Clark, Vanities of the Eye: Vision in Early Modern European Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), provides a history of visual culture, from the perspective of multiple disciplines, addressing the relationship between the mind and the eye. Frederick Alfred De Armas, Writing for the Eyes in the Spanish Golden Age (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 2004), explores the relationship between literature and visual arts in early modern Spain, advancing a methodology similar to the one I use in this book. David Michael Levin, ed., Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), includes a series of essays investigating the philosophy of vision from the ancient to the modern world. 14. For Crescimbeni’s brief biography of this poet, and his contributions to a renewed Petrarchism, see L’istoria, bk. 2, 131; in La bellezza, Crescimbeni analyzes the substance and

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style of six sonnets by di Costanzo, with each of the first six sections of the book structured around Crescimbeni’s comments on one sonnet. 15. In addition to these large themes, Crescimbeni does reference music in a few brief passages: in book 1 (72–73) Crescimbeni discusses arias and ritornellos and their usage in oratorios and dramas, and in book 2 (150) he mentions Rinuccini’s importance for creating pastoral dramas set to music. 16. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, L’istoria della volgar poesia (Rome: Chracas, 1698), bk. 2, 156. 17. Ibid., 162–63. 18. Ibid., 93. 19. Ibid., 149. 20. I discuss Crescimbeni’s pastoral theory and his discussion of L’Elvio in chapter 2. For an analysis of Crescimbeni’s L’Elvio, see Paola Giuli, “Pastoral Fable, Tragedy, and History: The Modernist Dimension of Crescimbeni’s Elvio,” in Saggi di letteratura italiana: Selected Papers of the 2010 AATI Annual Conference, May 29–30, Lecce, Italy, edited by Patrizia Guida and Giovanna Scianatico (Lecce: Pensa Multimedia, 2011), 191–206. Tcharos has a brief discussion in the context of the emerging pastoral drama in Rome of the 1680s and 1690s; see Opera’s Orbit: Musical Drama and the Influence of Opera in Arcadian Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 40–41. For Cresimbeni’s pastoral play as a model for merging tragic precepts into pastoral frameworks, see Giuseppe Antonio Camerino, Dall’età dell’Arcadia al “Conciliatore”: Aspetti teorici, elaborazioni testuali, percorsi europei, Collana di testi e critica 37 (Naples: Liguori, 2006), 4–5; for an analysis of the text as a paradigm for Arcadian reform, see Giuseppe Coluccia, L’Elvio di G. M. Crescimbeni: Alle origini della poetica d’Arcadia (Rome: Istituto Bibliografico Napoleone, 1994). 21. For scholarship on Crescimbeni, see: Camilla Guaita, Per una nuova estetica del teatro: L’Arcadia di Gravina e Crescimbeni (Rome: Bulzoni, 2009); Vernon Hyde Minor, The Death of the Baroque and the Rhetoric of Good Taste (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); Suzanne Kiernan, “The Ridiculous, the Sublime, the Modern: Aspects of Italian Culture in the Early Eighteenth Century,” Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture 28 (1999): 1–25; Anna Celsi Gaspari, “Strategie retoriche ne La storia dell’Accademia degli Arcadi del Crescimbeni,” Quaderni d’Italianistica: Offical Journal of the Canadian Society for Italian Studies 12, no. 2 (1991): 237–44; Luigi Fiorani, “Due lettere inedite del Muratori al Crescimbeni,” Studi romani: Rivista trimestrale dell’Istituto di Studi Romani 19 (1971): 144– 50; Vera M. Gaye, L’opera critica e storiografica del Crescimbeni (Parma: Guanda, 1970); Guido Piergiacomi, Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni: Poeta, letterato, sacerdote; nel III centenario della nascita (Macerata, Italy: Tipografia Maceratese, 1963); and Giulio Natali, Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni (Rome: Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana, 1929). 22. Further studies on Crescimbeni’s proposed system of poetic composition in La bellezza, and his comments on poetry written by members of the academy—published in other volumes—could also enhance our understanding of verisimilitude in musico-dramatic texts. 23. Crescimbeni also cites Hermogenes (fl. late 2nd century a.d.) and Demetrius Falerius (345-c. 282 b.c.), as Cicero’s precedents. 24. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, La bellezza della volgar poesia, spiegata in otto dialoghi da Giovanni Mario de’ Crescimbeni, custode d’Arcadia, con varie notizie, e col catalogo degli

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Arcadi (Rome: Buagni, 1700). One should notice that the difference between Crescimbeni’s dislike of exaggerated sound (risonanza, etc.) in mannerist poetry, and appropriate sound (sonoro) is one of degree. 25. Crescimbeni, La bellezza, 6–7. 26. Ibid., 7–8. 27. “Just as it is easy for the sublime—handled carelessly—to result in frigidity, it is also easy for the humble to degenerate into baseness; therefore, the same caution advised for one who writes in the sublime style must equally govern the pen of one who wishes to perfect the humble style.” Ibid., 29. 28. For example, Crescimbeni describes a poem in humble style by Di Costanzo, in which a dialogic lament portrays two speakers: the eyes of a lover, which lament not being able to see his beloved, and the poet, who attempts to console them. Ibid. 29. Ibid., 30. Again, Crescimbeni’s advocacy of figurative and ornate language in the sublime, characteristics that were considered exaggerated and distasteful in the mannerist style, depends here on moderation and on context. 30. Deprived of seeing the Lady’s “external beauty,” the narrator begins to contemplate her “internal beauty,” such as her virtue, which he now realizes is greater than her appearance; this newly recognized beauty is created by God. Ibid., 43–44. 31. Ibid., 4. 32. Ibid., 5. 33. Crescimbeni describes the cathartic experience as pity (compassione) and fear (terrore). Note that here Crescimbeni crosses from Platonic to Aristotelian models. Ibid., 100–101. 34. Ibid., 159–60. 35. Ibid., 151, 156. As in the apparent conflicts with mannerism in Crescimbeni’s discussion of metaphors, figurative language, and sonority of the text, Crescimbeni lessens the impact of novità and maraviglia compared to the earlier seventeenth-century style. 36. Ibid., 35. 37. Ibid., 14–16. 38. Ibid., 140. 39. Ibid. A note on my translation: the terms locuzione and idiotismi, which I have translated as “locution” and “idiocies,” can be rendered in slightly different ways in English, depending on context. Other translators of this passage have rendered locuzione as “locution,” “expression” or “style”; the word can also mean “phrase” or “manner of speaking.” Other passages where Crescimbeni uses the word locuzione can also be somewhat equivocal, although in at least one instance, it is clear that he does not use the word to mean “style,” but one of the components of style: “From reading Cicero in the treatise of the Orator, one recognizes that the humble style, or idea, is that which is made up of proper ‘locution,’ and clear and familiar tropes and metaphors.” Ibid., 28. The Vocabolario della Crusca (1612) renders locuzione as equivalent to the Latin locutio and loquela, and to the Italian synonyms loquela, favella—all of which mean “speech”—or as a way of expressing “manner of speaking.” Since this passage has to do with the debasing of language through the process of singing, I interpret Crescimbeni’s use of the word as akin to “diction”; the singing makes the text unintelligible. The word idiotismi does not appear in the Vocabolario della Crusca, nor elsewhere in Crescimbeni’s La bellezza; while it can have the sense of “idiom,” the 1730 edition of L’istoria, vol. 3, bk. 2, 121, uses the phrase idiotismi Toscani, suggesting “dialect,” or

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peculiar manner of speech (based on the Greek root, idios, meaning “particular to the self ”). This supports the notion of unintelligible text, or nonsense, i.e., “idiocies.” 40. Ibid., 141. 41. Ibid. 42. Scholarship in English on the Arcadian Academy and opera in general, and on Crescimbeni in particular, began with Nathaniel Burt’s seminal article, “Opera in Arcadia,” published in the Musical Quarterly in 1959. For some examples that allow us to trace Nathaniel Burt’s early influence, see: J. Merrill Knapp, “Handel, the Royal Academy of Music, and Its First Opera Season in London (1720),” Musical Quarterly 45, no. 2 (1959): 145–67; Harold S. Powers, “ ‘Il serse trasformato’—I,” Musical Quarterly 47, no. 4 (1961): 481–92; Robert Freeman, “Apostolo Zeno’s Reform of the Libretto,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 21, no. 3 (1968): 321–41; Anthony Ford, “Music and Drama in the Operas of Giovanni Bononcini,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 101 (1974–75): 107–20; Raymond Monelle, “The Rehabilitation of Metastasio,” Music and Letters 57, no. 3 (1976): 268–91; John E. Solie, “Aria Structure and Ritornello Form in the Music of Albinoni,” Musical Quarterly 63, no. 1 (1977): 31–47; and John Walter Hill, “Vivaldi’s Griselda,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 31, no. 1 (1978): 53–82. 43. Powers, “Il Serse,” 489. My own past scholarship has relied on this methodology also, where I have compared dramatic revisions made within Arcadian contexts, although I also look at the impact of those revisions on character and other interpretive outcomes. Ayana Smith, “The Mock Heroic, an Intruder in Arcadia: Girolamo Gigli, Antonio Caldara, and l’Anagilda (Rome, 1711),” Eighteenth Century Music 7, no. 1 (2010): 35–62; and “Opera in Arcadia: Rome, Florence, and Venice in the Primo Settecento” (Ph.D. diss., Department of Music, Yale University, 2001). 44. Several scholars have discussed the role of other Arcadian critics in shaping operatic reform, especially Pier Jacopo Martello (1665–1727) and Lodovico Muratori (1672–1750); my focus here is on the earliest stages of Arcadian criticism. Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit; Reinhard Strohm, Dramma per musica: Italian “Opera Seria” of the Eighteenth Century (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997); Piero Weiss, “Metastasio, Aristotle, and the Opera Seria,” Journal of Musicology 1, no. 4 (1982): 385–94, and “Teorie drammatiche e ‘infranciosamento’: motivi della ‘riforma’ melodrammatica nel primo settecento,” in Antonio Vivaldi, teatro musicale, cultura e società, edited by Lorenzo Bianconi and Giovanni Morelli, Studi di musica veneta, Quaderni vivaldiani 2 (Florence: Olschki, 1982), 273–96. 45. Suxan Dixon and Ellen Harris both discuss the importance of pastoral drama to Arcadian music drama. My own article “The Mock Heroic, an Intruder in Arcadia” demonstrates the importance of the satiric genres to Arcadian librettist Girolamo Gigli, whom Crescimbeni praised as among the top librettists. As I will discuss in chapters 2 and 3, the pastoral was central to the Arcadian idea even in tragic contexts, and genre theory was less important to early Arcadians, as evidenced by Gianvincenzo Gravina’s anti-Aristotelian stance, than a proper balance between images and truthfulness. 46. Freeman’s close study of Zeno’s correspondence demonstrates that the famed reform librettist did not condemn comedy, and he never discussed comedy within the scope of verisimilitude. The change in comic presence in late seventeenth- and early eighteenthcentury opera, which modern scholarship has frequently noted, may represent larger shifts in literary tradition separate from the Arcadian reform, or Crescimbeni could have been

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describing such shifts as supporting evidence for his own cause, or, as is more likely based on Freeman’s evidence, Crescimbeni was not aware enough of the operatic tradition to be an expert witness. Freeman, “Apostolo Zeno’s Reform.” 47. For a detailed discussion, see Ellen Rosand, Opera in Seventeenth-Century Venice: The Creation of a Genre (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 46–55. 48. Mauro Calcagno, “Signifying Nothing: On the Aesthetics of Pure Voice in Early Venetian Opera,” Journal of Musicology 20, no. 4 (2003): 474–75. 49. Wendy Heller, “Dancing Statues and the Myth of Venice: Ancient Sculpture on the Opera Stage,” Art History 33, no. 2 (2010): 304–19. 50. Ibid., 315. 51. Wendy Heller, “The Beloved’s Image: Handel’s Admeto and the Statue of Alcestis,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 58, no. 3 (2005): 588. 52. See Smith, “The Mock Heroic,” for gendered analysis, and “Opera in Arcadia” for character analysis. My work on gender and the Arcadian Academy follows on studies published by Daniel E. Freeman, Wendy Heller, and Susan McClary. Daniel E. Freeman, “ ‘La Guerriera Amante’: Representations of Amazons and Warrior Queens in Venetian Baroque Opera,” Musical Quarterly 80, no. 3 (1996): 568. Wendy Heller, “Reforming Achilles: Gender, ‘Opera Seria,” and the Rhetoric of the Enlightened Hero,” Early Music 26, no. 4: Metastasio, 1698–1782 (1998): 568; and Emblems of Eloquence: Opera and Women’s Voices in Seventeenth-Century Venice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 223. See also Susan McClary, Desire and Pleasure in Seventeenth-Century Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 279. 53. See my discussions of gender in Gravina’s Discorso in chapter 4, and my gendered analysis of opera in chapters 5 and 6; the epilogue demonstrates how Queen Christina’s selfexpression of gender influenced her patronage, which may have then impacted the Arcadian aesthetics. 54. Roger Freitas, Portrait of a Castrato: Politics, Patronage, and Music in the Life of Atto Melani (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 146. 55. While I do not address the impact of Arcadian operatic aesthetics on corollary genres such as the oratorio, cantata, or serenata, the interpretive strategies I develop would be equally relevant to these additional musico-dramatic works. See Ellen T. Harris, Handel as Orpheus: Voice and Desire in the Chamber Cantatas (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 84. Harris’s work in this direction has proved influential in our understanding of cantata culture; see Michael Talbot’s discussion of a group of Vivaldi’s cantatas written in Mantua on recurring subjects—Daliso, Clori, Tirsi, Climene, Elvira, and Eurilla—which may refer to political and personal relationships at the Mantuan court, while also paying homage to the similar Roman Arcadian practice. Michael Talbot, Chamber Cantatas of Antonio Vivaldi (Woodbridge, England: Boydell, 2006). See Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, for the political aspects of Arcadian reform, and representational ramifications for cantata, serenata, and oratorio. C HA P T E R 2 . P E R F O R M I N G L’ E N DI M I ON E

1. My work on this topic originates in two earlier publications and a conference paper presented at the Society for Seventeenth Century Music in 2007, titled “Alessandro Guidi’s

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L’Endimione and Gianvincenzo Gravina’s Discorso: Verisimilitude, Gender and Neoplatonism in Arcadia.” Ayana Smith, “Images, Aesthetics and Empiricism from the Palazzo Farnese to Arcadia,” in Early Modern Rome: Proceedings of a Conference on Early Modern Rome, 1341–1667, Held on May 13–15, 2010 in Rome, edited by Portia Prebys (Ferrara: Edisai, 2011), 431–41; and “On Tupos: Iconography and Verisimilitude in Early Arcadia,” Music in Art 34, nos. 1–2 (2009): 7–20. For a discussion of Guidi’s text and the prevalence of musico-poetic settings on the theme of Endymion in the Arcadian Academy, see Bruno Forment, “Moonlight on Endymion: In Search of ‘Arcadian Opera,’ 1688–1721,” Journal of SeventeenthCentury Music 14, no. 1 (2008). 2. Valentina Gallo analyzes the manuscript layers, comparing them to the published version, and interpreting Queen Christina’s influence on the dramatic themes, in Alessandro Guidi, Endimione (1692), edited by Valentina Gallo, Manierismo e barocco 14 (Alessandria, Italy: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2011); for another interpretation of Queen Christina’s interpolations, see Giuseppe Izzi, “L’Endimione di Alessandro Guidi tra Cristina di Svezia e Gian Vincenzo Gravina,” in Cristina di Svezia a Roma: Atti del Simposio tenuto all’Istituto Svedese di Studi Classici a Roma, 5–6 ottobre 1995, edited by Börje Magnusson, Suecoromana: Studia artis historiae instituti romani regni sueciae 5 (Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Rome, 1999), 163–71. 3. Lisa Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy: The Making of a New Genre, Italian Perspectives, edited by Zygmunt Barański and Anna Laura Lepschy, vol. 15 (London: legenda; Modern Humanities Research Association and Maney Publishing, 2006), 233; Gallo, in Guidi, Endimione, 21–22, 30–32; and Bruno Maier, introduction to Guidi, Poesie approvate: L’Endimione—La Dafne—Rime—Sonetti—Sei Omelie, Classici italiani minori 11 (Ravenna: Longo, 1981), 34. 4. See the previously referenced discussions by Gallo, in Guidi, Endimione; Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy; Forment, “Moonlight on Endymion”; and Maier, introduction, 30–34. 5. Stefanie Stella Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit: Musical Drama and the Influence of Opera in Arcadian Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 40–41; Susan M. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal: The Accademia degli Arcadi and its Garden in EighteenthCentury Rome (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2006), 32 ff. 6. Gravina, Discorso sopra l’Endimione (Rome: Komarek, 1692), 74: “nudi d’ogni apparente speranza.” 7. Accorsi argues that constancy, fidelity, and heroism were the markers of the new Arcadian pastoral genre. See Maria Grazia Accorsi, Pastori e teatro: Poesia e critica in Arcadia, Il vaglio: Studi e documenti di storia della cultura italiana 39 (Modena: Mucchi, 1999), esp. 56–64. 8. The use of the word lusinga is particularly apt, since it has several shades of meaning— delight, but also in the sense of costringere, to force or constrain; or in the sense of illudere, to delude or deceive. 9. See Aminta: A Pastoral Play, by Torquato Tasso, edited and translated by Charles Jernigan and Irene Marchegiani Jones (New York: Italica Press, 2000); see also Richard Cody, The Landscape of the Mind: Pastoralism and Platonic Theory in Tasso’s “Aminta” and Shakespeare’s Early Comedies (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969), for discussion of the importance of landscape and the intersections of Platonic and pastoral theory in Aminta; see Gabriel Adriano Niccoli,

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Cupid, Satyr, and the Golden Age: Pastoral Dramatic Scenes of the Late Renaissance (New York: Lang, 1989), 9, for discussion of Aminta as a pastoral in the structure of a tragedy. Although passion, pathos, and averted tragedy occur in the Aminta, overall the tone is more lighthearted than that of L’Endimione; scholars of the Aminta do not characterize these elements as threats to the pastoral landscape, as they are clearly established here. 10. The phrase loco ameno refers to the classical site of the pastoral genre, in Latin the locus amoenus. Endymion, as shepherd is wary of the environment, but also of the genre itself. 11. This aspect also derives from Tasso’s Aminta—the two primary characters, Aminta and Silvia, never interact with each other onstage; the entire plot is told to the audience through monologue and secondary dialogue. However, unlike Guidi’s L’Endimione, Tasso’s drama includes narrative action. 12. Guidi’s shift from active to passive narrative form replicates the gendered active and passive states represented in his characterizations of Endymion and Cynthia, discussed in chapter 4. 13. Gravina’s concept of a universal, all-encompassing verisimilitude in the Discorso (to be elaborated upon more fully in chapter 3) derives, at least in part, from Christina’s universal, all-encompassing love. In uniting the sublime and lowly, heroic and pastoral realms in his theory of verisimilar representation, Gravina mirrors Christina’s vision of the libretto’s philosophical perspective. 14. Guidi’s only previous full-length libretto, L’Amalasonta in Italia (1681), provides a perfect example for comparison. See Maier, introduction, Poesie approvate, 18–19. Guidi’s other musical texts were written for the Farnese court in Parma, prior to his invitation to Rome by Queen Christina; apart from L’Amalasonta in Italia, these are short, staged musical entertainments. 15. On Guidi’s Petrarchan emulation, see: Gallo, in Guidi, Endimione, 27–29, although on 30–32, Gallo suggests that Christina’s revisions to Guidi’s text remove some of its Petrarchisms in favor of emulating Tasso; and Maier, introduction, 32, notes that Christina’s verses show knowledge of poetry by Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso. 16. See Accorsi, “Ultimo seicento,” in her edited volume Francesco de Lemene—scherzi e favole per musica, Il Lapazio: Collezione di letteratura italiana moderna 10 (Modena: Mucchi, 1992), xxxiv, xliii, xlvii, l; see chapter 4 and the epilogue for my discussion of these themes in Guidi’s play. 17. See Claire Pace, “ ‘The Golden Age . . . The First and Last Days of Mankind’: Claude Lorrain and Classical Pastoral, with Special Emphasis on Themes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses,” Artibus et historiae 23, no. 46 (2002): 127–56, for discussion of how these modes transfer into seventeenth-century pastoral art and literature. 18. John Pinto, “Pastoral Landscape and Antiquity: Hadrian’s Villa,” Studies in the History of Art 36, Symposium Papers 20: The Pastoral Landscape (1992): 178–95: “The intrusion of mortality into Arcadia, of course, is evident in Virgil’s Eclogues, and the darker aspect of the pastoral was taken up again in the Renaissance by Jacopo Sannazaro, in whose vision of Arcadia architectural forms, including tombs, figure prominently” (180). See also Eleanor Winsor Leach, “Parthenian Caverns: Remapping of an Imaginative Topography,” Journal of the History of Ideas 39, no. 4 (1978): 539–60, for an analysis of Sannazaro’s Vergilian landscape depictions.

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19. As Pace writes in “The Golden Age”: “While Claude himself relatively rarely depicts death itself, nevertheless many of his paintings carry the weight of a sense of foreboding, of imminent tragedy, that elegiac quality which has been defined as an essential element in Arcadia” (134). See also my introduction. 20. As Minor demonstrates in his sophisticated, elegant reading of iconographical symbolisms in the Arcadian Parrhasian Grove on the Janiculum Hill, Crescimbeni’s designs for the Arcadian garden explicitly renders the symbolic, monumental, existential threats of violence from the Ovidian tradition. Vernon Hyde Minor, “Ideology and Interpretation in Rome’s Parrhasian Grove: The Arcadian Garden and Taste,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 46 (2001): 183–228. On the Arcadian garden, see also: Vernon Hyde Minor, The Death of the Baroque and the Rhetoric of Good Taste (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); and Susan M. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal: The Accademia degli Arcadi and its Garden in Eighteenth-Century Rome (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2006). 21. On the Arcadian meeting format, see: Vernon Hyde Minor, “Ideology and Interpretation”; for the format in Queen Christina’s Accademia Reale, see: Maria Teresa Acquaro Graziosi, L’Arcadia: Trecento anni di storia (Rome: Palombi, 1991). 22. Only one study focuses on Komarek; this article offers a brief biography and discusses exemplars Komarek made to advertise his printing services. See Alberto Tinto, “Giovanni Giacomo Komarek: Tipografo a Roma nei secoli xvii-xviii ed i suoi campionari di caratteri,” La bibliofilia: Rivista di storia del libro e di bibliografia 75, no. 2 (1973): 189–225. 23. Giovanni Lotti, Poesie latine, e toscane (Rome: G. G. Komarek, 1688). 24. My initial survey of 196 works published by Komarek is based entirely on library catalog searches; my current work reconstructing Komarek’s catalog seeks to demonstrate his impact on intellectual culture and ocularcentrism in Rome. Some secondary studies discuss individual volumes from Komarek’s output; here I am listing only those of greatest interest to the readers of this book. See: Gregory Barnett, Antonella d’Ovidio, and Stefano La Via, eds., Arcangelo Corelli: Fra mito e realtà storica; Nuove prospettive d’indagine musicologica e interdisciplinare nel 350 anniversario della nascita. Atti del congresso internazionale di studi, Fusignano, September 11–14, 2003 (Florence: Olschki, 2007); Margaret Daly Davis, “Giovan Pietro Bellori and the ‘Nota delli musei, librerie, galerie, et ornamenti di statue e pitture ne’ palazzi, nelle case, e ne’ giardini di Roma’ ” (1664): Modern Libraries and Ancient Painting in Seicento Rome,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 68, no. 2 (2005): 191–233; Laurent Guillo, “La bibliothèque de musique des Ballard d’après l’inventaire de 1750 et les notes de Sébastien de Brossard (Première Partie),” Revue de musicologie 90, no. 2 (2004): 283–345; Ingo Herklotz, “Francesco Barberini, Nicolò Alemanni, and the Lateran Triclinium of Leo III: An Episode in Restoration and Seicento Medieval Studies,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 40 (1995): 175–96; Thomas Frangenburg, “The Geometry of a Dome: Ludovico David’s Dichiarazione della pittura della capella del Collegio Clementino di Roma,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 57 (1994): 191–208; and Clive Hart and Kay Gilliland Stevenson, Heaven and the Flesh: Imagery of Desire from the Renaissance to the Rococo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 25. On the relationship between Queen Christina and Ciampini’s academy, see: Elena Brambilla, Sociabilità e relazioni femminili nell’Europa moderna: Temi e saggi, edited by Letizia Arcangeli and Stefano Levati (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 2013), 195–96; Maria Pia Donato,

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“Late Seventeenth-Century ‘Scientific’ Academies in Rome and the Cimento’s Disputed Legacy,” in Accademia del Cimento and Its European Context, edited by Marco Beretta, Antonio Clericuzio, and Lawrence M. Principe (Sagamore Beach, MA: Watson, 2009), 151–64; Wilma Di Palma, “Urania nel salotto di Cristina,” in Cristina di Svezia a Roma: Atti del Simposio tenuto all’Istituto Svedese di Studi Classici a Roma, 5–6 ottobre 1995, edited by Börje Magnusson, Suecoromana: Studia artis historiae instituti romani regni sueciae 5 (Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Rome, 1999), 129–41, esp. 132–133, 137–140; and Salvatore Rotta, “L’Accademia fisico-matematica Ciampiniana: Un’iniziativa di Cristina?” in Cristina di Svezia: Scienza ed alchimia nella Roma barocca; Atti del Ciclo di Conferenze (Roma, Sala Borromini, 17–19 aprile 1989) sulla cultura scientifica alla corte romana di Cristina di Svezia, edited by Wilma Di Palma, Nuova biblioteca Dedalo 99: Serie nuovi saggi (Bari: Dedalo, 1990), 99–186. 26. Giovanni Giustino Ciampini, Nuove inventioni di tubi ottici: Dimostrate nell’ Accademia fisicomatematica romana l’anno 1686 (Rome: Komarek, 1686). 27. Angelo Fabroni, “Jani Vincentii Gravinae Vita” (Naples, 1756), in Gianvincenzo Gravina, Jani Vincentii Gravinae opusculum ad historiam litterarium [. . .] (Oxford: Cooke, 1792), vi–vii. 28. These include: Marco Antonio Cellio, Descrizzione d’un nuovo modo di trasportare qualsiasi figura disegnata in carta mediante i raggi riflessi solari, in un altro foglio di carta [. . .] (Rome: Komarek, 1686); and Carlo Antonio Tortoni, Relazione dell’Accademia fisicomatematica romana sopra alcuni nuovi discuoprimenti fatti co’ microscopij (Rome: Komarek, 1687). With another publisher, Ciampini and members of his academy also produced works on other visual phenomena such as the comets which appeared in 1680–82. These include: Francesco Eschinardi, Discorso fatto nell’ Accademia fisicomatematica di Roma tenuta li 5. di Gennaro del 1681. sopra la cometa nuovamente apparsa (Rome: Tinassi, 1681); and Ciampini, Discorso tenuto di N. N. nell’Accademia fisicomatematica romana. Con occasione della cometa apparsa il mese d’agosto del presente anno 1682 [. . .] (Rome: Tinassi, 1682). 29. Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum Andreae Putei [. . .] (Rome: Komarek, 1693). Komarek published a similar volume, describing the paintings of the Collegio Clementino in 1695, the Dichiarazione della pittura della capella del Collegio Clementino di Roma [. . .] by Ludovico David. 30. Breve descrittione della pittura fatta nella volta del tempio di Sant-Ignazio, scoperta l’anno MDCXCIV per la festa del medesimo santo (Rome: Komarek, 1694). 31. Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Descrizzione delle imagini dipinte da Rafaelle d’Urbino nelle camere del Palazzo Apostolico Vaticano (Rome: Komarek, 1695). 32. See my discussion of ekphrasis in chapters 4 and 5. 33. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, L’Arcadia (Rome: Antonio de’ Rossi, 1708), 6–7. 34. Maria Teresa Acquaro Graziosi, “Cristina di Svezia fra letteratura e cronaca,” in Cristina di Svezia e Roma, ed. Magnusson, 21–26, esp. 23–24. 35. Crescimbeni here refers to a laudatory, epic poem honoring the queen: Michaelis Capellari, Christinas sive Christina lustrata (Venice: Andreae Poleti, 1700). 36. Graziosi, “Cristina di Svezia fra letteratura,” 24–25. However, it is not clear to which Arcadian bosco Graziosi refers, especially since Crescimbeni’s L’Arcadia is heavily fictionalized, and there is little physical evidence of other Arcadian gardens besides the ultimate meeting place on the Janiculum, which did not exist until 1725. Crescimbeni’s footnotes to

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his L’Arcadia suggest that he is describing the features of the Giardino Giustiniani, and that the Arcadians met there in 1705; however, in the same passage he alludes to the “pyramidic” structure of the stone monuments to deceased Arcadians, which do appear in the Parrhasian Grove on the Janiculum Hill—but which do not have a pyramidical shape. For the iconographical program of the Janiculum gardens and its references to Sannazaro and Ovid, see Minor, “Ideology and Interpretation.” Crescimbeni, in the same footnotes, also states that Queen Christina’s garden was the original founding site of the Arcadian Academy, which conflicts with other sources recording the Prati di Castello as the first site. See my introduction. 37. Gravina, Discorso, 48. 38. Paola Giuli, “Pastoral Fable, Tragedy, and History: The Modernist Dimension of Crescimbeni’s ‘Elvio,’ ” in Saggi di letteratura italiana: Selected Papers of the 2010 AATI Annual Conference, May 29–30, Lecce, Italy, edited by Patrizia Guida and Giovanna Scianatico (Lecce: Pensa Multimedia, 2011), 191–206. 39. Ibid. Dixon places this move in 1693 and Crescimbeni refers to it in the 1700 La bellezza; see my introduction. 40. See Giuli, “Pastoral Fable,” and my introduction. See Minor, “Ideology and Interpretation,” for a description of the stone benches designed for cardinals. 41. Melinda A. Cro, “Ekphrasis and the Feminine in Sannazaro’s ‘Arcadia’ ” Romance Notes 52, no. 1 (2012): 71–78. 42. See my discussion in chapter 4 and the epilogue. 43. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, L’Arcadia (Rome: Antonio de’ Rossi, 1708), 6–7. 44. Gravina’s word sentenze could be rendered in a linguistic sense, as in “phrases, sentences,” or could be rendered in a narrative sense, as in “judgments, discernments, implications.” 45. Crescimbeni records the disagreement some had with Gravina’s Discorso in his biography of Guidi: Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, “Vita dell’Abate Alessandro Guidi Scritta de Gio. Mario Crescimbeni” (1726), in Poesia di Alessandro Guidi, non più raccolte: Con la sua vita nuovamente scritta dal Signor Canonico Crescimbeni, e con due ragionamenti di Vincenzo Gravina, non più divulgati (Venice: Tommasini, 1730), xv. For Gravina’s ideological differences with Roman intellectual and religious environments, see Amedeo Quondam, Cultura e ideologia di Gianvincenzo Gravina (Milan: Mursia, 1968), 68–69, and for the controversial reception of the Discorso, see 70–72. 46. Gravina’s comments on these features of Guidi’s play will appear in chapters 3 and 4. 47. The modern literature on Renaissance pastoral drama and Neoplatonic allegory cites many examples of similar narrative types. The most formative study on this topic is Cody’s Landscape of the Mind; see also Jane K. Brown, The Persistence of Allegory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), and Mindele Anne Treip, Allegorical Poetics and the Epic: The Renaissance Tradition to Paradise Lost (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1994). 48. For this idea, and further bibliography, see Federico Schneider, Pastoral Drama and Healing in Early Modern Italy (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010). For the staging of disease in early modern literature, see Stephanie Moss and Kaara L. Peterson, eds., Disease, Diagnosis, and Cure on the Early Modern Stage: Literary and Scientific Cultures of Early Modernity (London: Routledge, 2016), and Tania Pollard, Drugs and Theater in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).

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49. See, for example, this description: “Philosophers and physicians acknowledged that all men and women, regardless of their background, were vulnerable to the overwhelming sadness caused by disappointment in love. At the heart of their discussions lies the theory of the passions, drawn from Aristotle, Augustine, and Aquinas, which argues that extreme emotions, or perturbations, should be moderated using reason and will. Love was regarded as one of the most complex emotions whose physical and mental symptoms could be either humiliating or ennobling. The Hippocratic and Galenic theory of the humours described lovesickness as an imbalance with hot and cold symptoms which together gave rise to the ‘freezing fire’ imagery of Petrarchan love poetry. Sufferers were first consumed by burning desire characterized by the hot, moist, humours of sanguinity, and secondly experienced the fear and sorrow characteristic of cold, dry, melancholy.” Katharine A. Craik, “Poetry and Compassion in Shakespeare’s ‘A Lover’s Complaint,” in The Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare’s Poetry, edited by Jonathan Post (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 532–33. 50. See Guarini’s Compendio della poesia tragicomica tratto dai duo Verati (1601), which is quoted extensively in Schneider, Pastoral Drama and Healing, 1–3. 51. “Whereas the Petrarchan lover is doomed never to find earthly satisfaction from his distant or cruel beloved since union is impossible except on a transcendent level, pastoral drama (again like comedy) typically ends with the beloved’s surrender to her suitor and the promise of marriage. In this respect, pastoral drama upholds the longstanding association of the natural landscape with sensual, earthly pleasure, as in the topos of the locus amoenus. Such tendencies may be linked with the fact that such plays were popularly performed during carnival celebrations, celebrating the triumph of the flesh and nature.” Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy, 39–40. 52. Schneider, Pastoral Drama and Healing, 7–8. 53. For details on Queen Christina’s biography, written both with scholarly focus and entertaining narrative, see Veronica Buckley, Christina of Sweden: The Restless Life of a European Eccentric (London: Harper Perennial, 2005). 54. Paul J. Alpers, What Is Pastoral? (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997), 9. 55. Ibid., 10. On pastoral genre theory in the early modern period, see Schneider, Pastoral Drama and Healing; Sampson, Pastoral Drama in Early Modern Italy; Niccoli, Cupid, Satyr, and the Golden Age; Ellen T. Harris, Handel and the Pastoral Tradition (London: Oxford University Press, 1980); Renato Poggioli, The Oaten Flute: Essays on Pastoral Poetry and the Pastoral Ideal (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975); and Cody, Landscape of the Mind. For theories of the ancient pastoral, see David M. Halperin, Before Pastoral: Theocritus and the Ancient Tradition of Bucolic Poetry (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983); and Paul J. Alpers, trans., The Singer of the Eclogues: A Study of Virgilian Pastoral, with a New Translation of the Eclogues (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979). 56. Accorsi, Pastori e teatro, 50 ff. 57. “[Poetry] will most resemble the truth, if the events that happen and the characters that enter within the narrative space are described in detail; since nothing in the world is simple, whether in nature or in civil society, and any action, no matter how heroic, combines the humble and mediocre conditions.” Discorso, 56. See also chapter 3 for discussion of this passage. 58. “[The poet] should not only choose to narrate that which bears the splendid and sublime, but should—according to the dimension and breadth of each canvas that he

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paints—assign a portion to the mediocre and low, in order to open the field of expression to every affect, every virtue, every manner.” Discorso, 54. 59. Gravina’s position on tragedy evolved during his career, evidenced by his publication of a volume of five tragic dramas, Di Vincenzo Gravina tragedie cinque in 1712, and the theoretical work Della tragedia of 1715; these both advocate for stricter interpretations of classical Greek tragedy as models for modern literature. For Gravina’s discussion of the relationship between poetry and music in tragedy (i.e., opera) in the context of Arcadian criticism, see Renata Di Benedetto, “Poetry and Polemics,” translated by Kenneth Chalmers and Mary Whittall, in Opera in Theory and Practice: Image and Myth, edited by Lorenzo Bianconi and Giorgio Pestelli, vol. 6 of History of Italian Opera: Part II / Systems (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2003), 1–74, esp. 21–24. 60. Discorso, 55–56. 61. Ibid., 54. 62. Ibid., 55. The word istorie could be translated as “histories,” but could also invoke Biblical narratives, in other words a serious narrative subject; Gravina evokes the contrast between the serious, foreground narrative and the humble, landscape setting. 63. For discussion of Titian’s Neoplatonic, pastoral depictions, see Federico Zeri, Titian: Sacred and Profane Love, translated by Susan Scott, edited by Elena Mazour, One Hundred Paintings (Richmond Hill, Ont.: NDE Canada, 2000); and Malcolm Andrews, Landscape in Western Art, Oxford History of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 64. This work partakes in a pastoral genre called either fête champêtre or concert champêtre, based on Arcadian themes in Renaissance poetry, particularly deriving from Sannazaro’s Arcadia. Holberton describes works of this type as a visual staging of music and dialogue, a moment of delight: “A fête champêtre is therefore not a mythology, or a story of any kind, or an allegory of any specific purport. It is simply a gathering in a landscape, to which any figure may freely be introduced once the key note has been struck. Each one may make himself or herself a seat on the grass. As in the poems one figure after another comes to listen or participate, so commonly in the paintings the composition was freely improvised around an inaugural motif ” (249). See Paul Holberton, “The Pastorale or Fête champêtre in the Early Sixteenth Century,” Studies in the History of Art 45, Symposium Papers 25: Titian 500 (1993): 244–62. 65. Although some scholars attribute this work to Titian, others have attributed it to Giorgione with assistance from Titian. See Maria H. Loh, Titian Remade: Repetition and the Transformation of Early Modern Italian Art (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007), 17–25; and David Alan Brown and Sylvia Ferino-Pagden et al., Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, and the Renaissance of Venetian Painting (Washington, DC; Vienna; New Haven, CT; London: National Gallery of Art; Kunshistorisches Museum; in association with Yale University Press, 2006), 22–24, who attributes the landscape in this work to Titian. 66. Jan Joris Van Gastel, Il Marmo Spirante: Sculpture and Experience in SeventeenthCentury Rome, Studien aus dem Warburg-Haus 12 (Leiden: De Gruyter, 2013), 137–40. 67. Aneta Georgievska-Shine, “ Titian, ‘Europa,’ and the Seal of the ‘Poesie,’ ” Artibus et historiae 28, no. 56, Special Articles in Memory of William R. Rearick (1930–2004). Part 2 (2007): 177–85; and David Rosand, “Ut Pictor Poeta: Meaning in Titian’s Poesie,” New Literary History 3, no. 3: Literary and Art History (1972): 527–46. 68. Discorso, 55.

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69. These will be further analyzed in chapters 3 and 4. 70. This passage of La Bellezza is discussed in chapter 1. 71. La bellezza, 99. 72. Ibid. 73. Ibid., 100. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid., 107. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. Ibid., 107–8. 79. Ibid., 106–7, 108. 80. Dialogue 6 of La bellezza, discussed in chapter 1. 81. Commentarii intorno alla sua Istoria della volgar poesia (Rome: Rossi, 1702–11, 1730), 1702 ed., vol. 1, bk. 4, ch. 9. 82. “The third [category] comprises the first dramatic works that were ornamented entirely with music, which were performed on stage not by Actors, but by Singers.” La bellezza, 226. 83. Translation from Alpers, What Is Pastoral? 21 and 23, respectively. 84. The Music Master, in Molière’s Le bourgeois gentilhomme (1670); cited in John Dixon Hunt, “Introduction: Pastorals and Pastoralisms,” Studies in the History of Art 36, Symposium Papers 20: The Pastoral Landscape (1992): 11. 85. La bellezza, 226. 86. For the parallel concepts in Gravina, see chapter 3. 87. Giuli, “Pastoral Fable.” 88. “Elogio del Sig. Alessandro Guidi, Pavese,” in Giornale de’ letterati d’Italia 11 (Venice: Ertz, 1722), 261. 89. Crescimbeni, “Vita,” iv. 90. “Some light of those beautiful gems shone, which under another heaven, in another time, his uncommon genius later had produced.” Crescimbeni, “Vita,” v. 91. Ibid., iv. Guidi published only one of his music dramas from the Farnese court. For information on the others, see Alessandro Guidi, Prima dell’Arcadia: Le poesie liriche e l’Amalasonta in Italia (1671–1681), edited by Luana Salvarani, Archivio barocco 3 (Trent: La finestra, 2005); Alessandro Guidi, Poesie liriche: Le canzoni; Testo critico commentato da Chiara Ciampolillo; con un saggio introduttivo di Luana Salvarani, Archivio barocco (Trent: La Finestra, 2002); Maier, “Nota biografica,” in Guidi, Poesie approvate, ed. Maier, 81–90. 92. For more on Decio Azzolino, see Marie-Louise Rodén, Church Politics in Seventeenth-Century Rome: Cardinal Decio Azzolino, Queen Christina of Sweden, and the Squadrone Volante, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Stockholm Studies in Economic History 60 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2000); Gianvittorio Signorotto and Maria Antonietta Visceglia, eds., Court and Politics in Papal Rome, 1492–1700, Cambridge Studies in Italian History and Culture, edited by Gigliola Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Stefano Pignatelli authored a treatise on philosophy, Quanto più alletti la bellezza dell’animo, che la bellezza del corpo (Rome: Bernabò, 1680); a manuscript version titled La Bellezza di anima et la bellezza di corpore (Turin, 1674), exists with Christina’s marginal notes, held in the British Museum Library. Stefano Pignatelli and several other members of

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Christina’s Accademia Reale were residents of Cardinal Francesco Barberini’s (1597–1679) palazzo, including: Angelo della Noco, Giuseppe Suarez, Giovanni Francesco Albani, Stefano Gradi, and Ottavio Falconieri. See Leopold von Ranke, History of the Popes: Their Church and State, and especially of Their Conflicts with Protestantism in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (1884), translated by E. Foster (London: George Bell and Sons, 1908), 406; for information on Stefano Pignatelli’s participation in Christina’s academy, see James Turner, Schooling Sex: Libertine Literature and Erotic Education in Italy, France, and England, 1534–1685 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Susanna Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle: The Transformation of a Seventeenth-Century Philosophical Libertine, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 21 (Leiden: Brill, 1991); and Magnus von Platen, ed., Queen Christina of Sweden: Documents and Studies, Nationalmusei Skriftserie 12; Analecta reginensis 1 (Stockholm: Nationalmuseum, 1966). 93. “Elogio del Sig. Alessandro Guidi,” 261. 94. Ibid., 261–62. These are: Giovanni Francesco Albani, Discorso detto nella Reale Accademia della maestà di Cristina regina di Svezia in lode di Giacomo II. Rè della Gran Bretagna (Rome: Tinassi, 1687); Alessandro Guidi, Accademia per Musica della Maestà della Regina Christina, per festeggiare l’assonzione al trono di Giacomo Secondo, Rè d’Inghilterra. In occasione della solenne ambasciata mandata da Sua Maestà Britannica alla Santità di Nostro Signore Innocenzo XI, versi (Rome: Reverenda Camera Apostolica, 1687). Music for the latter, by Bernardo Pasquini, is lost; the performance was conducted by Arcangelo Corelli. The poem for Baron d’Aste, who died in the siege on Buda in 1686, begins “Vider Marte e Quirino.” 95. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, “Alessandro Guidi,” in Commentarii sopra l’Istoria della volgar poesia, vol. 2, Dell’istoria della volgar poesia libro IV (Venice: Lorenzo Basegio, 1730), 512; “Elogio del Sig. Alessandro Guidi,” 262. 96. Crescimbeni, “Vita,” ix. I’m not quite sure what Crescimbeni means by “bizarreness of thought”; he could be indicating some holdover still from Guidi’s old manner, but the description seems complimentary in this case. 97. Crescimbeni, “Vita,” 511. 98. “Elogio del Sig. Alessandro Guidi,” 263. As we have already seen, Guidi also received patronage from Giovanni Francesco Albani. 99. Aromindo Euritidio (pseud. of Raimondo Gavotti), “Alessandro Guidi,” in Notizie istoriche degli Arcadi morti (Rome: Antonio de’ Rossi, 1721), 344. The term estro can mean inspiration; here, it is used not in the sense that the poetry inspires others, necessarily, but that Guidi received creative inspiration while composing it. In this sense, estro, or “inspiration” more closely approximates other definitions of the word, which include “creativity,” “fantasy,” or “spirit.” 100. Crescimbeni, “Vita,” xv. 101. Crescimbeni, “Vita,” xv. It is unclear whether Crescimbeni describes an original performance which took place for an Arcadian audience, or a revival afterward at a separate gathering. Furthermore, the phrase “farla cantare” suggests singing; this would make sense as a cantata, or perhaps more likely a serenata due to the outdoor setting, though there is no indication the pastoral was ever set to music. The idea is intriguing. 102. L’istoria della volgar poesia (Rome: Chracas, 1698), bk. 3, p. 226; and Commentarii, 1730 ed., p. 512.

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103. See Gustavo Costa, “Clashing Traditions in the Eighteenth Century: Angelo Calogerà, Scipione Maffei, and Giuseppe Maria Bianchini,” Forum italicum 18, no. 2 (1984): 278– 301, for discussion of Bianchini’s debates against Scipione Maffei, whose degrading comments about Italian literary style provided fodder for anti-Italian rhetoric from other European countries. 104. Giuseppe Maria Bianchini, La Villeggiatura. Dialogo [...] nel quale si discorre sopra un giudizio dato da Pier Jacopo Martelli intorno al poetare del Menzini, e d’Alessandro Guidi (Florence: Tartini e Franchi, 1732). 105. Pier Iacopo Martello, “Vita dell’Abate Alessandro Guidi Pavese detto Erilo Cleoneo,” in Le vite degli Arcadi illustri, scritte da diversi autori, e pubblicate d’ordine della General Adunanza, vol. 3, edited by Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni (Rome: Antonio de’ Rossi, 1714), 233. A fellow member both of Christina’s academy and the Arcadian Academy, Benedetto Menzini was Guidi’s poetic rival, both during their lifetimes, and in reputation after death. The continued rivalry is noted by early nineteenth-century author Giovanni Battista Corniani, who writes: “These two poets regarded each other with an envious eye, and descended to fierce competition. Menzini was inferior to Guidi in grandiose poetry; this cannot be denied. But Menzini was provided with gifts that Guidi did not have, such as, for example, the satiric sting. In woodland poetry he demonstrated an elegant simplicity which no one before had ever accomplished.” Giovanni Battista Corniani, I secoli della letterature italiana dopo il suo risorgimento (Brescia: Tipografia Dipartimentale, 1812), 265. 106. Antonio Conti, “Prefazione,” in Prose e poesie (Venice: Pasquali, 1739), n.n. 107. Among these are: A New and General Biographical Dictionary; Containing an Historical and Critical Account of the Lives and Writings of the Most Eminent Persons in Every Nation [. . .] (London: For T. Osborne et al., 1761); Francesco Haym, Biblioteca italiana, o sia notizia de’ libri rari italiani divisa in quattro parti [. . .] (Milan: Galeazzi, 1771); and Pietro Napoli-Signorelli, Storia critica de’ teatri antichi e moderni (Naples: Simoniana, 1777). Several of Guidi’s poems are included in a textbook anthology intended to show the best of Italian literary style—Angelo Mazzoleni’s Rime oneste de’ migliori poeti antichi e moderni scelte ad uso delle scuole (Bassano: Remondini, 1777); Mazzoleni showcases the poem in memory of the Baron d’Aste cited above (“Vider Marte e Quirino”), plus “Una donna superba al par di Giuno,” one of the poems on the subject of Arcadia. 108. Clorinda Donato and Manuel Romero, “Politics, Public Opinion, and the Unfinished Business of the Italian-Spanish Debate over Bad Taste, 1770–1790,” Dieciocho: Hispanic Enlightenment 41, no. 1 (2018): 131–50. 109. “Girolamo Tiraboschi, Storia della letteratura italiana, vol. 8, bk. 3, ch. 3 (Modena: Società Tipografica, 1780), 313–14. 110. “Only three centuries after Petrarch, Alessandro Guidi arose from Pavia—the poet who knew how to emulate the spirit and the energy of him who left us sonnets worthy of the lady Laura, and contrasted the odes of fortune with the triumphs of Love.” Corniani gives an “Elogio del Cavalieri” by Abate Frisi, whom Corniani identifies as a mathematician, as a source for the quotation; I have not been able to find the original. Giovanni Battista Corniani, I secoli della letteratura italiana dopo il suo risorgimento (Brescia: Tipografia Dipartimentale, 1812), 282. 111. Ibid., 283–84, 287. 112. Ibid.

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113. Ronald E. Pepin, “Lodovico Sergardi and the Roman Satirical Tradition,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 2, no. 4 (1996): 555–59. 114. For the iconographical symbolisms rendered here, see: Sin in Medieval and Early Modern Culture: The Tradition of the Seven Deadly Sins, edited by Richard G. Newhauser and Susan J. Ridyard (Rochester, NY: Boydell & Brewer, 2012), 184, 185, 226, 311, 313. 115. For example, Corniani writes, in an edition of Guidi’s poems: “That terrible reviler of Guidi—Quinto Settano—condemned L’Endimione and the Discorso of serving the hull of the pepper corn and empty garlic cloves. But the bile of this satire is not the standard of honest critique. Guidi’s dramas, in our opinion, are splendid and original, and sweet but not cloying.” Alessandro Guidi, “Poesie di Alessandro Guidi,” in Raccolta di poeti classici italiani (Milan: Società Tipografia de’ Classici Italiani, 1827), xiii. 116. “Anyone who praised L’Endimione by Guidi, and any other poetry of less value than Guidi’s L’Endimione, will never be one whose opinion as a critic of poetry I would agree with.” Giuseppe Baretti, La frusta letteraria, 1763–1765 (Milan: Società Tipografia de’ Classici Italiani, 1838), 221. 117. Giuseppe Maffei, Storia della letteratura italiana dall’ origine della lingua fino al secolo XIX (Milan: Società Tipografia de’ Classici Italiani, 1824), 19. 118. Ibid., 128. 119. The willow branch was used as a shepherd’s crook. 120. Angelo Anelli, Le cronache di Pindo (1811) (Milan: Tipografia Silvestri, 1829), 163. 121. “Alessandro Guidi illustrates novelty and originality, a more transcendent and uncommon path, in his odes. Their character is Pindaric, but the style is eastern; they are richly ornate and colorful, lively, and imaginative, and free from the fetters of external texture [structure, fabrication], or, in other words, they do not need the assistance that steady meter and rhyme provide. It is easy to realize that this type of poetry does not admit of a midpoint [tipping point], which is the power to either turn out pompous and cold, or lead to the ultimate degree of the sublime, emphatic, and grandiose. The choice is extreme, and Guidi has decided successfully. Incited and lifted by divine inspiration, he extends toward a limitless horizon of solemn and majestic subjects and ideas, and bears passion, elevation, and rapture in every manner of perceiving [imagining] and expressing.”Michele Cimorelli, Saggi di belle lettere italiane (Naples: Stamperia Francese, 1826), 232. 122. “Some critics have recognized in [Guidi’s] verses the color and aspect of Marinism. But, if one speaks of the juvenile poems, there will be actual Marinism, since even Guidi was educated in the school of bad taste, which he later corrected and purified. If one speaks of the poems [Guidi] wrote in maturity, and which brought him the prestige he enjoyed, these [critics] are grossly mistaken, taking for vice that which is lush and bold as its primary intrinsic quality—the oriental style—which is of a different temper altogether than Marinism” Ibid., 232–33. 123. Giuseppe Zirardini, L’Italia letteraria ed artistica: Galleria di cento ritratti de’ poeti, prosatori, scultori, architetti e musici più illustri, con cenni storici (Paris: Baudry, 1850),122. 124. For Emiliani-Giudici’s importance in Italian literary historiography, see Fabio Danelon, “Paolo Emiliani Giudici e la storia della letteratura italiana,” Italianistica: Rivista di letteratura italiana 40, no. 2: L’Unità d’Italia nella narrativa e nella storiografia letteraria (2011): 23–33. 125. See ibid., 33.

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126. “Paolo Emiliani-Giudici, Storia della letteratura italiana (1844), 4th ed. (Florence: Felice Le Monnier, 1863), 240. 127. Domenico Consoli, Dall’Arcadia all’Illuminismo, Universale Cappelli 133 (Bologna: Cappelli, 1972), 12; Guidi, Endimione, ed. Gallo, 5. C HA P T E R 3 . R E A D I N G T H E C L A S SIC S

1. See the discussion in chapter 2. 2. Silvio A. Bedini, Patrons, Artisans, and Instruments of Science, 1600–1750 (Aldershot, England: Ashgate, 1999). 3. Tiraboschi, Storia della letteratura italiana (Modena: Società Tipografica, 1780), vol. 8, bk. 2, ch. 4, 239. 4. The scholarship on Gravina’s philosophical tradition is immense, although most of it focuses on the Della ragion poetica (1708). Here I list the most predominant voices: Camilla Guaita, Per una nuova estetica del teatro: L’Arcadia di Gravina e Crescimbeni (Rome: Bulzoni, 2009); Annarita Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, Studi vichiani 38 (Naples: Guida, 2003); Tiziana Carena, Critica della ragion poetica di Gian Vincenzo Gravina: L’immagine, la fantasia, il delirio e la verosimiglianza, Collana morfologie (Milan: Associazione Culturale Mimesis, 2001); Maria Grazia Accorsi, Pastori e teatro: poesia e critica in Arcadia, Il vaglio: Studi e documenti di storia della cultura italiana 39 (Modena: Mucchi, 1999); Francesca Santovetti, “Arcadia a Roma Anno Domini 1690: Accademia e vizi di forma,” MLN 112, no. 1: Italian Issue (1997): 21–37; Manfredi Piccolomini, Il pensiero estetico di Gianvincenzo Gravina (Ravenna: Longo, 1984); Domenico Consoli, Realtà e fantasia nel classicismo di Gian Vincenzo Gravina, Pleion (Milan: Bietti, 1970); Amedeo Quondam, Filosofia della luce nelle egloghe del Gravina: Documenti per un capitolo della cultura filosofica di fine Seicento, Studi vichiani 3 (Naples: Guida, 1970); Quondam, Cultura e ideologia di Gianvincenzo Gravina (Milan: Mursia, 1968); and Guido Morpurgo Tagliabue, “Note sul concetto del ‘gusto’ nell’Italia del settecento (Continuaz),” Rivista critica di storia della filosofia 17, no. 2 (1962): 133–66. 5. Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, 24–25. 6. See my discussion in chapter 2. 7. For the inherent tensions between observation, experience, doubt, and certainty in early modern thought, see Brendan Maurice Dooley, The Social History of Skepticism: Experience and Doubt in Early Modern Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999). 8. Gianvincenzo Gravina, Discorso sopra l’Endimione (Rome: Komarek, 1692), 67; Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, 26 n. 9. On the controversies surrounding both the Hydra mystica and the Discorso, see Clementina Cantillo, L’utilità del finto: Tra poesia, storia, e ordine civile, Definizioni. Collana di studi filosofici fondata da Raffaello Franchini (Naples: Loffredo, 2012), 103–4. On the anti-Jesuit, anti-scholastic discourse in the Hydra mystica, see Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, 50–53; Hanns Gross, Rome in the Age of Enlightenment: The Post-Tridentine Syndrome and the Ancien Régime, Cambridge Studies in Early Modern History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 293. 10. Gravina, Discorso, 46. Quondam suggests a correlation between Gravina’s attacks against modern moral virtues and modern literary criticism, both of which have been “corrupted” by false interpretation. See Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 78.

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11. Gravina, Discorso, 50. 12. Ibid., 66–67. 13. Daniel Javitch, “The Assimilation of Aristotle’s Poetics in Sixteenth-Century Italy,” in Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, vol. 3, The Renaissance, edited by Glyn P. Norton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 53–65. 14. See Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 46–50, for details of Caloprese’s teaching materials. In Gravina e l’universo Dantesco, 64–65, Placella notes that Caloprese’s students adjoin Platonism to Cartesianism; Cantillo, in L’utilità del finto, 34 ff., notes that Messere advocated study of original sources since the interpretive tradition had “altered” and “corrupted” ancient texts—ideas that resonate strongly with Gravina’s Discorso. 15. See Dooley, Social History of Skepticism, 132 ff., for the Neapolitan academies, and especially pages 134–36 on Caloprese and Gravina. 16. Gravina, Discorso, 61 and 86. 17. Ibid., 47–8. 18. Ibid., 48. 19. Ibid., 92. On Quondam’s discussion of Gravina’s antischolasticism as a refusal to recognize authority that does not derive from philosophical reasoning, see Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 78. 20. On Crescimbeni’s opera criticism, see chapter 1; for the Crescimbenian and Gravinian pastoral ideologies, and aspects of the dispute arising in Crescimbeni’s writings, see chapter 2. 21. Gravina uses Ariosto’s Orlando furioso here as a model, praising this work for “reveal[ing] wondrously through fiction the clear and vivid image of truth.” Gravina, Discorso, 59. 22. Franco Crispini, Idee e forme di pensiero: brevi saggi di storiografia filosofica, Saggi (Soveria Mannelli, Italy) 138 (Soveria Mannelli, Italy: Rubettino, 2003), 24; Accorsi, Pastori e teatro, 110; Antonio Franceschetti, “Il concetto di meraviglia nelle poetiche della prima Arcadia,” Lettere italiane 21, no. 1 (1969): 77; and Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 81. 23. Gianvincenzo Gravina, Della ragion poetica libri due (Rome: Francesco Gonzaga, 1708), 9–10. 24. Gravina, Discorso, 52. 25. Ibid., 52–53. 26. The full sentence reads: “Since the primary, even the only, concern of the Poet is to express the truth under the shadow of fiction, and to create a likeness (rassomiglianza) of nature, the primary value demanded of locution is to be apt, and suitable for sculpting in the imagination an image of the thing itself.” Ibid., 65. 27. Ibid., 52. 28. “[Poetry] will most resemble the truth, if the events that happen and the characters that enter within the narrative space are described in detail; since nothing in the world is simple, whether in nature or in civil society, and any action, no matter how heroic, is mixed with humble and mediocre conditions.” Ibid., 56. See also my discussion of this passage in chapter 2. 29. Ibid., 59. 30. Ibid., 52. 31. Ibid.

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32. “[The poet’s] task is to resemble the truth, and to express the natural with the manner, locution, and meter suitable to the proposed subject.” Ibid., 53. 33. Charles B. Schmitt, Quentin Skinner, et al., eds., Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 90–93 ff. 34. For the various ways in which modern critics analyze Plato’s definition of mimesis, and also for bibliography leading to additional sources, see the following: M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (1953) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971); Elizabeth Belfiore, “A Theory of Imitation in Plato’s Republic,” in Oxford Readings in Ancient Literary Criticism, edited by Andrew Laird (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 87–114; Christopher Gill, “Plato on Falsehood—not Fiction,” in Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, ed. Christopher Gill and T. P. Wiseman (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993), 38–87; Stephen Halliwell, “The Republic’s Two Critiques of Poetry (Book II 376c-398b, Book X 595a-608b),” in Platon, Politeia, edited by Otfried Höffe, Klassiker Auslegen 7 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997), 313–32; Stephen Halliwell, The Aesthetics of Mimesis: Ancient Texts and Modern Problems (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002); and S. Scolnicov, Plato’s Metaphysics of Education (London: Routledge, 1988). 35. My discussion of the passages in the Cratylus and books 2–3 of the Republic is based on Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 43–48. Some scholars, such as Halliwell, consider the Republic to be a return to the discussion of mimesis, after the earlier Cratylus, in a greatly expanded and more sophisticated manner. 36. Gravina, Discorso, 65. The full passage is translated above, in note 27. 37. Here I am expanding Halliwell’s interpretation based on my own reading of Plato in translation; see Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 51–52. 38. Ibid., 57, 63. 39. Michael J. Sidnell and D. J. Lonacher, et al., ed., Republic, in Sources of Dramatic Theory, vol 1: Plato to Congreve (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 23. 40. Ibid., 24. 41. Gravina, Discorso, 49. 42. Ibid., 51. 43. See also Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 306. For the text which follows, see Aristotle, Poetics, 24.59b–25.61a. 44. Poetics, 60a26–27, 61b12; cited in James C. Hogan, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Homer in the Poetics,” Classical Philology 68, no. 2 (1973): 102. See also my discussion of “plausibility” in Crescimbeni, in chapter 1. 45. For interpretation of these passages, see Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 168. 46. Gravina, Discorso, 51; also quoted above. 47. Ibid., 57. Perhaps the most influential seventeenth-century writer who advocated the “imitation of nature” is Giovanni Pietro Bellori, who drew upon both Aristotelian and Platonic ideas in formulating his theory of artistic representation. 48. Ibid., 55; see my chapter 2 for a discussion of the fuller passage, and how it contributes to Gravina’s pastoral theory. 49. Ibid., 56. 50. Aristotle, Poetics 48b34–38; cited in Hogan, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Homer,” 97. 51. Gravina, Della ragion poetica, 10.

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52. The full passage, from Della ragion poetica, bk. 1, ch. 2, “On the Effectiveness of Poetry,” 9–10, reads: “Thus the poet moves and excites the imagination [fantasia] just as the real objects would, and produces the same emotions [affetti] in us that are aroused by true events, by means of images that express the natural, and by representation that is both vivid and resembles the true existence and nature of the imagined object. This happens because the emotions are drawn behind the imagination [fantasia] in the same path and circulate together with the imagination [immaginazione], rising and falling according to its motion and rest, just like waves under the force and pressure of the winds.” 53. Ibid., 10. 54. Ibid., bk. 1, ch. 1, “On Truth and Falsehood: On Reality and Fiction,” 9. Similarly: “Whoever—using devices other than the real objects themselves—arouses in us the same images as those imprinted by real objects. . .will excite emotions similar to those aroused by true objects, just as it happens during dreams.” Ibid., 9. For additional discussions of Gravina’s use of the phrase “dreaming with open eyes,” see Rosalba Lo Bianco, Gian Vincenzo Gravina e l’estetica del delirio (Palermo: Centro internazionale Studi di Estetica, 2001); Benedetto Croce and Massimiliano Mancini, Problemi di estetica e contributi alla storia dell’estetica italiana (Naples: Bibliopolis, 2003); and Guido Morpurgo Tagliabue, Il gusto nell’estetica del Settecento (Palermo: Centro Internazionale Studi di Estetica, 2002). 55. Alexander M. Schlutz, Mind’s World: Imagination and Subjectivity from Descartes to Romanticism (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010), 39–41. 56. Gravina, Discorso, 48. 57. Descartes, On Dreams, 462a2–8; For more on this topic in Aristotle, see Elizabeth Belfiore, Tragic Pleasures: Aristotle on Plot and Emotion (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 240–45. 58. Schlutz, Mind’s World, 43–44. 59. Ibid., 8. 60. Translation from De motu animalium, 701b13–23, translated by M. C. Nussbaum (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978), appearing on pp. 230–31 of that edition, and cited in Belfiore, Tragic Pleasures, 182. 61. Gravina, Della ragion poetica, bk. 1, ch. 1, 7. 62. Ibid., 7. 63. Ibid. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid., 8. 66. Descartes, Optics, cited in Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, vol. 1, translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 173. 67. Peter Adamson, Philosophy in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, History of Philosophy without any Gaps 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 26. 68. Lucretius, De rerum natura, 4.353–360, cited in: Carlos Lévy, “The New Academy and Its Rivals,” in A Companion to Ancient Philosophy, edited by Mary Louise Gill and Pierre Pellegrin (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 454. 69. The original Latin: “angulus obtusus quia longe cernitur omnis / sive etiam potius non cernitur ac perit eius / plaga nec ad nostras acies perlabitur ictus / aëra per multum quia dum simulacra feruntur / cogit hebescere eum crebris offensibus aër.”

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70. The Italian translation, by Alessandro Marchetti, renders an incomplete version of Lucretius’s example: “E se non puoi con la ragion disciorre / La causa perchè tondo appaja all’occhio / Da lungi quel che da vicino è quadro; / Meglio è però se di ragion v’è d’uopo, False cause assegnar.” Tito Lucrezio [Lucretius] Caro, Della natura delle cose libri sei. [De rerum natura], translated by Alessandro Marchetti (London: Giovanni Pickard, 1717), 207–8. 71. Aristotle, On Dreams, 461b3–7; note the similarity here to the passages by Gravina quoted above. 72. Gravina’s theory of visual truth participates in two branches of seventeenth-century epistemologies of vision, as described in the framework created by Catherine Wilson: the “logic of vision,” which re-imagines the mind as a camera obscura, in which is duplicated external scenes via projection, and the “morality of vision,” which privileges intellectual vision over corporeal experiences and the other senses. See Wilson, “Discourses of Vision in Seventeenth-Century Metaphysics,” in Sites of Vision: The Discursive Construction of Sight in the History of Philosophy, edited by David Michael Levin (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 117–38. 73. Gravina, Discorso, 8–9. 74. Ibid., 51. 75. Ibid., 56–57: “The difficult and esoteric [task] is recognizing the true nature of things; from that perception [cognizione] a great benefit is derived for civil life, which the Greek poets have depicted almost in one canvas by describing under false names the events that usually happen in the world. And one who looks intently into the range [tessitura] of these devices, will observe that the truth resides in mythology [favole] and will find that, at times, histories [istorie] of true people intertwine false things and fictional deeds, and, on the contrary, that mythology mostly depicts true events and natural emotions [affezioni] under feigned colors and false names.” Gravina consistently uses the word favola (tale, or fable) to refer to ancient Greek, and sometimes Egyptian, mythology. Although I have tried to represent Gravina’s term finto consistently as the English “fiction,” in order to prevent terminological confusion, here I felt that the second instance in this paragraph (finti colori) would be rendered best by “feigned colors,” or “imaginative colors.” For my discussion of this passage in the context of analytical methodology, see chapter 4. 76. Gravina, Della ragion poetica, bk. 1, ch. 3, 11–12. 77. For Crescimbeni’s imagistic and sonic ideologies, see chapter 1. 78. Ibid., 11–12. On delirium and fantasy in Gravina’s Della ragion poetica, see Lo Bianco, Gianvincenzo Gravina. 79. Gravina, Discorso, 53. 80. For passages relating to “amazement” in Aristotle, see the Poetics, 14.1454a4, 16.1455a17; for interpretations, see Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 213–214 n., and Elizabeth Belfiore, Tragic Pleasures, 216–22. 81. Sidnell and Lonacher, et al., eds., Poetics, 58. Although all of the sources I have consulted on ekplēxis translate this term as “amazement,” the translation of the Poetics I am using translates this term as “marvel,” perhaps in order to draw attention to the Italian translation of this idea as maraviglia in so many Renaissance and seventeenth-century literary sources. In this chapter, I have decided to refer to Aristotle’s term as “amazement,” according to standard modern scholarly usage, translating Gravina’s term as “marvelous” when used as a literary effect, and as “wonder” when used to describe the audience’s

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Notes to Pages 93–95

reaction. The translation of Aristotle, of course, remains as is, and therefore uses the term “marvel.” 82. Aristotle, Poetics, 24.60a. 83. James V. Mirollo, The Poet of the Marvelous: Giambattista Marino (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 117–18, 119–20. 84. Marino, La Murtoleide, “Fischiata xxxiii,” l. 9, cited in Mirollo, Poet of the Marvelous, 118. For Mirollo’s discussion of the aesthetics of the marvelous from Aristotle through the seventeenth century, see pp. 166–74. Mirollo’s book remains the pre-eminent study on Marino’s poetic styles; see also Emilio Russo, ed., Marino e il barocco da Napoli a Parigi: Atti del convegno di Basilea, 7–9 giugno 2007 (Alessandria, Italy: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2009); Paolo Cherchi, “Marino and the Meraviglia,” in Culture and Authority in the Baroque, edited by Massimo Ciavolella and Patrick Coleman, UCLA Clark Memorial Library Series (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 63–72; and Francesco Guardiani, The Sense of Marino: Literature, Fine Arts, and Music of the Italian Baroque (Ottawa: Legas, 1994). 85. Mirollo, Poet of the Marvelous, 117–18. While Gravina uses the spelling maraviglia, the more common spelling is meraviglia; I adopt Gravina’s spelling except when quoting from other sources, as here. 86. Ibid., 169. “The poet may attribute some actions that far exceed the power of men either to God, to His angels, or to demons, or to those to whom either God or demons have granted power, such as saints, sorcerers, and fairies. These actions, when considered on their own, seem marvelous: or rather, they are called miracles in common usage. These same actions, if one examines the level of virtue and power belonging to the [character] who performed them, will be judged to be verisimilar.” From Tasso, Discorsi del poema eroico, cited in Mirollo, Poet of the Marvelous, 33–34, 42n. Translation is my own. 87. Halliwell, “Two Critiques of Poetry,” 319–21. 88. For the relevant passages in Plato, see Republic bk. 2, 377b, 378d-e, 388d; bk. 3, 388d, 391d–e. 89. However, the representation of unmitigated truthfulness, in which the divine light is not “covered” or embellished by the veil of poetry, can be harmful. See Gravina, Discorso, 59. 90. Ibid., 63. For discussion of this passage in the context of ethos, see Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 94 ff. 91. The classic study on the Florentine Camerata remains Claude V. Palisca, The Florentine Camerata: Documentary Studies and Translations (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989). 92. Plato’s discussion of these existential realms in Republic book 10 differs from his discussion in books 5 to 6 of the Phaedo; in the latter, the term “Forms” refers to intangible true properties, such as “beauty,” or “justice.” In the Republic, the category of Forms refers to tangible, true objects, such as a “couch” or a “bed”—objects made by artisans in imitation of the Ideas. For this reason, I have chosen the word Object in my discussion; Halliwell refers to the reinterpreted schematic as Forms, Particulars, and Mimesis. See Halliwell, “Two Critiques of Poetry,” 325–26, and Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 136–37. 93. Andrew Laird, “The Value of Ancient Literary Criticism,” in Oxford Readings in Ancient Literary Criticism, edited by Andrew Laird (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 1–36. Gravina’s Discorso engages with early modern artistic theories of representa-

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tion. For example, Vasari popularized the notion that the role of the artist went beyond imitating the physical nature of things and their external characteristics, and should also depict their internal essence. “The founding moment of Renaissance systematicity of representation, one might well argue, occurs in Vasari’s Proemio delle Vite, where he tersely states that God is the supreme creator of Nature and man. Man imitates his creator, and art results from his imitating God’s creation, this is nature. As he put it in the Life of Masaccio: ‘la pittura è un contrafar tutte le cose della natura viva.’ Hence the artist should imitate not only the visible aspects of the created world—colour, light and shape—but also its underlying characteristics.” James Elkins and Robert Williams, eds., Renaissance Theory, Art Seminar 5 (New York: Routledge, 2008), 386. 94. Gravina, Discorso, 54; quoting Inferno 11.105. 95. Ibid., 52. See also the brief reference to this passage at note 31. 96. See Lo Bianco, Gian Vincenzo Gravina, who recognizes that Gravina was the earliest philosopher in the Italian tradition to create a theory for both creating and receiving poetry; however, she focuses mostly on delirium and its function in the Della ragion poetica. 97. Kathryn Banks, Cosmos and Image in the Renaissance: French Love Lyric and Natural-Philosophical Poetry (London: legenda; Modern Humanities Research Association and Maney Publishing, 2008), 12. 98. Gravina, Discorso, 62. Gravina attributes this “veil of poetry” to Dante, Orpheus, Dafne, Hesiod, and Homer. See Quondam, Cultura e ideologia, 88 ff., for discussion of this passage. 99. On the philosophy of light, see Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, and Quondam, Filosofia della luce nelle egloghe del Gravina. 100. Placella, Gravina e l’universo dantesco, 97. 101. To be fair to Gravina, I should also mention that the term phantasia is used in connection with vivid expressiveness in Longinus, who is also the source for Gravina’s sublime, an important concept in the Discorso that I cannot discuss at length here. Some scholars ascribe both a Platonic and Neoplatonic source for phantasia; see Halliwell, Aesthetics of Mimesis, 310 n. It is easy to see how Gravina’s own theories seem inextricably tangled and at times self-contradictory, when earlier sources are also at times contradictory, and when he uses terms common in seventeenth-century criticism, which derive from diverging and sometimes incompatible earlier texts. 102. John J. Renaldo, “Bacon’s Empiricism, Boyle’s Science, and the Jesuit Response in Italy,” Journal of the History of Ideas 37, no. 4 (1976): 695. 103. One of the most important proponents of atomism in Rome was Alfonso Borelli, a protégé of Queen Christina of Sweden. Crescimbeni had admired a translation of Lucretius prepared by a student of Borelli named Alessandro Marchetti; his translation was not published in Rome despite initial support from Cardinal Leopoldo de’ Medici (there is an edition in London from 1717, which I reference in note 71), because Marchetti refused to submit it to the Holy Office in Rome for approval. As a result, the work only circulated in manuscript form. Crescimbeni’s support of this document, as someone with strong ties to the papal Curia, demonstrates the kind of intellectual conflicts that surrounded Arcadia. Although Marchetti’s text was controversial, Crescimbeni cites it in one of his pastorals of 1711, and declares its popularity among Arcadians in general. We see, again and again, Arcadia at the brink of scientific and literary conflicts, tangles, and controversies. See Gross,

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Rome in the Age of Enlightenment, 250–51. For the broader scientific disputes, see Christoph Meinel, “Early Seventeenth-Century Atomism: Theory, Epistemology, and the Insufficiency of Experiment,” Isis 79, no. 1 (1988): 68–103; and for the scientific problems surrounding the invention of the telescope, see Van Helden, “The Telescope in the Seventeenth Century,” Isis 65, no. 1 (1974): 38–58. 104. Gravina, Discorso, 50, 52. 105. Ibid., 58. For similar examples, see also pp. 60 and 61. C HA P T E R 4 . R E C O N C I L I N G I C ON , M Y T H O S , A N D T U P O S

1. Rosalba Lo Bianco, Gian Vincenzo Gravina e l’estetica del delirio (Palermo: Centro Internazionale Studi di Estetica, 2001), recognizes that Gravina’s Discorso and Della ragion poetica are the first philosophical works to establish both representative and receptive theories of verisimilitude, but does not take the extra step to reconstruct the material for analytical purpose. 2. Gianvincenzo Gravina, Discorso sopra l’Endimione (Rome: Komarek, 1692), 56. 3. Ibid., 51. 4. I am loosely borrowing the term metascience from the discipline of the history of science; for example, Oldroyd defines the term as the “history of the philosophy and methodology of science.” David Oldroyd, The Arch of Knowledge: An Introductory Study of the History of the Philosophy and Methodology of Science (New York: Methuen, 1986), 2. Instead of using this definition, I am intending by metascience the governing philosophy that directs the scientific process, description, or method. 5. For Gravina’s philosophical principles on images, imagination, and perception, see chapter 3. 6. See chapter 3. 7. Gravina, Discorso, 67–68. 8. Ibid., 68. For my discussion of the surrounding passage, in which Gravina blames the “false interpreters of Aristotle,” see chapter 3. 9. Ibid., 68. Here I should note that sometimes Gravina uses the word favola to mean “mythology” (like the English cognate “fable,” a “fabulous” tale), and in other cases to mean “narrative,” or plot. In the case of L’Endimione, the distinction is minimal since the narrative concerns a mythological subject. However, one should note that in the Republic, Plato uses the term mythos/mythoi to mean something like what we would call “mythology” or “madeup narratives about the gods.” I discuss these passages in chapter 3, with references to secondary scholarship. But Aristotle uses the term mythos to mean “narrative” as in “plot” in the Poetics; Gravina therefore uses favola to “translate” both the Platonic and Aristotelian mythos. On Aristotelian mythos and narrative, see Elizabeth Belfiore, “Narratological Plots and Aristotle’s Mythos,” Arethusa 33, no. 1 (2000): 37–70. 10. Gravina, Discorso, 69. 11. For the structure and content of the discussion in Aristotle, see James C. Hogan, “Aristotle’s Criticism of Homer in the Poetics,” Classical Philology 68, no. 2 (1973): 95–108, esp. 97–98, 107. 12. Gravina, Discorso, 69. 13. Ibid.

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14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., 70. 16. For my discussion of Gravina’s discomfort with the authority of received interpretations, see chapter 3. 17. Gravina, Discorso, 71. 18. “If the poet has fictionalized the fact that Endymion was the first to love, it is a property of his invention.” Ibid. 19. Ibid. 20. Ibid. 21. For a list of classical sources of the Endymion myth, I have primarily relied upon Judith Colton, “The Endymion Myth and Poussin’s Detroit Painting,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 30 (1967): 426–31. Since Colton’s references to classical literature have some inaccuracies, I have also consulted other sources, which I cite below. 22. Pausanias, Description of Greece, bk. 5.3–5, Apollodorus, Library of Greek Mythology, bk. 1.7.5–6. C. Scott Littleton, Gods, Goddesses, and Mythology (New York: Cavendish, 2005), 474–75. For translations of the original texts, see: Pausanias, Guide to Greece [Description of Greece], Vol. 2, translated by Peter Levi (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin, 1971), 198; Apollodorus, The Library of Greek Mythology, translated by Robin Hard (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 39. Zenobius also quotes the Apollodorus almost verbatim. 23. Plato, Phaedo 17.72c; Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics 10.8.8 (1178b18–20); Cicero, De finibus bonorum 5.20.55, and De tusculanae disputationes 1.38.92. These are cited in John Lyly, introduction to Endymion, edited by David Bevington, The Revels Plays (Manchester, England, and New York: Manchester University Press; St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 11, 62 n.; David White, Myth and Metaphysics in Plato’s “Phaedo” (Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 1989), 76; and Rosamond Kent Sprague, “Aristotle and the Metaphysics of Sleep,” Review of Metaphysics 31, no. 2 (1977): 230–41. 24. Jas Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph: The Art of the Roman Empire a.d. 100–450, Oxford History of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 152–54; Koortbojian, Myth, Meaning, and Memory on Roman Sarcophagi (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 25. Gravina, Discorso, 63. 26. Ovid, Heroides 18.61–65; Ars amatoria 3.83 ff.; Amores 1.13.43–44; Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica 4.54 ff.; Hyginus, Fabulae 271; Lucian, Deorum dialogi 19; Theocritus, Idylls 20. See also: David Alan Brown and Sylvia Ferino-Pagden, et al., Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, and the Renaissance of Venetian Painting (Washington, DC; Vienna; New Haven, CT; London: National Gallery of Art; Kunsthistorisches Museum; in association with Yale University Press, 2006), 152; Wendy Beth Heller, Emblems of Eloquence: Opera and Women’s Voices in Seventeenth-Century Venice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 186; and Lyly, introduction to Endymion, 10, 62. 27. Monica Gale, Myth and Poetry in Lucretius, Cambridge Classical Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 75–79. For a discussion of euhemerism from the classical period through the Renaissance and the Reformation, see Luc Brisson, How Philosophers Saved Myths: Allegorical Interpretation and Classical Mythology, translated by Catherine Tihanyi (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 48–50, 128–29, 152 ff. For

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classical euhemerist interpretations of Endymion, see Pliny, Natural History, 2.6.41–43 and Lucian, Astrology, 18–19, cited in Lyly, introduction to Endymion, 11, 62. See also Aristoula Georgiadou and David H. J. Larmour, Lucian’s Science Fiction Novel, True Histories: Interpretation and Commentary, Mnemosyne, Biblioteca Classica Batava, Supplementum 179 (Boston: Brill, 1998), 98–99. 28. See my discussion in chapters 2 and 3, on the performance and publication of science in Guidi’s L’Endimione and Gravina’s Discorso. 29. Boccaccio portrays Endymion as a sleeping philosopher whose deep contemplation allowed him to search for reason by tracing the course of the moon. From Boccaccio, folio 64r: “Fulgentius says that Endymion was the first to find a pattern in the course of the Moon, and it was said that he slept for thirty years.” Translation is my own. Cited in: Maria Ruvoldt, The Italian Renaissance Imagery of Inspiration: Metaphors of Sex, Sleep, and Dreams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 195 n. 30. Natale Conti, Mythologiae (1551, 1581), vol. 1, bk. 4, ch. 8, translated and annotated by John Mulryan and Steven Brown, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 316 (Tempe, AZ: ACMRS, 2006), 276–77. In Cartari: “And all are fables, but which have nonetheless some sense of truth, because Pliny wrote that Endymion was the first to understand the nature of the Moon and for this reason it was pretended that they were in love with each other. And Alessandro Afrodiseo says in his Problems that Endymion was studious of the heavens and sought with diligence to understand the course of the Moon and the reasons for the various faces that she displays; and because he slept during the day and was awake at night, it was said that the Moon stole pleasure from him.” Vincenzo Cartari, Le imagini de i dei de gli antichi (1556), edited by Ginetta Auzzas [et al.] (Vicenza: Pozza, 1996), 109. Translation is my own. 31. There are some classical precedents for these representations, also; for two examples from late antiquity, one a sarcophagus now in Berlin, and one a mosaic at Piazza Armerina, see Koortbojian, Myth, Meaning, and Memory, 85–98. 32. Cima da Conegliano’s painting is in the National Gallery of Parma. A digital image is available at ArtStor at the following website address: https://artstor.files.wordpress. com/2016/03/scala_archives_1039489105.jpg (accessed August 7, 2018). 33. For my discussion of these topics, see chapter 2. 34. My interpretation of Cima da Conegliano’s painting is influenced by Ruvoldt, Italian Renaissance Imagery, 195 n.: “Classical sources, both textual and, more significantly, visual, support the representation of Endymion as a sleeping nude, but Cima eschews nudity in favor of classically inspired armor. This choice of costume is even more unusual in light of Endymion’s traditional identity as a shepherd. Perhaps Cima was seeking a way to manage the potential discomfort of an image of a sexually available, passive, male nude. With its inversion of the expected roles of sexual aggressor and passive object of desire, the Endymion myth challenges traditional conceptions of masculine identity. The armor serves to emphasize Endymion’s masculinity and distances him from the overtly sexual nature of the encounter with Diana. Cima’s unique choice to disembody Diana, making her present in the form of a crescent moon, further disrupts the idea of female sexual domination of a passive male nude. In marked contrast to precedents in ancient art, the physical, sexual exchange between goddess and mortal is rendered abstract, and Endymion is rescued from connotations of sexual passivity” (35–36). For another interpretation, and further references, see Brown and Ferino-Pagden, Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, 152–53.

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35. Clive Hart and Kay Gilliland Stevenson, Heaven and the Flesh: Imagery of Desire from the Renaissance to the Rococo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 51–60. 36. Tintoretto’s painting is in Florence at the Uffizi Gallery; a digital image is available on Scala Archives at the following link: www.scalarchives.com/web/dettaglio_immagine. asp?idImmagine=0064866&posizione=1&inCarrello=False&numImmagini=1& (accessed August 7, 2018). 37. The major sources are: Troy Thomas, “Poussin, Gombauld, and the Creation of Diana and Endymion,” Art History 33, no. 4 (2010): 620–41; Colton, “Endymion Myth”; Francis H. Dowley, “The Iconography of Poussin’s Painting Representing Diana and Endymion,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 36 (1973): 305–18. 38. John Rupert Martin, Baroque (New York: Icon Editions, Harper & Row, 1977), 217. 39. Koortbojian, Myth, Meaning, and Memory, 33, 89, 94–96. This gesture conveys a broad array of meanings, from surprise to magnanimity, but iconographical depictions of mythological heroes abandoning their lovers, with their lovers using this gesture, are parallel to this depiction of Endymion. Koortbojian cites several mythological women and men portrayed in this fashion, indicative of abandonment; other than Endymion, most prominent among these are Aphrodite at the death of Adonis, and Ariadne at the departure of Theseus. 40. Thomas and Colton both read a Neoplatonic significance. Thomas suggests that Endymion appeals for apotheosis and equalization: “The youth kneels in awe before Diana, whose power over him is complete, since she can allow him to live forever in the ambience of her love. The shepherd’s sense of his inferiority in the face of Diana’s dominance in the painting is mirrored in Gombauld’s poem [Jean Osier de Gombauld, L’Endimion (Paris, 1624)]. There, Endymion speaks of how his perceptions as a mortal are frail compared to hers as a god, and how his senses must be dulled by sleep so as not to be overpowered by her much stronger ones.” Thomas, “Poussin, Gombauld,” 625. Colton suggests a plea for Neoplatonic union in “Endymion Myth.” 41. Dowley, “Iconography of Poussin’s Painting.” 42. Gravina, Discorso, 72. 43. Ibid. 44. I discuss Guidi’s structure and language in greater detail in chapter 2. 45. See my discussions in chapter 2 and chapter 3. 46. Colton, “Endymion Myth,” 426. 47. I am not the first scholar to suggest this comparison; however, I am the first to provide a detailed, comparative study of the aesthetic and representative frameworks in both Guidi’s play and in the Farnese Gallery frescoes. See for example Alessandro Guidi, L’Endimione (1692), edited by Valentina Gallo, Manierismo e barocco 14 (Alessandria, Italy: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2011); Giuseppe Izzi, “L’Endimione di Alessandro Guidi tra Cristina di Svezia e Gian Vincenzo Gravina,” in Cristina di Svezia a Roma: Atti del Simposio tenuto all’Istituto Svedese di Studi Classici a Roma, 5–6 ottobre 1995, edited by Börje Magnusson, Suecoromana: Studia artis historiae instituti romani regni sueciae 5 (Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Rome, 1999), 163–71. My previous analysis appears in Ayana Smith, “Images, Aesthetics and Empiricism from the Palazzo Farnese to Arcadia,” in Early Modern Rome: Proceedings of a Conference on Early Modern Rome, 1341–1667, Held on May 13–15, 2010, in

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Rome, edited by Portia Prebys (Ferrara: Edisai, 2011), 431–41; and “On Tupos: Iconography and Verisimilitude in Early Arcadia,” Music in Art 34, nos. 1–2: Music, Body, and Stage: The Iconography of Music Theater and Opera (2009): 7–20. 48. Oscar Garstein, Rome and the Counter-Reformation in Scandinavia, vol. 4, The Age of Gustavus Adolphus and Queen Christina of Sweden, 1622–1656, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 47 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 767. 49. On the Carracci aesthetics, see: Clare Robertson, The Invention of Annibale Carracci, edited by Veronika Birbaumer, Studi della Biblioteca Hertziana 4 (Milan: Silvana, 2008); and Charles Dempsey, Annibale Carracci and the Beginnings of Baroque Style, 2nd ed. with new introduction and select bibliography, Villa I Tatti: Harvard University Center for Italian Renaissance Studies 16 (Fiesole, Italy: Cadmo, 2000). 50. Dempsey, Annibale Carracci, 56. 51. Maria Teresa Acquaro Graziosi, L’Arcadia: Trecento anni di storia (Rome: Palombi, 1991), 69. 52. Just one example of such a process in the Discorso was discussed in chapter 3, regarding the use of the terms maraviglia and novità; although prominent in Marino’s mannerist aesthetic, these terms in Gravina’s usage reach backward a generation to invoke similarities with the Renaissance great, Torquato Tasso (1544–95). 53. Rudolf Wittkower, revised by Jennifer Montague and Joseph Connors, Art and Architecture in Italy, 1600–1750, Yale University Press Pelican History of Art 1: The Early Baroque (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 14. 54. Gail Feigenbaum, “Annibale in the Farnese Palace: A Classical Education,” in The Drawings of Annibale Carracci. Catalogue of an Exhibit Held at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, 26 Sept. 1999–9 Jan. 2000, edited by Frances P. Smith and Susan Higman (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1999), 108–99; see also Van Gastel, Il Marmo Spirante: Sculpture and Experience in Seventeenth-Century Rome, Studien aus dem WarburgHaus 12 (Leiden: De Gruyter, 2013). 55. Feigenbaum, “Annibale in the Farnese Palace.” 56. See the discussions in the introduction, chapter 1, and chapter 2. 57. James Elkins and Robert Williams, eds., Renaissance Theory, Art Seminar 5 (New York: Routledge, 2008), 386. Vasari’s description of an all-encompassing art recurs in Gravina’s all-encompassing pastoral poetry. For the reference to Gravina, see chapter 2. 58. “The Carracci quite clearly believed in the same active concept of Nature and artistic creation believed in by Vasari, Lomazzo, and Zuccaro, and by Leonardo and Michelangelo before them. They interpreted the classical theoretical doctrine that it was the business of the artist to imitate nature as meaning not primarily the imitation of created nature (natura naturata), . . . but as meaning fundamentally the imitation of the way in which nature works (natura naturans), and in this belief they were heirs to the Renaissance Neoplatonic conception of the artist.” Dempsey, Annibale Carracci and the Beginnings of Baroque Style, 49–50. 59. “Natura naturans is God conceived as that substance whose essence is expressed by its infinite attributes, of which we know two, thought and extension. ‘Natura naturata,’ on the other hand, is everything that follows from God’s attributes—all the various modifications God’s essence produces. . . . Thus, ‘natura naturata’ comprises what we would normally consider as ‘nature.’ It is the ordinary world of plants, creatures and natural landscapes. But it is also more than this. It includes cities, towns and villages and all manufactured

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artifacts. The term also encompasses all mental states, including, but not restricted to, the ideas that comprise human minds. Thus God, as ‘natura naturans,’ is expressed by God’s attributes, primarily thought and extension, and, as natura naturata, exists as the modes that arise from these attributes, namely, all the varieties of ideas and the various individual extended objects respectively.” Pauline Phemister, The Rationalists: Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz (Cambridge: Polity, 2006), 80–81. See also Steven Nadler, “Baruch Spinoza,” in A Companion to Early Modern Philosophy, edited by Steven Nadler, Blackwell Companions to Philsophy 23 (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2002), 229–30. 60. “The fictive structure of the imaginary architecture is clearly visible, with herms illuminated from below, as though from the windows, which project forward and seem to support the paintings placed in the center of the vault; “bronze” medallions seem to pass behind them. . . . In the corners of the end wall the architecture opens to reveal a view into the open sky, against which is framed pairs of wrestling putti standing on fictive balustrades.” Dempsey, Annibale Carracci, the Farnese Gallery, Rome, Great Fresco Cycles of the Renaissance (New York: Braziller, 1995), 35. 61. “The decorative systems [he] employed may make use of conventions already familiar in sixteenth-century decoration, quadratura, quadro riportato, or views dal sotto in su, but none of these is the actively organizing principle behind their art. This principle is light and the illusions of chiaro and scuro. . . . The fictive architectural and sculptural elements which define the rhythms of their decorations are invariably lit with reference to the natural light of the room, which means they are usually strongly lit from below, while the quadri riportati are each of them given their own lighting, devised in keeping with the requirements of the scene represented, and treated independently of the lighting system which illuminates the feigned statues which frame them, and this of course only increases the illusion that they are ‘real’ paintings taken from their normal positions lower on the wall and skied.” Ibid., 72. For discussion of Annibale’s models, see Wittkower, Art and Architecture in Italy, 35 ff.; Steven W. Semes, The Architecture of the Classical Interior (New York: Norton, 2004), 77–80. 62. Gravina, Discorso, 73. 63. Ibid., 74. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid., 75. 66. See Amedeo Quondam, Filosofia della luce nelle egloghe del Gravina: Documenti per un capitolo della cultura filosofica di fine Seicento, Studi vichiani 3 (Naples: Guida, 1970). 67. Gravina, Discorso, 76. 68. Ibid., 77. 69. Chapter 4, “The Conditions of the Planets with Respect to the Sun,” in Marsilio Ficino, “The Book of the Sun” (1491–92), in Marsilio Ficino, ed. Angela Voss (Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 2006), 193, 194–95. 70. Vol. 1, bk. 3, ch. 17, in Conti, Mythologiae, 216. 71. See my discussion in chapter 3. 72. Gravina, Discorso, 66, 68. Gravina’s description here (“she seems to encounter herself outside of herself ”), and above (“who saw in Endymion part of her own nature”) seems to alter the mirror analogy that Guidi uses in his text, which more closely matches the Neoplatonic and mythographical interpretations of the Sun and of Cynthia. Gravina’s portrayal

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is more harshly anti-female; he characterizes a Narcissus-like figure who can only love someone who resembles her own self. 73. Ibid., 72. 74. Gianvincenzo Gravina, Della ragion poetica libri due (1708), in Scritti critici e teorici, edited by Amedeo Quondam, Scrittori d’Italia 255 (Rome: Laterza, 1973), 195–328; see also discussion of this passage in chapter 3 this volume. C HA P T E R 5 . B E L I EV I N G I N O P E R A

1. For a thorough discussion of the background of this opera, see Alessandro Scarlatti, The Operas of Alessandro Scarlatti, vol. 9, La Statira (1690), edited by William C. Holmes, Harvard Publications in Music 15 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985); and William Holmes, La Statira by Pietro Ottoboni and Alessandro Scarlatti: The Textual Sources, wth a Documentary Postscript, Monographs in Musicology 2 (New York: Pendragon Press, 1983); Stefanie Stella Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit: Musical Drama and the Influence of Opera in Arcadian Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 22–23, 35–36, 222–23n., places this work into the context of the 1690 carnival season and the multiplicity of operatic types that were being developed in private versus public operatic spheres. See also Tim Carter, “Mask and Illusion: Italian Opera after 1637,” in The Cambridge History of Seventeenth-Century Music, edited by Tim Carter and John Butt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 241–82; Donald Jay Grout, Alessandro Scarlatti: An Introduction to His Operas (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979); Malcolm Boyd, “Scarlatti’s ‘La Statira,’ ” Musical Times 111, no. 1527 (1970): 495–97; and Edward J. Dent, Alessandro Scarlatti: His Life and Works (1905), edited by Frank Walker, 2nd ed. (London: Arnold, 1960), for brief but highly useful and insightful descriptions of Scarlatti’s musical style in this opera. 2. For more information on the history of the Tordinona Theater, see: Andrea Penna, “Il primo teatro pubblico di Roma: Le vicende del Teatro Tordinona nel XVII secolo,” Studi romani: Rivista trimestrale dell’Istituto di Studi Romani 46 (1998): 227–68; Sergio Rotondi, Il Teatro Tordinona: Storia, progetti, architettura, edited by Enrico Guidoni, Roma: storia/ immagini/progetti4 (Rome: Kappa, 1987); Alessandro Ademollo, I teatri di Roma nel secolo decimosettimo: Memorie sincrone, inedite, o non conosciute, di fatte ed artisti teatrali, librettisti, commediografi e musicisti cronologicamente ordinate per servire alla storia del teatro italiano (1888), Biblioteca musica Bononiensis 3, no. 12 (Bologna: Forni, 1969); Alberto Cametti, Il Teatro di Tordinona, poi di Apollo, vol. 1, Il Seicento, Il Settecento, L’Ottocento; vol. 2, Cronologia degli spettacoli, Atti e memorie della Reale Accademia di Santa Cecilia (Tivoli, Italy: Aldo Chicca, 1938); and Alberto Cametti, Cristina di Svezia, l’arte musicale e gli spettacoli teatrali in Roma: Bernardo Pasquini, Arcangelo Corelli, Alessandro Scarlatti (Rome: Tip. Romano Mezzetti, 1931). The Tordinona’s reopening was short lived; it was demolished in 1697, among concerns about public display of opera, and a recent outbreak of violence at the Teatro Capranica. See Margaret Murata, “Theatrum intra Theatrum; or, The Church and Stage in 17th-Century Rome,” in Sleuthing the Muse: Festschrift for William F. Prizer, edited by Kristine K. Forney and Jeremy L. Smith (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2012), 181–201, for the religious and secular, public, and private spheres of conflict that surrounded the demolition of the Tordinona in 1697, and Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, for an overview of opera in Rome in the 1690s.

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3. See Valeria de Lucca, “L’Alcasta and the Emergence of Collective Patronage in MidSeventeenth-Century Rome,” Journal of Musicology 28, no. 2 (2011): 195–230. 4. Cardinal Ottoboni was deeply involved in literary, musical, and artistic patronage. As we have already seen, Ottoboni hosted a weekly literary conversation group at his residence (see the introduction); Crescimbeni describes this group, and Ottoboni’s literary accomplishments, in Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, “Delle Ottave, che si cantano all’improvviso, e d’ogni altra sorta de verseggiare improvvisamente,” in Commentarii intorno alla sua Istoria della volgar poesia (Rome: Rossi, 1702), 147–49. Hans Joachim Marx, “Die Musik am Hofe Pietro Kardinal Ottobonis unter Arcangelo Corelli,” Analecta musicologica 5 (1968): 104–77, details musical life at the Palazzo della Cancelleria under Arcangelo Corelli’s direction, which has profound implications for understanding the early concept of “orchestra,” as discussed in John Spitzer and Neal Zaslaw, The Birth of the Orchestra: History of an Institution, 1650–1815 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 116–17. For Ottoboni and the development of pastoral literature within the Arcadian Academy, and on the theatrical productions at the Cancelleria, see Susan M. Dixon, Between the Real and the Ideal: The Accademia degli Arcadi and Its Garden in Eighteenth-Century Rome (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2006), 34 ff. On Ottoboni’s artistic patronage, and the contents of his art collection, see the following studies by Edward J. Olszewski: Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni (1667–1740) and the Vatican Tomb of Pope Alexander VIII, Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 252 (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 2004); The Inventory of Paintings of Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni (1667–1740), American University Studies, Series 20, Fine Arts 36 (New York: Lang, 2003); and “The Enlightened Patronage of Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni (1667– 1740),” Artibus et historiae 23, no. 45 (2002): 139–65. 5. Holmes, La Statira; and Cametti, Il Teatro, 2: 343. 6. Holmes, La Statira, 17, has the date of Pradon’s play as 1695—this is a later edition; Holmes notes that this edition was in the personal library of Apostolo Zeno, but bears little relationship to Zeno’s libretto on the subject (Venice, 1705, with music by Francesco Gasparini). 7. This opera was attributed to Carlo Grossi prior to Herbert Seifert’s study; Herbert Seifert, “Cesti and his opera troupe in Innsbruck and Vienna, with new information about his last year and oeuvre,” in La figura e l’opera di Antonio Cesti nel Seicento europeo: Convegno internationale di studio, Arezzo, 26–27 aprile 2002, edited by Mariateresa Dellaborra (Florence: Olschki, 2003), 15–61. See also Beth L. Glixon, “Music for the Gods? A Dispute Concerning Francesco Lucio’s Gl’amori di Alessandro Magno, e di Rossane,” Early Music 26, no. 3 (1998): 445–54. 8. Eleanor Selfridge-Field, A New Chronology of Venetian Opera and Related Genres, 1660–1760 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007), 163. 9. The fourth edition of this opera was printed in Rome in 1664, with the same character list as that noted above, but also mentions a Venetian performance with a separate prologue than that of the Lucca performance. Due to its publication in Rome, it is possible that Ottoboni had access to this libretto. This opera is full of Baroque conceits, hidden identity, and amorous intrigue; while it features Apelles, his portrait of Campaspe, and Campaspe herself, it is otherwise pure fiction. Alexander wins the epithet “magnanimous” by giving up both Campaspe (to Apelles) and her portrait (to his rival for her affections), though he loved both equally. In some print sources and online catalogs one can still find attributions

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of this opera to Cavalli, although Wolfgang Osthoff has disproven this; all versions of this work were composed by Cesti, and some later editions, such as Lucca 1654, have newly composed pieces by Marco Bigongiari. See Wolfgang Osthoff, “Antonio Cestis ‘Alessandro vincitor di se stesso,’ ” Studien zur Musikwissenschaft 24 (1960): 13–43, who records eight versions of this libretto. See also Nicola Michelassi, “Balbi’s Febiarmonici and the First ‘Road Shows’ of Giasone (1649–1653),” in Readying Cavalli’s Operas for the Stage: Manuscript, Edition, Production, edited by Ellen Rosand (Farnham, England: Ashgate, 2013), 312–13; Irene Alm, Wendy Heller, and Rebecca Harris-Warrick, “Winged Feet and Muted Eloquence: Dance in Seventeenth-Century Venetian Opera,” Cambridge Opera Journal 15, no. 3 (2003): 227; Peter N. Miller, “Stoics Who Sing: Lessons in Citizenship from Early Modern Lucca,” Historical Journal 44, no. 2 (2001): 327–28; and Agnes Kory, “Leopold Wilhelm and His Patronage of Music with Special Reference to Opera,” Studia musicologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 36, nos. 1–2 (1995): 11–25. 10. See Anna Tedesco, “Cicognini’s Giasone: Between Music and Theater,” in Readying Cavalli’s Operas, ed. Rosand, 229–60; Flavia Cancedda and Silvia Castelli, Per una bibliografia di Giacinto Andrea Cicognini: Successo teatrale e fortuna editoriale di un drammaturgo del Seicento, Secoli d’oro 24 (Florence: Alinea, 2001); and Glixon, “Music for the Gods?” for the complicated history of this opera. Cicognini died after writing the argomento, the prologue, and act 1 through act 2, scene 2. Glixon writes that Cicognini had already completed a spoken play on the same subject under the title Le glorie [d]e gli amori di Alessandro e di Rossane. The rest of the opera was gleaned from Cicognini’s spoken play by an unknown hand. See Tedesco, “Cicognini’s Giasone,” for a literary comparison between Cicognini’s plays and librettos, including on this subject, and for a glimpse into Cicognini’s working methods. Glixon’s article for Grove Music Online lists the following musical settings of the opera: Lucio (1651), Ferrari (1656), G. G. Arrigoni (c. 1657–8), and Boretti (1668, as Alessandro amante). See Beth L. Glixon, “Cicognini, Giacinto Andrea,” Grove Music, Oxford Music Online, Oxford University Press, January 20, 2001, www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/ article/grove/music/05767 (accessed June 10, 2014). I have been able to locate the spoken play in publication in Venice, 1661. The characters listed are: Alessandro, Aminta, Cratero, Ismeno, Coortano, Rossane, Aspasia, Oristilla, and Clenice. This play reemerges as a dramma musicale in 1663 (listed above) under the title La Rosane, con gli amori di Alessandro Magno, but with a dedication by the printer, Bartolomeo Lupardi, dated in Rome on December 10. In the same year, Lupardi dedicated the spoken version of the play (opera tragicomica) to a patron in Bologna under the title Le glorie, e gli amori di Alessandro Magno e di Rossane. In this version, the characters are identical to those in the 1661 Venice production. 11. This opera is cited by Bianconi and Walker as being related to new political trends in Rome. See Lorenzo Bianconi and Thomas Walker, “Production, Consumption and Political Function of Seventeenth-Century Opera,” Early Music History 4 (1984): 251. Although it is tempting to assume that Ottoboni would have had access to the 1684 Alessandro Magno, and that this revised version of the opera included the same characters as the Vienna production, I cannot be certain of either of these assumptions at this point. Few seventeenthcentury Alexander operas include the character Statira; the others are: 1662, Innsbruck La magnanimità di Alessandro; and 1674, Vienna La lanterna di Diogene, on which the 1684 Roman opera is based. As in the other operas featuring Statira listed above, her historical rivalry with Roxana is absent.

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12. See Peter N. Miller, a scholar of political history, who demonstrates how Sbarra’s Alessandro vincitor di se stesso, performed in Lucca in 1664, is just one of a whole group of operas that mirror political ideals published in Lucca at the same time period. In that opera, the culmination of Alexander’s magnanimity occurs in a debate between Alexander and his two philosopher-counselors, Calone and Aristotle. Alexander, his senses “clouded” by Campaspe’s beauty, must make a decision. While Calone believes that whatever the ruler wants is by definition “just,” Aristotle advocates for reason. Miller, “Stoics Who Sing,” 327– 28. See also Robert Ketterer, who demonstrates that opera transitioned from an earlier seventeenth-century Neoplatonic structure concluding in transfiguration or apotheosis, to a Neostoic model representing the “myth of the clement prince” who sacrifices his own desires out of moral and political expediency. Robert Ketterer, Ancient Rome in Early Opera (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 11–13: “Related in spirit to this imperial clementia are the stories of the sexual continence of Alexander and the family of Darius and of the elder Scipio Africanus in Spain. In each case the conquering general refused to indulge himself with beautiful captive women, protecting them instead. Alexander is not otherwise famous for his clementia: In Seneca’s De Clementia (I.25) he is cited as a negative example for having thrown a close associate to hungry lions. But after the battle of Issus, he captured the family of King Darius and treated them with consideration. Scipio, after the siege of Cartagena, returned the young woman with her ransom money to her betrothed. These episodes of Alexander’s and Scipio’s magnanimity became favorites, interpreted by Veronese and Tiepolo, to name only two early modern painters.” 13. Pietro Ottoboni, La Statira, drama per musica recitato nel Teatro di Torre di Nona, l’anno 1690: Dedicato alle dame di Roma (Rome: Francesco Buagni, 1690), iii. 14. Lois E. Bueler, The Tested Woman Plot: Women’s Choices, Men’s Judgments, and the Shaping of Stories (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2001), 97, describes this dynamic: “Alexander . . . acknowledg[es] his war captive Timoclea’s valor and virtue, the philosopher Diogenes’ metaphysical and ethical mastery, the painter Apelles’ technical superiority and tutelage. But his sexual role is more complex, and distinguishing it from other acts of kingship is more difficult. When Alexander first announces his love for Campaspe, his friend Hephestion raises two questions: Is the soft sentiment of romantic love appropriate for a military commander? Is love for this woman, a lowborn captive, appropriate for a king?” 15. Quoted in ibid., 98. 16. Ibid. The similarities between Lyly’s play and Ottoboni’s opera are striking. Musical scholarship already explores the relationship between Italian Baroque opera and other national theatrical traditions—particularly, ancient Roman and Greek drama, French tragic theater, and Spanish comedy—but I have not encountered any studies comparing Baroque Italian opera to renaissance English literature. A closer study comparing the Alexander operas to Lyly’s drama might be profitable. In most literary studies, scholars show the influence to go the other way; for example, Golden Age Latin poetry influences Donne, or Dante influences Spencer. In this case, however, I am hard pressed to come up with any major Italian sources prior to Lyly. It is therefore tempting, again, to suggest that Lyly somehow influenced Ottoboni; and, again, I have no concrete evidence, so can only surmise that the similarities arise from common sources in classical texts. 17. Laura R. Bass, The Drama of the Portrait: Theater and Visual Culture in Early Modern Spain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008), 82: “The artist finds himself

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torn between his duty to his monarch and his love for the sitter, but the former prevails, and he goes ahead with the portrait. When he is finished, though, he loses his mind from jealousy. Alexander learns of his suffering and, heeding the advice of the old philosopher Diogenes, realizes that his greatest conquest must be that of his own passions. He thus offers to give Campaspe up to him, contenting himself with her portrait in her place. For Campaspe, this is an empty offer, the ‘darlo nada’ (to give nothing) of the second half of the drama’s title; without her consent, she can be given only as a soulless statue. In the end, Campaspe does marry Apelles because she so chooses, and Alexander properly marries a beautiful captive princess.” 18. Cametti, Il Teatro, 2: 343. 19. Ibid. 20. Ibid., 2: 344. 21. Holmes, La Statira, 72. 22. F. N., A Statira eremita, Sonetto. (1690), IB6.A100.B675 no. 6. Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, Nella stamperia della reverenda Camera apostolica, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:FHCL.HOUGH:4419724 (accessed June 15, 2014). 23. Of note is the relationship between this scene and act 2, scene 5 of Quinault’s and Lully’s Armide (1686), which was performed in an Italian translation by Giacomo d’Alibert in Rome in 1690; a similar scene also appears in De Totis’s and Pasquini’s La caduta del regno delle Amazzoni on January 15, 1690, at the Palazzo Colonna. See Andrea Garavaglia, “Amazons from Madrid to Vienna, by Way of Italy: The Circulation of a Spanish Text and the Definition of an Imaginary,” translated by Katherine Kamal, Early Music History 31 (2012): 213, for the parallel scene in La caduta. 24. Stanza 1 reads: “Par, che in faccia all Morte Augel canoro / Con dolce melodia consoli Averno. / E traspiri dolcezze; anco all’interno, / Ove in Trono real siede il martoro.” F. N., A Statira. 25. Here one should note that the entire cast was male, according to Roman custom since female singers were banned from public performance, but the author of the sonnet refers to Statira as “she,” consistent with her character in the opera. The libretto does not identify the singers, although Cametti has discovered the names Borosini (as Oronte), Pasqualini, and Mont’Alcino in the correspondence of Panziroli. Cametti, Il Teatro, 2: 343–44. Holmes enlarges our knowledge: “The two singers mentioned were among the most famous of their day. Both Pasqualino Thiepoli da Udine and Bartolomeo Monaci da Mont’Alcino were members of Ottoboni’s household and later became attached to the pontifical chapel.” Further: “Thiepoli is known to have sung exclusively as a soprano, while Mont’Alcino sang both soprano and alto parts. Yet the Modenese correspondent refers to Thiepoli as a ‘contralto.’ It is possible that the writer confused the singers in his letter, in which case it would have been Mont’Alcino who sang the role of Statira while Thiepoli sang one of the other principal soprano roles (Alessandro or Campaspe). If the Modenese correspondent was correct in his report, however, then Thiepoli sang Statira. One other singer can be assigned a role in the opera: the soprano Giuseppe Ceccarelli, also known as Peppino. He undoubtedly sang the role of Perinto, for he is listed as having been costumed for that role in the bills for later performances of La Statira at the Cancelleria.” Holmes, La Statira, 77. 26. The second stanza reads: “Te pur bella statira egual ristoro / Al morto Genitor porger discerno, / E sembra Dario nel suo cruccio eterno / Goder non poco al gemito sonoro.”

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27. For the published edition of this aria, see Scarlatti, La Statira, ed. Holmes, 119–21. 28. A Campaspe abbandonata da Alessandro, mirabilmente rappresentata nel Teatro di Tor di Nona, nell’opera intitolata Statira, sonetto (1690), IB6.A100.B675 no. 5. Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, Nella stamperia della reverenda Camera apostolica, http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:FHCL.HOUGH:4419713 (accessed June 15, 2014). 29. A Campaspe, stanza 2: “Vincesti un dì del Vincitor più forte / L’Armato Genio, e s’hor piegar’ gli strali / Ti convien’ in quel petto, altre ritorte / Non mancheran’ à lumi tuoi fatali.” 30. Stanza 3: “Chini à pie d’alessandro il capo altiero / L’Orbe sconfitto, che tù pur vedrai, / Languir’ à tuoi bei sguardi un Mondo intero.” Stanza 4: “Regni egli cinto d’Armi, e tù di Rai / Sia Rè di tutti i Rè l’Eroe Guerriero / Che Tù di tutti i Cuori, il Cor sarai.” 31. Scarlatti, La Statira, ed. Holmes, 101. Ottoboni’s autograph libretto gives a similar description, although with less detail: “Salon decorated as the kingdom of Flora, in the apartments of Campaspe.” Ibid., 13. All my translations of the libretto are modeled after those given in Holmes’s edition of the opera. According to Holmes, this scene description occurs in two of the manuscript scores of the opera (CDp: Cardiff, Cardiff Public Library, Mackworth Collection; and MOe: Modena, Biblioteca Estense, Ms. F. 1538). The latter score likely belonged to the Modenese singer Antonio Borosini, who played the role of Oronte; it may therefore provide an accurate rendition of the original production. See Scarlatti, La Statira, ed. Holmes, 10–11. There is also some evidence that a float was created for this scene by the architect Romano Carapecchia (1666–1738), who worked at the Teatro Tordinona. In addition to descriptions of how he created elements of the float, his design sketches also include a Carriage of Darius. See Denis De Lucca, Carapecchia: Master of Baroque Architecture in Early Eighteenth Century Malta (Valletta, Malta: Midsea, 1999). 32. Early modern examples include: Taddeo Zuccaro / Prospero Fontana, Triumph of Spring, Villa Giulia, Rome (c. 1553–58) and Antonio Tempesta, Triumph of Spring, British Museum, London (1592; shown in figure 9); Nicolas Poussin likely know both of these when he created his stunning Triumph of Flora, Louvre, Paris (1627). See Thomas Worthen, “Poussin’s Paintings of Flora,” Art Bulletin 61, no. 4 (1979): 575–88. 33. Quoted in Cametti, Il Teatro, 2: 344. D’Alibert was not the impresario of the production (who was Marcello de Rosis), but the theater manager, and rented the use of the building from the Arciconfraternità di S. Girolamo della Carità; he also renovated the building prior to the performance, at significant personal expense. 34. This has been the interpretation of previous scholars, including Cametti and Holmes. 35. Holmes, La Statira, 77. See Garavaglia, “Amazons from Madrid to Vienna;” Maria Grazia Profeti, Commedie, riscritture, libretti: La Spagna e l’Europa, Commedia aurea spagnola e pubblico italiano 7; Secoli d’oro 60 (Florence: Alinea, 2009), 196–201, 225; and Paolo Fabbri, “Round Table III: Drammaturgia spagnuola e drammaturgia francese nell’opera italiana del Sei-Settecento,” Acta musicologica 63, no. 1 (1991): 11–14, for the relationship of this libretto to Spanish precedents, and Tcharos, Opera’s Orbit, 22–23, 35–36, 222 n., 228 n. for a comparison of this opera and La Statira with respect to the operatic models of 1690s Rome. It is easy to understand some of the criticisms of La Statira—too “sad,” the text “not applauded”—when one compares this opera to La caduta. By contrast, Statira is built on the new Arcadian tragic pastoral model, and thus involves much less intrigue, no intermezzos, and only two balli, whereas La caduta is a full-on spectacle in the seventeenth-century Venetian operatic tradition, with precedents in Spanish comedy.

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36. Cametti records two additional performances at the Cancelleria (April 12 and April 22); see Cametti, Il Teatro, vol. 2: 344. Holmes, however, has three, and the dates differ from those in Cametti—April 9, April 16, and April 19; see Scarlatti, La Statira, ed. Holmes, 5. Perhaps there were five additional performances at the Cancelleria? 37. These are the sources that Ottoboni recognizes in his preface to the libretto; Holmes has identified other classical sources in addition to these. For a discussion of Alexander’s relationship with the women of Darius’s family after defeating the Persians at the Battle of Susa, with extensive commentary on the primary historical sources, see Elizabeth Donnelly Carney, Women and Monarchy in Macedonia (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000), 93–97 and 108–12; for Alexander’s relationship with Roxana, and her murder of Statira, see pages 105–7. 38. Plutarch, “Life of Alexander,” 70; in Plutarch, “Alexander,” translated by Bernadotte Perrin, in Plutarch’s Lives in Eleven Volumes, VII: Demosthenes and Cicero, Alexander and Caesar, edited by E. H. Warmington, Loeb Classical Library 99 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), 419–20. 39. Plutarch, “Alexander,” 77 (in Perrin, trans., 437).Ibid., 40. In Pliny, she is called Pancaspe, and in some sources this version of her name appears with the alternate spelling Pankaspe. 41. The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art, translated by K. Jex-Blake (Chicago: Argonaut, 1968), 124–25, bk. 35, ch. 85–87. 42. Plutarch, “Life of Alexander,” 1 (in Perrin, trans., 225). 43. Ottoboni, La Statira, 9. 44. Plutarch, “Life of Alexander,” 20 (Perrin, trans., 279). 45. Ibid. 46. Ibid., 20 (Perrin, trans., 281). 47. Ottoboni, La Statira, 11. 48. Plutarch, “Life of Alexander,” 43 (Perrin, trans., 351–53). 49. Ibid., 70 and 73 (Perrin, trans., 419, 437, respectively). 50. Pliny, Natural History, in Ten Volumes: Volume IX, Libri XXXIII–XXXV, translated by H. Rackham, Loeb Classical Library 394 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1961), 323–25. 51. Ibid., 325. 52. In a similar gesture, the Accademia Medina Coeli (also called the Accademia Palatina), a group in Naples which was affiliated with the Roman Arcadians (and to which Gravina’s mentor Gregorio Caloprese belonged), held their meetings sitting in a circle “lest the members be sidetracked over issues of precedence and social standing,” creating intellectual equality despite differences in title, rank, and class. See Harold Samuel Stone, Vico’s Cultural History: The Production and Transmission of Ideas in Naples, 1685–1750 (New York: Brill, 1997). 53. For Ottoboni, we can deepen even further the symbolic undercurrent of this scene, since he was also a leading patron of the Accademia di San Luca, dedicated to painting— and, there is an iconographic relationship between the subjects Saint Luke Painting the Virgin Mary and Apelles Painting Campaspe. See Ian Verstegen, “Between Presence and Perspective: The Portrait-in-a-Picture in Early Modern Painting,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 71, no. 4 (2008): 526.

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54. Ottoboni, La Statira, 27. 55. See my discussion of perspective in this and the following scenes, below. 56. Pliny, Natural History, 325. 57. I am using the scene descriptions given in Holmes, as noted above, which he takes from Ottoboni’s autograph libretto manuscript, and which are duplicated in the musical manuscript probably owned by the singer of Oronte; these give greater description of the performance, and replicate Ottoboni’s vision for the performance as well as a likely description of what actually happened onstage. The set changes as given in the printed libretto do not change the dramatic structure, although the following descriptions differ slightly: Gallery of paintings (2, 1–6), Royal Room with statues (2, 7–10), and Group of mountains with the Hut of Statira and the Mausoleum of Dario (2, 11–12): Galleria di quadri/Sala Regia con statue/Gruppo di monti con l’Eremo di Statira, e Mausoleo di Dario. 58. For theories of truth and fiction, see chapters 3 and 4. 59. Although the libretto has the word merce (reward) in line 5, I am translating it as mercè (mercy), because the poetic scansion makes it clear that this line must have a tronco ending and therefore must be accented on the last syllable (Ottoboni, La Statira, 30). 60. “Loving without hope” is discussed in Gravina’s Discorso as a central marker of “heroism.” See chapters 2 and 4. 61. Ottoboni, La Statira, 32. 62. Ibid., 33. 63. Ibid., 34. 64. See chapter 3. 65. See Holmes, La Statira, 57–59. 66. Ibid., 59. 67. Pigler lists only three paintings in the sixteenth century, all by Italian artists: Francesco Primaticcio (1504–70), in the Château de Fontainbleau, Chambre de la Duchesse d’Étampes (1541–45); Francesco Morandini (“Il Poppi,” 1544–97), in the Studiolo of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence (1571); and Raffaello Motta (Raffaellino da Reggio, c. 1550–78), in Nuremberg. The subject increased in importance in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; during this time period, Pigler cites twenty works by Italian artists, eighteen by Netherlandish artists, ten by French artists, and seven by German artists. The most notable of these are: Joos van Winge (c. 1600, Vienna), Sebastièn Bourdon, Francesco Trevisani (Fullerton, CA), Sebastiano Conca, Francesco Solimena, Sebastiano Ricci (c. 1700–1704, Parma), and Giambattista Tiepolo (1726–27, Montreal). See Andor Pigler, Barockthemen: Eine Auswahl von Verzeichnissen zur Ikonographie de 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts, 2nd ed. (Budapest: Akademiai Kaido, 1974), 366–68. See also the list in Dictionary of Artists’ Models, edited by Jill Berk Jiminez (Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2001), 99. Several of these works have connections to the Arcadian Academy. Both Trevisani and Conca worked for Cardinal Ottoboni, and Bourdon was Queen Christina’s court painter in Rome. Ottoboni commissioned several paintings from Trevisani before officially adding him to the roster of court painters at the Cancelleria in 1705; Trevisani remained at the Cancelleria for the remainder of the cardinal’s life. For more details on Ottoboni’s commissions from both Trevisani and Conca, see Olszewski, “Enlightened Patronage.” 68. Apelles was associated with charis (grace, often translated into Latin as gratia) and venustas (charm, or beauty). See the following: Eric Jan Sluijter, Rembrandt and the Female

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Nude (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 17; Marguerite Tassi, The Scandal of Images: Iconoclasm, Eroticism, and Painting in Early Modern English Drama (Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 2005), 74; Leonard Barkan, Unearthing the Past: Archeology and Aesthetics in the Making of Renaissance Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 99–100; and Richard E. Spear, The “Divine” Guido: Religion, Sex, Money, and Art in the World of Guido Reni (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 15, 103. 69. For Gravina’s “commonly held beliefs,” see chapters 3 and 4. 70. For this double symbolism, see the following: Eve Rachele Sanders, Gender and Literacy on Stage in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 70–72, 212 n.; Ann B. Shteir, “Flora primavera or Flora meretrix? Iconography, Gender, and Science,” Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture 36, no. 1 (2007): 147–68; Carole Elizabeth Newlands, Playing with Time: Ovid and the Fasti (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2006), 108– 22; and David Rosand and Ellen Rosand. “‘Barbara Di Santa Sofia’ and ‘Il Prete Genovese’: On the Identity of a Portrait by Bernardo Strozzi.” Art Bulletin 63, no. 2 (1981): 249–58. For mythographical sources portraying this typology, see: Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.10.12; Aulus Gellius, Noctes atticae 7.7; Plutarch, Questiones romanae 35; Lactantius, Divinae institutiones 1.20; Boccaccio, De claris mulieribus 44; and Cartari, Le imagini de li dei de gli antichi. 71. A similar analogy is used by Guidi to express Endymion’s attempts to unite with Cynthia; Gravina in his commentary on the text refers to this same passage (see chapters 3 and 4). It is clear in La Statira that this is Campaspe’s primary fault; she does not qualify for the Neoplatonic apotheosis accorded to Endymion in Guidi’s narrative, because her character does not meet the ethical standards. 72. See chapter 3. 73. The bedroom includes three frescoes filling the main walls: to the left as you enter the room, is a battle scene with Alexander on his horse Bucephalus, proceeding to the right, is Alexander with Roxana and the marriage bed, and on the wall opposite the door, is the Tent of Darius. All three of these frescoes, with slight rearranging and superimposing—as Ottoboni performed on the ancient texts—relate to the narrative of La Statira. 74. The printed libretto gives the following text: “Countryside with a distant view of hills and Pavilions, under which the Persian Army sleeps; a starry Sky with a full Moon.” Ottoboni, La Statira, 9. Holmes gives a slightly longer description, based on the manuscript sources: “Countryside with a distant view of hills, under which is the Persian army, immersed in sleep; a starry sky with a full moon which illuminates the multitude of soldiers and the royal pavilion of Dario in the middle.” Scarlatti, La Statira, 27. 75. Ottoboni, La Statira, 9. 76. Ibid., 10. Holmes has an additional stage direction, which calls for trumpets just before Oronte describes hearing them: “The war trumpets sound” [Suonano le trombe a Guerra]. Scarlatti, La Statira, 30. In the printed libretto (as quoted here) the sound of the trumpets occurs after the recitative, and now we also hear the sound of the soldiers marching. There is also a slight difference in Holmes’s stage directions for act 1, scene 2, compared to the printed libretto. Whereas the printed libretto has Alexander at the head of his army, Holmes’s manuscript sources also have Alexander on his famous horse, Bucephalus: “All the hills are seen, covered with the Macedonian army, which with slow march parade towards the Persians; Alessandro on his famous Bucefalo at the head of his soldiers, and Oronte who awakens Dario’s camp.” Ibid.

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77. Ibid., 10. 78. “Alexander departs in the Carriage drawn by Black Chargers, followed by many Persian Prisoners.” Ottoboni, La Statira, 11. 79. The entire scene consists of two stanzas of text; the first uses two lines of endecasillabi as a frame for four lines of settenari, creating the following pattern: 11–7–7–7–7–11. Since the first two and final two lines seem to alternate in versi sciolti, accompanied recitative would be natural. The second stanza, however, has the following metrical pattern: 11–8– 8–8–8–11. Here, recitative seems less natural, as only the first and final lines imply it. Finally, three of the four endecasillabo lines throughout the scene have an end-rhyming pattern, and two of those repeat several phrases of text, suggesting a refrain (“Crudo cielo, empio fato, inique stelle, . . . Rotando à danni miei sempre rubelle,” in stanza 1, followed by “Crudo cielo, empio fato, ingrate stelle . . . Hò perduto Statira, e pur non moro,” in stanza 2). Instead of following these poetic implications for musical form, Scarlatti continues Oronte’s role as textual narrator by having him sing in accompanied recitative, to saturate the entire scene with musical description. Oronte now goes deeper into his own emotional state, since the sudden military action in act 1, scene 2 interrupted his reverie from act 1, scene 1. 80. Ottoboni, La Statira, 12. 81. On ekphrasis in the classical tradition, see: Emma Scioli, Dream, Fantasy, and Visual Art in Roman Elegy (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2015); Basil Dufallo, The Captor’s Image: Greek Culture in Roman Ecphrasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013); Heinrich F. Plett, Enargeia in Classical Antiquity and the Early Modern Age: The Aesthetics of Evidence, International Studies in the History of Rhetoric, edited by Laurent Pernot and Craig Kallendorf, vol. 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Patricia J. Johnson, Ovid before Exile: Art and Punishment in the Metamorphoses (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008); Michael C. J. Putnam, Virgil’s Epic Designs: Ekphrasis in the Aeneid (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998); Andrew Sprague Becker, The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics of Ekphrasis (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1995); and James A. W. Heffernan, Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). Dufallo highlights how ekphrasis in ancient Roman literature could exoticize and create distance from a cultural other, and reflect internal beliefs of individual characters, thus providing readers with significant interpretive material. Plett provides a broad overview of how ekphrastic techniques serve rhetorical purpose across literature, painting, music, and arts in the early modern period, and includes extensive passages (and their translations) from ancient Greek and Latin sources on the topics of related imagistic devices, such as enargeia, hypotyposis, phantasia, and evidentia. Johnson theorizes that Ovid uses ekphrasis to comment on freedom of speech (or lack of it) in artistic processes, by describing both the creation of art and the artwork itself, and then linking ekphrasis to transformation—which punishes creative artists for speaking out, or for protesting through their art, which can be musical, literary, or material. Papaioannou draws on classical definitions of ekphrasis, involving pauses in narrative function, necessitating interpretation and creating multiple perspectives, to illustrate how Ovid situates his epic poetry with respect to the Vergilian epic tradition. Several elements of classical ekphrasis resonate with narrative strategies in Ottoboni’s libretto, and with Scarlatti’s musical setting. 82. For studies on musical ekphrasis, see: Michele Cabrini, “Breaking Form through Sound: Instrumental Aesthetics, Tempête, and Temporality in the French Baroque Cantata,”

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Journal of Musicology 26, no. 3 (2009): 327–78; Siglind Bruhn, ed., Sonic Transformations of Literary Texts: From Program Music to Musical Ekphrasis (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2008); and Bruhn, Musical Ekphrasis: Composers Responding to Poetry and Painting (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2000). 83. For Apelles’ resonance in the early modern era, see Verstegen, “Between Presence and Perspective”; Francis Ames-Lewis, The Intellectual Life of the Early Renaissance Artist (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000); Joanna Woods-Marsden, Renaissance SelfPortraiture: The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the Artist (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998); Martin Kemp, Behind the Picture: Art and Evidence in the Italian Renaissance (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997); E. H. Gombrich, The Heritage of Apelles, Gombrich on the Renaissance 3 (London: Phaidon, 1993); John Gage, “A Locus Classicus of Colour Theory: The Fortunes of Apelles,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 44 (1981): 1–26; and David Cast, The Calumny of Apelles: A Study in the Humanist Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1981). 84. Some scholars refer to Cortona’s painting with the title “Battle of Arbela”; Arbela refers to the early modern city of Gaugamela, now called Erbil, in northern Iraq. For scholarship on this painting and its influence, see Donald Posner, “Charles Lebrun’s Triumphs of Alexander,” Art Bulletin 41, no. 3 (1959): 237–48. Cortona’s painting was originally part of the Sacchetti art collection, and now is on display at the Palazzo dei Conservatori. 85. On the Alexander Mosaic in the House of the Faun at Pompeii, which may be a copy of Apelles’ original, see: Pierre Briant, Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, translated by Jane Marie Todd (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015); Catie Mihalopoulos, “The Construction of a New Ideal: The Official Portraiture of Alexander the Great,” in Alexander the Great: A New History, edited by Waldemar Heckel and Lawrence A. Tritle (London: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 275–93; and Paolo Moreno, Apelles: The Alexander Mosaic, translated by David Stanton (Milan: Skira, 2001). For some other iconographies of Alexander, and how performances of opera seria can use these to create baroque gesture, see Richard G. King, “ ‘How to Be an Emperor’: Acting Alexander the Great in ‘Opera Seria,’ ” Early Music 36, no. 2 (2008): 181–201. 86. See chapter 2 for ekphrastic techniques in works published by Komarek, the publisher of Gravina’s Discorso and Guidi’s Endimione; chapter 3 for the emphasis on visual theories, including the immagine del vero, in Gravina’s Discorso; and chapter 4 for the highly visual effects in Guidi’s Endimione. 87. For more on Bellori and the ekphrastic tradition, see: Margaret Daly Davis, “Giovan Pietro Bellori and the ‘Nota delli musei librerie, galerie, et ornamenti di statue e pitture ne’ palazzi, nelle case, e ne’ giardini di Roma’ (1664): Modern Libraries and Ancient Painting in Seicento Rome,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 68, no. 2 (2005): 191–233; Giovanni Pietro Bellori, The Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects, translated by Alice Sedgwick Wohl, Hellmut Wohl, and Tomaso Montanari (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and Giovanna Perini, “L’arte di descrivere: La tecnica dell’ecfrasi in Malvasia e Bellori,” I Tatti Studies: Essays in the Renaissance 3 (1989): 175–206. 88. Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Le vite de’ pittori, scultori et architetti moderni, scritte da Giovanni Pietro Bellori (Rome: Mascardi, 1672), vi. 89. Ibid., 55.

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90. For images, and textual analysis, see Roberto Guerrini, “Plutarco e la cultura figurativa nell’età di Paolo III: Castel Sant’Angelo, Sala Paolina,” RACAR: Revue d’art canadienne / Canadian Art Review 12, no. 2 (1985): 179–87. 91. These are: (1) Alexander and the Family of Darius; (2) The Battle of Issus; (3) Alexander Having the Dead Body of Darius Reburied—note that although this is not a common iconography, it resonates with how Ottoboni fleshed out Statira’s character in the opera; (4) Alexander and Campaspe; and (5) Alexander Taming Bucephalus. See Jan L. De Jong, “An Important Patron and an Unknown Artist: Giovanni Ricci, Ponsio Jacquio, and the Decoration of the Palazzo Ricci-Sacchetti in Rome.” Art Bulletin 74, no. 1 (1992): 135–56, for discussion of attribution, interpretation, dating, and the room’s relationship to the other nine fresco series in the palace. 92. De Jong also cites two other major Alexander fresco series in Rome: one at the Palazzo Spada c. 1550, of which only some fragmentary evidence remains, and there is some discrepancy in whether to interpret these as a series on Alexander or Scipio; and two cycles of five scenes each painted by Taddeo and Federigo Zuccaro in 1560 in the Palazzo MatteiCaetani. As in the series in the Castel Sant’Angelo, this group also functions as a namesake; it was commissioned by Alessandro Mattei. C HA P T E R 6 . D E C E I V I N G T H E EY E

1. Additional performances of the opera include: Bologna, 1694 (music by Giacomo Antonio Perti); Venice, 1697; Ferrara, 1700; Hamburg, 1700 (as Die Macht der Tugend, music by Reinhard Keiser); Venice, 1716 (as La virtù coronata); Naples, 1723 (as Siface, text adapted by Metastasio, music by Francesco Feo). Possible imitations of the opera, based on character lists, include: Roderico (Ferrara, 1696); Il miglior d’ogni amore per il peggiore d’ogni odio (Venice, 1703; text by Francesco Silvani, music by Francesco Gasparini). For a discussion of this opera with respect to Arcadian reform, see Mary Sue Macklem, “Reforming Opera and Its Public in Early Modern Venice” (Ph.D. diss., Music History, University of Pennsylvania, 2003). For a biography of Pollarolo and discussion of his music, see Olga Ascher Termini, “Carlo Francesco Pollaro: His Life, Time, and Music with Emphasis on the Operas” (Ph.D. diss., Music History, University of Southern California, 1970). 2. Giovanni Mario Crescimbeni, La Bellezza della volgar poesia, spiegata in otto dialoghi da Giovanni Mario de’ Crescimbeni, custode d’Arcadia, con varie notizie, e col catalogo degli Arcadi (Rome: Buagni, 1700), 141. For Crescimbeni’s La bellezza della volgar poesia and its influence on modern scholarship, see introduction and chapter 1. 3. The personified statue was a feature of Spanish comic theater; one need only think of Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla y convidado di Piedra of c. 1630—the precursor to Mozart’s Don Giovanni—and just one of several statue conventions that made their way into seventeenth-century Italian opera. For another example, with a related plotline to La forza della virtù, see Girolamo Gigli’s and Antonio Caldara’s L’Anagilda, discussed in Ayana Smith, “The Mock Heroic, an Intruder in Arcadia: Girolamo Gigli, Antonio Caldara, and l’Anagilda (Rome, 1711),” Eighteenth Century Music 7, no. 1 (2010): 35–62. 4. This should remind us of Endymion’s discontent amid the beauty of spring (see chapter 1), and Gravina’s heroic “loving without hope” (see chapter 2).

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5. For Crescimbeni on façades that belie their interiors as a metaphor for mannerist poetry, see the introduction; for Gravina on the immagine del vero and the truthfulness inherent in colossal statues, see chapters 2 and 3. 6. See the discussion by Eugenia Paulicelli in Writing Fashion in Early Moden Italy: From Sprezzatura to Satire (Farnham, England: Ashgate, 2014), 161–64. Paulicelli notes that this iconography plays a central role in several early modern Venetian literary works, including Giacomo Franco, Habiti delle donne veneziane (c. 1591–1610); Luigi Groto, La Emilia commedia nova (1597); and in the Neapolitan book by Giambattista della Porta, Magia naturalis (1558). For the influence of Venetian plane-glass mirrors on the development of Renaissance self-consciousness, its association with duplicity, and as a tool for projecting identity, see Laura Tosi, “Mirrors for Female Rulers: Elizabeth I and the Duchess of Malfi,” in Representations of Elizabeth I in Early Modern Culture, edited by Alessandra Petrina and Laura Tosi (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 257–75. For the role of mirrors in the early modern Venetian economy, see Maria Fusaro, Political Economies of Empire in the Early Modern Mediterranean: The Decline of Venice and the Rise of England, 1450–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 291–98. 7. For the Beauty, Luxury, and Vanity allegories associated with the female nude and the mirror iconography, see Sarah Blake McHam, “Reflections of Pliny in Giovanni Bellini’s Woman with a Mirror,” Artibus et historiae 29, no. 58 (2008): 158, 168 n. 6–9. Although Santore suggests that the Vanitas allegory is more relevant for a northern European context than for the Venetian, many art historians interpret Bellini’s famous allegory as representing either Vanity, Vainglory, False Fame, Prudence, Truth, or Self-Knowledge. See Oskar Bätschmann, Giovanni Bellini (London: Reaktion, 2008); Norman E. Land, “The Fiction of Bellini’s ‘Truth,’ ” Notes in the History of Art 18, no. 3 (1999): 11–18; Cathy Santore, “The Tools of Venus,” Renaissance Studies 11, no. 3 (1997): 179–207; and Erwin Panofsky, Problems in Titian, Mostly Iconographic, Wrightsman Lectures 2 (New York: New York University Press, 1969), 94. For information on the history of mirrors in art, see Gustav Friedrich Hartlaub, Zauber des Spiegels; Geschichte und Bedeutung des Spiegels in der Kunst (Munich: Piper, 1951), especially 49, 82–83, 158–72. 8. Paulicelli interprets the multiple perspectives cast by the mirror as projections of dissimulation, or as control of self-identity, in Writing Fashion, 161–63. 9. For early modern and modern imitations of classical art, see Michael S. Silk, Ingo Gildenhard, and Rosemary Barrow, The Classical Tradition: Art, Literature, Thought (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014), 394–401. “Titian’s . . . Venus with a Mirror (c. 1555) recall(s) the distinctive double pudica pose of the Medici Venus. . . . Yet whether the Medici Venus herself serves as a model for Titian, there is no doubt that he looks to the many Venus variants which (like the Medici) derive from Praxiteles’ fourth-century masterpiece, the Aphrodite of Cnido” (395). On imitations of Praxiteles, see Rosemary Barrow, “From Praxiteles to De Chirico: Art and Reception,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 11, no. 3 (2005): 344–68. For the relationship between Praxiteles’ Venus and Apelles’ Venus Anadyomene, see chapter 5. 10. Maria H. Loh, Titian Remade: Repetition and the Transformation of Early Modern Italian Art (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2007), 124–25. Rona Goffen, Renaissance Rivals: Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphale, Titian (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002), 323.

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11. Despite the explicit voyeurism in early modern renditions of the subject, some art historians read an implied modesty, idealized feminine beauty, or depiction of marriage, in these paintings. From this point of view, the Woman with the Mirror theme extends the Petrarchan poetic tradition. 12. For more on Apelles and his early modern legacy, see chapter 5. 13. McHam, “Reflections of Pliny,” 159. McHam suggests an antique statue of Venus owned by Bellini’s brother was the artist’s inspiration for the “Lady with a Mirror.” Others have focused on the painting as representing idealized beauty, or Vanity: “the picture is more likely to constitute a variation on the theme of the ideally beautiful woman. . . . In keeping with this poetic theme, the signed cartellino takes the form of a love-letter written by the painter himself; and it is as if the aged master, while paying tribute to his youthful model, is emphasising that it is through the power of his art that her beauty will be made immortal. In this sense, the mirror may be interpreted as an unassertive vanitas motif, referring to the transience of youth and beauty.” Peter Humfrey, Painting in Renaissance Venice (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 146–47. While some have suggested that Bellini’s Lady with a Mirror participates in a sixteenth-century Venetian paragone between sculpture and painting, Norman Land prefers to see an everyday scene modelled after Jan van Eyck’s Woman at Her Toilet, portraying a woman emerging from her bath with a mirror reflecting the other side of her body. This latter work is known only through a copy of it in the Fogg Art Museum, and through Willem van Haecht’s “Visit of Albert and Isabella of Austria to the Studio of Cornelis van der Geest in 1615,” of 1628 (now in the Rubenshuis in Antwerp). See Norman E. Land, “Giovanni Bellini, Jan van Eyck, and the ‘Paragone’ of Painting and Sculpture,” Source: Notes in the History of Art 19, no. 1 (1999): 1–8, esp. 5, 7. 14. For representations of Venus in ancient art and literature, see Nora Clark Liassis, Aphrodite and Venus in Myth and Mimesis (Newcastle upon Tyne, England: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2015). 15. See John Mulryan, “The Three Images of Venus: Boccaccio’s Theory of Love in the ‘Genealogy of the Gods’ and his Aesthetic Vision of Love in the ‘Decameron,’ ” Romance Notes 19, no. 3 (1979): 388–94. Cathy Santore summarizes the prevalence of Venus Meretrix in Renaissance mythology, and provides an example repeating it in a satiric play by one of Titian’s associates: “The reputation of Venus as courtesan or even as whore survived in the Renaissance. Boccaccio believed her to have been a real woman mistakenly worshipped as a goddess, one who, ‘wallowed in the filth of brothels’. Following Boccaccio’s lead, Garzoni has not a favourable word to say about the goddess. He agrees that ‘L’inventione adunque di questa dissoluta, e vituperosa, professione si attribuisce à Venere’ [the creation of this dissolute and filthy profession is attributed to Venus], and blames her for the corruption of Cypriot girls. Conti repeats this story without Boccaccio’s and Garzoni’s vituperative tone. Niccolo Franco, associate of Titian’s close friend Pietro Aretino, has a character in a satiric dialogue discourse with Venus about the places consecrated to her, that is, the bordellos. Giraldi, Conti, Cartari, and Equicola all agree that Venus was the first to practise the art of the courtesan” (186). Cathy Santore, “The Tools of Venus,” Renaissance Studies 11, no. 3 (1997): 179–207. 16. Text and translation from Olive Sayce, Exemplary Comparison from Homer to Petrarch (Cambridge: Brewer, 2008), 327. 17. See chapters 1, 2, and 3 for greater details on these concepts.

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18. Gravina, Della ragion poetica libri due (Rome: Francesco Gonzaga, 1708), bk. 2, chap. 2, “On Rhyme” (“Della rima”), 130–31. See also Gravina’s discussion of metaphors, which can contain “vain ornaments,” “reverberate,” and “appeal to the ear,” if they are used too excessively and do not contain the “image of what they represent.” Ibid., bk. 2, chap. 16, “On Ariosto,” 186–87. 19. See introduction. 20. David, La forza, act 2, scene 4 (p. 40). 21. Ibid., act 2, scene 5 (p. 42). 22. Pollarolo, La forza, act 2, scene 5 (n.n.). 23. David, La forza, act 2, scene 12 (p. 49). 24. Ibid., ll. 45–49 (p. 50). 25. The score also offers an alternate version of this aria; it is much shorter (only twentysix measures), and although it is still a da capo, the text begins at the halfway point (at “Per l’Ispana Regnatrice”) with some modifications. There is still some coloratura for the voice, although this is greatly shortened and simplified; there is a five-part opening ritornello, but the voice is accompanied only by basso continuo during the aria. The necessity of providing an alternate version speaks to the high level of virtuosity required by the soloists, and that not every cast or ensemble would be expected to be able to do it. For the audience fortunate enough to experience the original version, it must have been thrilling. 26. David, La forza, act 1, scene 1 (p. 15). 27. See introduction, and chapter 1. For the interrelated influences of the new Roman landscape painting and stage sets, see Malcolm Andrews, Landscape and Western Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 118–20. 28. “With the hand that once afflicted me, Fortune now caresses me. It [Fortune] is no longer a Warrior, but a grantor of Scepters. Leave aside weapons, and daring.” 29. Oskar Bätschmann, Giovanni Bellini (London: Reaktion, 2008), 135, 227 n.; for an alternative perspective, which traces and discredits some of the evidence, see Land, “Giovanni Bellini, Jan van Eyck.” Whether or not the details of the story are as Vasari reported them, the idea of a paragone of this sort was very prevalent in the early modern era, and artists of that time believed in the narrative. For an interpretation of Bellini’s participation in the paragone in his Woman at the Mirror by truncating the figure’s legs to resemble a partial ancient Greek statue, see Sarah Blake McHam, “Reflections of Pliny in Giovanni Bellini’s Woman with a Mirror,” Artibus et historiae 29, no. 58 (2008): 165. For an interpretation of Titian participating in this paragone in his painting Woman with the Mirror, see Humfrey, Painting in Renaissance Venice, 135. 30. Nathaniel Burt, “Opera in Arcadia,” Musical Quarterly 41, no. 2 (1955): 145–70. E P I L O G U E . C O N S T RU C T I N G G E N D E R A N D P O L I T IC S

1. See Oscar Garstein, Rome and the Counter-Reformation in Scandinavia, vol 4, The Age of Gustavus Adolphus and Queen Christina of Sweden, 1622–1656, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 47 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 503–5, for Chanut’s first-hand descriptions of Christina’s intellectual abilities and education. 2. Susanna Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle: The Transformation of a Seventeenth-Century Philosophical Libertine, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 21 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 104.

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3. These include: “Ouvrage de loisir,” “Sentiments heröique,” Réflexions diverses sur la vie et les actions du Grand Alexandre, and “Réflexions sur la vie e les actions du César.” For discussion of Christina’s maxims and her performance of identity, see Monica Setterwall, “Queen Christina and Role Playing in Maxim Form,” Scandinavian Studies 57, no. 2 (1985): 162–73, and for Christina’s philosophical outlook as expressed in her writings, see Jacqueline Broad, Women Philosophers of the Seventeenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 33, 38. 4. For Descartes’ evolving philosophy on passions, reason, and the body, see Harold J. Cook, “Body and Passions: Materialism and the Early Modern State,” Osiris 17 (2002): 25–48, who quotes from Descartes’ draft in his discussion. “In this draft treatise, Descartes explained that the movements of the blood accompanying each passion were grounded in physical and physiological principles, and that ‘our soul and body’ are very closely linked. But he also acknowledged that ‘the remedies against excessive passions are difficult to practice’ and ‘insufficient to prevent bodily disorders.’ He still believed that such remedies might free the soul of domination by the passions so as to enable ‘free judgment.’ But now ‘it is only desires for evil or superfluous things that need controlling’; certainly ‘it is better to be guided by experience in these matters than by reason” (38). 5. Broad, Women Philosophers, 33, 54. For a full treatment of Christina’s Cartesian and Stoic influences, see Ernst Cassirer, Descartes, Corneille, Christine de Suède, 3rd ed. (Paris: Vrin, 1997). Susanna Åkerman, Queen Christina and Her Circle, 55–69, refutes Cassirer’s argument that Cartesian philosophy played a strong role in Christina’s abdication. 6. Broad, Women Philosophers, 33. Stoicism was pervasive in early modern European culture, so it is challenging to know exactly how to attribute Christina’s interest in these principles. For example, Christina’s Protestant religious upbringing, some of Descartes’ philosophical principles, and Christina’s study of Justus Lippsius (1547–1606), the renowned scholar of Seneca and Tacitus, whose texts Christina read during her education, were all sources for her Stoic leanings. Several chapters in Steven K. Strange and Jack Zupko, eds., Stoicism: Traditions and Transformations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), address these intersections. 7. Setterwall, “Queen Christina and Role Playing,” 167. 8. For Christina’s increasing adherence to skepticism and libertinism leading up to her conversion, see Åkerman, Queen Christina and Her Circle, 14–43. 9. Text quoted in Erin L. Thompson, Possession: The Curious History of Private Collectors from Antiquity to the Present (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 83. 10. See chapter 1 for my discussion of Christina’s emulation of French taste and culture. To this, we can add the construction of a salle de ballet modeled after French theaters, which Christina had built in 1647. For this, a list of the ballets performed for Christina in the 1640s, and a description of La Naissance de la Paix, see Ellen R. Welch, A Theater of Diplomacy: International Relations and the Performing Arts in Early Modern France, Haney Foundation Series (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017), 126–29. Gunilla Dahlberg, “The Theatre around Queen Christina,” Renaissance Studies 23, no. 2: Reading and Writing the Swedish Renaissance (2009): 165–85, provides an in-depth discussion of many of these ballet texts, which informs my discussion here. Stefano Fogelberg Rota’s article “Il teatro in Svezia durante il regno di Cristina,” in Letteratura, arte e musica alla corte romana di

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Cristina di Svezia, edited by Rossana Maria Caira and Stefano Fogelberg Rota (Rome: Aracne, 2005), 209–42, provides an overview of theater at Christina’s Swedish court, with scenarios from two productions. 11. The character is described: “This heroic virtue and honour come together to follow Christina and render her Reign as glorious as that of Gustavus. He that never decided anything without prudence, never executed anything without Justice, never engaged in any deed that was not advised by heroic virtue.” Quoted in Stefano Fogelberg Rota, “AntiProtestant Heroic Virtue in Early Modern Rome: Queen Christina (1626–1689) and Senator Niels Bielke (1706–1765),” in Shaping Heroic Virtue: Studies in the Art and Politics of Supereminence in Europe and Scandinavia, edited by Stefano Fogelberg Rota and Andreas Hellerstedt, Brill Studies in Intellectual History 249 (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 100. Rota’s study traces heroic virtue in Christina’s Swedish court ballets, and in other facets of her representation after arriving in Rome, 98–102. 12. Stefano Fogelberg Rota, “War and Peace in the Court Ballets Performed during the Reign of Queen Christina of Sweden (1644–54),” in Seventeenth-Century Ballet: A Multi-Art Spectacle. An International Interdisciplinary Symposium, edited by Barbara Grammeniati (Bloomington, IN: Xlibris, 2011), 112–30; see 116–17 for Christina’s association with bellum iustum. 13. See ibid., 118–21, for descriptions of these, and for quotations from and analysis of Le vaincue de Diane. 14. Dahlberg describes the plot of Le vaincue de Diane: “Here the virgin goddess Diana, who was danced by the queen, clips the wings of the tyrannical god of love and deprives him of his bow and arrows. Cupid falls in love with the goddess, but after some tutoring in Pallas Athena’s school of virtue, he accepts it is enough for him to admire Diana from a distance.” Dahlberg, “Theatre around Queen Christina,” 172. 15. Rota, “War and Peace,” 118–20. 16. Welch, Theater of Diplomacy, 126–27. 17. Ibid., 129. The allusion simultaneously elevates Christina, and grants Sweden authority over all the other nations negotiating the Treaty of Westphalia. 18. Åkerman, Queen Christina and Her Circle, 103; for Christina’s projection of her role as Minerva through her intense intellectual activities in her Stockholm Academy, which began in 1650, see pp. 103–7. Such luminaries as Georg Stiernhielm, who wrote the texts for several of Christina’s theatrical entertainments, and the classicists Nicolas Heinsius and Isaac Vossius, were among the attendees. Christina commissioned the statutes for her academy from Descartes in the same year. 19. Kungliga Biblioteket, Stockholm, Sweden (SVP 217). Nathan Popp describes the features of the engraving, “This distinctive print shows the queen as a living bust of Minerva surrounded by symbols of wisdom and peace. She wears a helmet, ringed with a laurel wreath signifying academic excellence, and topped with a sphinx. The sphinx figure designates Christina as an incisive ruler who, according to legend, destroys those who fail to satisfy her questions. It seems somewhat disconcerting that Christina’s head and shoulders are perched atop a pedestal, dismembered from the rest of her body, and yet she stares out at the viewer wide-eyed and presumably animate.” Nathan Alan Popp, “Expressions of Power: Queen Christina of Sweden and Patronage in Baroque Europe” (Ph.D. diss., Art History, Graduate College, University of Iowa, 2015), 101. This dissertation is an in-depth

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study of all the objects that portray Christina, or reflect her identity, with images from archival sources not available in other published forms. Falck’s engraving occurs as figure 36 on page 102. For a discussion of Christina as Minerva in literature, and the origins of its symbology in painting and medals, see Allan Ellenius, “Johannes Schefferus, Christina Minerva, and Fortuna Audax: A Study in Policial Emblematics,” in The Emblem in Scandinavia and the Baltic, edited by Mara R. Wade and Simon McKeown, Glasgow Emblem Studies 11 (Glasgow: University of Glasgow, 2006), 75–102. For Christina’s commission of a series of medallions depicting her as Minverva/Athena beginning in 1649, see Erin L. Thompson, Possession, 84–85. 20. This depiction persisted until the end of her life; see also description of Christina’s portrayal as Minerva in a memorial project designed by Charles Errard (1601–89), in Queen Christina of Sweden: Documents and Studies, edited by Magnus von Platen, Nationalmusei Skriftserie 12; Analecta reginensia 1 (Stockholm: Nationalmuseum, 1966), 342–43. 21. Quoted in Arnaldo Morelli, “Mecenatismo musicale nella Roma barocca: Il caso di Cristina di Svezia,” Quaderni storici, n.s. 32, no. 95 (2): Storia e musica: Fonti, consumi e committenze (1997): 397. 22. Poetic improvisation would become an important component of the Arcadian Academy, also. Improvisation was a popular public spectacle, drawing crowds to open Arcadian events and competitions, but slowly came to be seen as frivolous and gendered female. See Paola Giuli, “From Academy to Stage: Improvisation, Gender, and National Character,” in The Formation of a National Audience in Italy, 1750–1890: Readers and Spectators of Italian Culture, edited by Gabriella Romani and Jennifer Burns (Madison and Lanham, MD: Farleigh Dickenson University Press and Rowman & Littlefield, 2017), 153–70; and “ ‘Monsters of Talent’: Fame and Reputation of Women Improvisers in Arcadia,” in Italy’s Eighteenth Century: Gender and Culture in the Age of the Grand Tour, edited by Paula Findlen, Wendy Wassyng Rowort, and Catherine M. Sama (Stanford, CA.: Stanford University Press, 2009), 303–30. 23. See Anna Maria Partini, Cristina di Svezia e il suo cenacolo alchemico (Rome: Edizioni Mediteranee, 2010), 45–46. 24. For Christina’s involvement in alchemical experimentation, see Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle. Like astrology, alchemy was a widespread scientific endeavor in the seventeenth century, although the new scientific principles of empiricism were beginning to erode the relevance and reputation of both disciplines. 25. See Partini, Cristina di Svezia e il suo cenacolo, 48. For Christina’s art collection, including an appendix that duplicates two of the original catalogs of her paintings and sculptures, see Veronica Biermann, Von der Kunst abzudanken: Die Repräsentationsstrategien Königen Christinas von Schweden, Studien der Kunst 24 (Vienna: Böhlau, 2012); Görel Cavalli-Björkman, “La reina Christina de Suecia y su colección artística = Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Art Collection,” in Esculturas para una reina: La colección de Cristina de Suecia = The Queen’s Sculptures: The Collection of Christina of Sweden, edited by José María Luzón Nogué and Anne Christine Borgenstierna (Madrid: Fundación Berndt Wistedt, 2007), 15–38; Stefanie Walker, “Las esculturas de la reina Cristina de Suecia en los palacios Riario y Odescalchi de Roma = The Sculptures of Christina of Sweden in the Palaces Riario and Odescalchi in Rome,” in Esculturas para una reina, 41–56; Enzo Borsellini, “ ‘I quadri di Alberto Duro de d’altri maestri alemanni li darei tutti per un paro di Raffaello’: Cristina e le

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arti,” in Letteratura, arte e musica alla corte romana di Cristina di Svezia, ed. Caira and Rota, 161–208; and Biermann, “The Virtue of a King and the Desire of a Woman? Mythological Representations in the Collection of Queen Christina,” Art History 24, no. 2 (2001): 213–30. 26. See chapters 5 and 6 for discussions of symbolism, and their relevance to Scarlatti’s La Statira and Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù. 27. For a complete list of Christina’s paintings displayed in the Stanza dei Quadri, and a list of primary source catalogs and descriptions of Christina’s art collection, see Therese Sjovoll, “Queen Christina of Sweden’s Musaeum: Collecting and Display in the Palazzo Riario” (Ph.D. diss., Art History and Archeology, Columbia University, 2015); and Katherine Aune, “Display as Identity: Queen Christina of Sweden’s Construction of a Public Image through her Stanza dei quadri” (M.A. thesis, College of Fine Arts, Texas Christian University, 2015). Christina’s program of collecting sculpture matched the themes displayed in her paintings. Among her antiquities were full-sized statues of notable and unidentified female figures, two on the subject of Leda and the Swan, and three depictions of Venus. These were displayed in nine rooms among the public areas of the ground floor. On Christina’s antiquities, see Erin L. Thompson, Possession, 82; Walker, “Las Esculturas”; and Roberta Perazzone, “Pietro Maria Balestra, uno scultore senese alla corte di Cristina di Svezia,” in Cristina di Svezia a Roma: Atti del Simposio tenuto all’Istituto Svedese di Studi Classici a Roma, 5–6 ottobre 1995, edited by Börje Magnusson, Suecoromana: Studia artis historiae instituti romani regni sueciae 5 (Stockholm: Swedish Institute in Rome, 1999), 97–112. 28. For the discussion of these works and their meanings in the context of Christina’s collection, see Frans Baudouin, “Deux tableaux de Rubens de la collection de la Reine Christine: ‘Hercule et Omphale’ et ‘La Mort d’Adonis,’ ” in Queen Christina of Sweden, ed. Von Platen, 16–32. 29. “The Hercules Mocked by Omphale shows the semidivine hero and paragon of male strength and virtue enslaved to Omphale, the Queen of Lydia who has appropriated Hercules’ club and lion cloak and tweaks the hapless hero’s ear. His body is adorned with fragments of feminine clothing, here indicated by the turban on his head and a bit of colored cloth that lies across his thigh. In a final insult, he is forced to hold a distaff and spin thread among the court women.” Lisa Rosenthal, Gender, Politics, and Allegory in the Art of Rubens (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 115. 30. “The Venus Lamenting Adonis depicts the youthful hunter, fatally wounded in the groin by the boar, dying in Venus’ arms after he had shunned her pleas to abandon the dangers of the hunt for the pleasures of love. Desire and sexual difference are clearly at issue here. But although both works feature men surrounded by women, it is not at all evident whether we are to understand the enslaved Hercules and dying Adonis as similar types, as complements of each other, or as opposites.” Ibid., 115–18. 31. On the role of poetry in Christina’s academy, and resonances with the Arcadian Academy, see Stefano Fogelberg Rota, “Organizzazione e attività poetica dell’Accademia Reale di Cristina di Svezia,” in Letteratura, arte e musica alla corte romana di Cristina di Svezia, ed. Caira and Rota, 129. 32. Wilma Di Palma, Cristina di Svezia: Scienza ed alchimia nella Roma barocca; Atti del Ciclo di Conferenze (Roma, Sala Borromini, 17–19 aprile 1989) sulla cultura scientifica alla corte romana di Cristina di Svezia, Nuova biblioteca Dedalo 99: Serie nuovi saggi (Bari: Dedalo, 1990), 18.

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33. See Partini, Cristina di Svezio e il suo cenacolo, 48. 34. Ibid., 47. 35. Elena Brambilla, Sociabilità e relazioni femminili nell’Europa moderna: Temi e saggi, edited by Letizia Arcangeli and Stefano Levati (Milan: Angelo, 2013), 196. For more detail on the philosophical and scientific debates, and their relationship to topics discussed in the Arcadian Academy, see Åkerman, Queen Christina of Sweden and Her Circle, 254–65. 36. From the founding documents, quoted in Morelli, “Mecenatismo musicale nella Roma barocca,” 397. Christina’s patronage of music, and the use of music in her academy is discussed in Carolyn Gianturco, “Christina di Svezia scenarista per Alessandro Stradella,” in Atti del Convegno Internazionale: “Cristina di Svezia e la musica” (Roma, 5–6 dicembre 1996) (Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 1998), 45–69, and in Gianturco, “Cristina di Svezia: Promotrice e ideatrice di musica a Roma,” in Letteratura, arte e musica alla corte romana di Cristina di Svezia, ed. Caira and Rota, 113–28. Two articles by Valeria de Lucca discuss Christina’s activities as a patron of opera: “Strategies of Women Patrons of Music and Theatre in Rome: Maria Mancini Colonna, Queen Christina of Sweden, and Women of Their Circles,” Renaissance Studies 25, no. 3 (2011): 374–92; and “L’Alcasta and the Emergence of Collective Patronage in Mid-Seventeenth-Century Rome,” Journal of Musicology 28, no. 2 (2011): 195–230. 37. Quoted by Renata Ago, “Hegemony over the Social Scene and Zealous Popes (1676– 1700),” in Court and Politics in Papal Rome, 1492–1700, edited by Gianvittorio Signorotto and Maria Antonietta Visceglia, Cambridge Studies in Italian History and Culture, edited by Gigliola Fragnito (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 229–46. 38. A seventeenth-century author (Pietro de Sebastiani, Viaggio curioso de’ palazzi e ville più notabili di Roma, 1683) writes that the palace is remarkable for being set apart from everything else in the vicinity, for its spacious orchards, gardens, and vines, and the hillside that extended all the way up the Janiculum to the Casino at the summit, as cited in Maria Pia Micheli and Gloria Tammeo, eds., Il restauro della fontana del Fuga nell’Orto Botanico di Roma (Rome: Gangemi, 2011), 41. The famous Casino sul Gianicolo was a small house at the very back of the Palazzo Riario gardens, with its own private gardens (giardini segreti), where Christina lived while renovations were being completed after she began renting the palace. The structure is no longer there; it is now the site of the cannon that is fired every day at noon, near the Garibaldi monument. From there, one can see all the splendors of the Vatican and the historic city. See Falda’s map in the introduction of this book. 39. Partini, Cristina di Svezia e il suo cenacolo, 36. 40. See Åkerman, Christina of Sweden and Her Circle, 171. 41. Ibid., 173. 42. Ibid., 172. 43. On Queen Christina’s Sala delle Muse, see Lilian H. Zirpolo, “Christina of Sweden’s Patronage of Bernini: The Mirror of Truth Revealed by Time,” Woman’s Art Journal 26, no. 1 (Spring–Summer 2005): 38–43. 44. Thompson, Possession, 79. 45. For Christina’s influence on Roman papal politics, see Marie-Louise Rodén, Church Politics in Seventeenth-Century Rome: Cardinal Decio Azzolino, Queen Christina of Sweden, and the Squadrone Volante, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Stockholm Studies in Economic History 60 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2000).

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46. Texts by Christina quoted in Thompson, Possessions. 47. Ibid. 48. Zirpolo, “Christina of Sweden’s Patronage of Bernini.” 49. Quoted in Thompson, Possession, 80–81. 50. As described in ibid., “Christina’s public audience room, [the Sala delle Muse] featured ancient sculptures of eight seated muses and a modern statue of Apollo playing the lyre. The elaborate room also had columns of yellow Numidian marble supporting a gilded cornice topped with busts of emperors, walls and doors covered with Venetian mirrors painted with flowers, and a ceiling fresco of Pegasus. Christina intended the room to invoke Mount Helicon, gathering place of Apollo and the muses. The image in the ceiling fresco set the specific scene as the myth of creation of the Hippocrene Fountain, source of poetic inspiration, by a kick from Pegasus’s hooves.” 51. Zirpolo, “Christina of Sweden’s Patronage of Bernini.” Thompson suggests that this arrangement also emphasized masculine traits, since Melpomene’s attributes are a sword, or the club of Hercules.

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Index

Alexander against King Dareios, 168fig, 169, 272n84; Haecht, The Studio of Apelles, 147, 149fig; Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great, 168, 169fig; Sodoma, Darius’ Mother before Alexander, 160fig; Trevisani, Apelles Painting Campaspe, 148fig —dramatic character, 128–31, 138–139, 263n9, 265nn12,14,16, 265–266n17; in broadsides, 132, 134; in Scarlatti’s La Statira, 127, 130–131, 141–145, 147, 150–151, 154–157, 159–160, 163–164, 166, 168, 171–172, 219–220, 271n78 —historical figure: Pliny, 127, 131, 140–141, 143–145; Plutarch, 127, 139–143 —Queen Christina’s emulation of, 213–214, 218–220, 223 allegory —discourse on: Crescimbeni, 26, 53, 60; Gravina, 78, 97, 123–124 —mythology as, 109, 111–112, 216 —of Pope Alexander VIII, 127, 171, 219–220 —of Queen Christina, 211–213, 217–218, 219–220fig, 222fig —representation of: in art, 112, 171, 188, 196, 274n7; in Guidi, L’Endimione, 55–57, 217–218; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 175–176, 196, 207–208; in Scarlatti, La Statira, 127, 171 —See also euhemerism antiquarianism, 6–8, 48, 52, 117, 124, 227n11, 228n14

Accademia degli Animosi, 33–34, 173, 176 Accademia degli Arcadi. See Arcadian Academy Accademia degli Incogniti, 36–37 Accademia di San Luca, 230n24, 268n53 Accademia fisico-matematica (Academy of Physics and Mathematics), 51–52, 109, 123, 216, 223; influence on Gravina, 51, 76–78, 98, 100, 109, 123. See also Ciampini, Giovanni Giustino Accademia Reale: classicism in, 116–117; academic discourse, 213–214, 215; members of, 65, 213, 215, 245–246n92; influence on the Arcadian Academy, 2, 17–18, 39, 47, 49–50, 52, 54, 109, 209, 210, 215. See also Christina, Queen of Sweden aesthetics. See beauty (bellezza); falsehood (falso); fiction (finto); judgment (giudizio); nature, imitation of; novelty (novità); sublime, the; taste (buon gusto); wonder (maraviglia). See also under individual academies and authors Albani, Giovanni Francesco (cardinal; Pope Clement XI), 50, 64–66, 215 Alexander the Great —allegory of Pope Alexander VIII, 127, 171, 219–220 —artistic subject, 168–169, 171, 270nn73,76, 272n85, 273nn90,92; Alexander the Great as Helios, 221fig, Cortona, The Battle of

301

302

index

Apelles —artistic subject, 189, 268n53; Haecht, The Studio of Apelles, 147, 149fig; Trevisani, Apelles Painting Campaspe, 148fig —dramatic character, 129–130, 135, 139, 263n9, 265n14, 265–266n17; in Scarlatti’s La Statira, 127, 135, 137–139, 143–147, 150–157, 160, 167–172, 220 —historical figure, 209, 269n68, 272n85; Pliny, 140–141, 143, 144–145, 189 Apollo (Roman deity), 48, 113fig, 114, 217, 223, 282n50 L’Arcadia. See under Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario Arcadian Academy —aesthetics: 2, 17, 20–22; classicism and antiquarianism, 3–4, 17–18, 49; discourse on opera, 8–9, 17, 20–22, 32–38, 236nn42–46, 237nn52,55; ocularcentrism and visual culture, 12, 20–22, 29, 51, 116, 139, 220, 228n14 —founding and organization: 2–9, 11, 17, 21–23, 26, 35; “colonies” of, 22, 34,173; “democratic Republic,” 2, 61, 71, 145; gender and identity, 19–20, 279n22; laws of (leges Arcadum), 22, 26, 71; musical activities, 8–9, 21, 229n20, 237n55, 246n101; pastoral symbolism, 2, 17, 48, 59, 108, 217; pseudonyms and “masking” traditions, 2, 19, 22, 26, 69, 145; response to French critics, 7, 18, 20, 68, 229n22; schism, 29, 31, 62, 63, 81 —ideology, 3–4, 12, 17, 19, 21, 38–39, 230n24; performance and publication, 1, 3, 7–8, 11, 17, 19, 22, 32, 38–40, 49–51, 53, 60–61, 64, 215; philosophical interests, 4–8, 22, 78, 281n35 —legacy: influence, 2, 7–8, 22, 38, 229nn21; reception, 67, 71–73; scholarship on, 13–14, 34–35, 174, 236n42 —members, 2, 21–22, 51–52; artists, 4, 19, 230n24, 269n67; composers, 8–9, 11, 19, 219; librettists, 8–9, 11, 21, 34–37; patrons, 7, 11, 19, 25–26, 50, 109, 145, 209, 210, 219, 230n24; poets, 19, 21–22, 48, 69, 145, 247n105 —reform characteristics, 4, 5, 17, 19, 37, 50, 208; literary style, 4, 17, 20, 22, 38, 50, 62, 74, 194; poetry and pastoral drama, 2, 17, 28–29, 35, 49, 62, 65, 68, 263n4, 279n22; opera and the libretto, 9, 34, 174, 263n4 —See also individual members and works; Accademia degli Animosi; Christina, Queen of Sweden; Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces); image of truth (immagine del vero); taste (buon gusto)

aria(s): discourse on, 33–36; textual and musical rhetoric: Guidi’s l’Endimione, 40, 46–47; Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù; 176–178, 181–182, 184–187, 189–191, 193–194, 196–201, 203–204, 208, 276n25; Scarlatti’s La Statira, 132–135, 137–138, 150–153, 156–157, 163–164, 166. See also individual works Ariosto, Lodovico, 25, 72, 80, 83, 250n21, 276n18 Aristotle, 58, 86–89, 91, 93, 107–108, 256n9; influence on: the Accademia Reale, 215; Arcadian discourse, 35, 37; Crescimbeni, 23, 29, 35, 60, 63–64, 81, 235n33; Gravina, 59, 63, 76–77, 79–81, 85–86, 89, 91–94, 97–99, 103–107, 123–124, 256n9 Baretti, Giuseppe, 69, 70–71, 248n116 basilissa, 2, 39, 54, 210, 213, 225n1. See also Christina, Queen of Sweden beauty (bellezza) —aesthetic discourse: Accademia Reale, 215; Conti, A., 67; Crescimbeni, 25–30, 36, 195, 235n30; Gravina, 79, 91, 121–122; Plato, 254n92 —dramatic portrayal: Guidi, L’Endimione, 46–47, 115; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 175–176, 180, 183, 185–186, 191, 193–194, 196, 202–203; Scarlatti, La Statira, 132, 134–135, 137, 140, 147, 150, 156, 159, 161 La bellezza della volgar poesia. See under Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario Bellini, Giovanni, 188–189, 208, 214, 274n7, 275n13, 276n29; Young Woman at Her Toilet, 188fig Bellori, Giovanni Pietro, 14, 51–52, 53, 117, 169–170, 214, 251n47 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 214, 223 Bianchini, Giuseppe Maria, 66, 67–68, 247n103 Boccaccio, Giovanni, 111, 189, 258n29, 275n15 bon goût. See under taste Bosco Parrasio. See Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces) Bourdon, Sebastien, 219, 269n67; Queen Christina of Sweden, 220fig; Queen Christina of Sweden, on horseback, 222fig buon gusto. See under taste Burt, Nathaniel, 32, 174, 209, 236n42 Calcagno, Mauro, 36 Caloprese, Gregorio, 8, 13, 66, 80, 99 Camerata, Florentine, 33, 35–36, 37, 95 Cametti, Alberto, 132, 138, 266n25, 268n36 Campaspe

index —artistic subject, 147, 157; Haecht, The Studio of Apelles, 149fig; Trevisani, Apelles Painting Campaspe, 148fig, —dramatic character, 130–131, 139; in broadsides, 134–135; in Scarlatti’s La Statira; 132, 134–135, 137–138; 142–145, 147, 150–151, 153–159, 170, 172, 219–220 —historical figure: Pliny, 143–145 Campo Vaccino, 6fig, 53, 229n18 Carracci, Agostino: Aeneas and His Family Flee Troy, 228n14 Carracci, Annibale: Diana and Endymion, 109, 110fig, 116, 170; Farnese Gallery, 117–121, 155, 170, 261nn60–61; landscape painting, 3–4, 54, 118, 155, 169, 171. See also Palazzo Farnese Cartari, Vincenzo, 112, 258n30 Castel Sant’Angelo, 2, 4, 171, 225–226n3, 273n92 catharsis, aesthetic discourse: Crescimbeni, 28–29, 60; Gravina, 56, 93–94, 126; in Guidi’s L’Endimione, 42, 56 Cesti, Antonio, 128, 129, 174, 263n7, 263–264n9 Ceva, Tommaso, 88 Chiabrera, Gabriello, 1, 40, 65–67, 73; Il rapimento di Cefalo, 194 Christina, Queen of Sweden (biography and legacy of) —Accademia fisico-matematica, 51, 109, 216, 223 —Accademia Reale, 47, 49, 50, 54, 65, 109, 116–117, 209, 213–215, 220, 221 —Arcadian Academy: basilissa of, 2, 39, 54, 210, 213, 225n1; influence on, 2, 11, 13, 17–18, 50, 65, 209–210, 215, 219–221, 223 —art collection, 209, 214–215, 219; mirrors, 221–223; Sala delle Muse, 217, 223, 282n50 —biography: abdication, 57, 211; coronation, 213; death and funeral monument, 52–53, 65, 210, 219; education, 210, 218; gender and identity, 54, 210, 211, 213, 214, 217–218; relationship with Descartes, 18; politics, 57, 211–212, 217–218; religion, 219 —palaces and gardens of: Palazzo Farnese, 65, 110fig, 116–117, 170, 213; Palazzo Riario, 2, 5fig, 39, 49, 51, 213, 215–216, 222, 280n27, 281n38 —patronage, 7, 11, 14, 210; of art, 51–52; of Guidi’s L’Endimione, 40, 44, 47–50, 52, 55–57, 64–65, 105, 115, 217–218; of music, 50, 215, 219; of science, 214, 216, 223; and ocular devices, 13, 216, 222; of the Tordinona Theater, 217, 220 —philosophical interests, 47–48, 210–211, 215; Cartesianism, 211–212, 277nn5–6; Neoplatonism, 215, 217–218; rationalism, 48, 212–213;

303

skepticism, 277n8; Stoicism, 211–212, 215, 218, 277n6 Christina, Queen of Sweden (representation and self-fashioning) —allegories of, 211–213, 217–218, 219–220fig, 222fig —artistic subject, 213; Bourdon: Christina of Sweden, 219–220fig; Queen Christina of Sweden, on horseback, 219, 222fig —emulation of Alexander the Great, 213–214, 218–220, 223 —performance of heroic virtue, 211–212, 214, 223 Ciampini, Giovanni Giustino, 51, 52, 76, 109, 215, 216, 241n2. See also Accademia fisicomatematica Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 26, 99, 108, 235n39 Cicognini, Giacinto Andrea, 32, 129, 130, 264n10 Cima da Conegliano, Giovanni Battista, 112, 258n34 Clement XI, pope [Albani, Giovanni Francesco], 50, 64–66, 215 cognition (cognizione), discourse on, 88–90, 253n75 Conti, Antonio, 8, 66, 67–68, 99, 103 Conti, Natale, 111–112, 275n15 Corelli, Arcangelo, 9, 50, 215, 219, 246n94 Corniani, Giovanni Battista, 69, 247nn105,110, 248n115 Cortona, Pietro da [Berettini, Pietro]: The Battle of Alexander against King Dareios, 168fig, 169, 272n84 Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario —critical theories: 25, 28, 34, 61–64, aesthetics, 21–22, 25, 29; arias, 33–36, 174, 234n15; beauty, 25–30, 36, 195, 235n30; eye(s) and vision, 20–21, 30–31, 235n28; catharsis, 28–29, 60; falsehood (falso), 25, 30, 65, 195; fiction (finto), 28–29, 60–61; genre, 25, 28–29, 32–35, 61; images and imagination, 9–10, 12, 20, 23, 29–31; love, 26–27, 57, 59; mannerism and Marino, 8, 25, 27–28, 30, 32, 195, 234–235n24, 235nn29,35, 274n5; music, 32–34, 36, 62–63, 208; mythology, 20, 28, 59, 63; narrative invention, 28, 60–61; novelty (novità) and wonder (maraviglia), 28–29; 32–33, 36; opera, 30, 34–38, 63, 173–174; pastoral drama, 25, 28, 34, 57, 59–64, 81, 245n82; passions and affections, 33, 174, 176; perception, 29–31; the senses, 30–31, 36; sonic impact of poetry, 25, 27–28, 30, 195; style, 21, 23–28, 30, 33, 57, 195, 235nn27–29,35,39; the sublime, 26–27, 62, 235n27, 235n29; taste (buon gusto), 22, 24–25;

304

index

Crescimbeni (continued) 32–34, 60–61; verisimilitude, 17, 22–23, 28–29, 32, 60–61, 91; 234n22; virtue (virtù), 27, 60, 195, 235n30 —Platonic and Neoplatonic influences on: 26–27, 29–30, 235n33 —relationship with Gravina, 29, 31, 53, 63–64, 75, 81, 92, 100, 103 —works: La bellezza della volgar poesia, 25–38, 40: structure of, 25–26, 28, 233n14; L’Arcadia, 48, 52–54, 60; L’Elvio, 25, 28, 60–64; L’istoria della volgar poesia, 21–27, 61–64, 195: structure of, 23, 28 Cynthia/Diana (Roman deity), representations of: in art, 108, 109fig., 110fig., 112, 113fig., 114, 170, 259n40; in mythology, 107–109, 122–124. See also L’Endimione, under Guidi, Alessandro d’Alibert, Giacomo, 138, 266n23, 267n33 Dante Alighieri, reception of: in Arcadian aesthetic, 194; in Crescimbeni’s aesthetic, 24, 25, 26; in Gravina’s philosophy, 77, 79, 80, 96; in Guidi’s poetry: 65, 72, 255n98; in Queen Christina’s poetic verses to L’Endimione, 239n15 David, Domenico: Crescimbeni on, 33, 174, 209; librettist of Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù, 173–176; 185, 187, 189, 192, 194–195, 201. See also La forza della virtù, under Pollarolo, Carlo Francesco Dempsey, Charles, 116–117, 260n58, 261nn60,61 Dent, Edward, 139, 161 Descartes, René: influence on Caloprese, 250n14; influence on Conti, A., 67; influence on Crescimbeni, 30–31; influence on Gravina, 8, 13, 78, 80, 85, 88–89, 90–91, 250n14; influence on Queen Christina, 18, 211, 277n4, 277n6, 277n18; religious controversy and: 98, 123 Diana (Roman deity). See Cynthia/Diana Di Costanzo, Angelo, 21, 25–27, 30, 235n28 Discorso sopra l’Endimione. See under Gravina, Gianvincenzo Dixon, Susan, 13, 236n45, 242n39 dreams and dreaming, 20; discourse on: 87–89, 92–93, 95, 252n54; Ceva, 88; in Descartes, 88–89; in Gravina, 87–88, 92–93, 95, 252n54; representation of: in art, 214–215; in literature, 114–115; in opera: 132 ekphrasis, 14; in art, 52, 169–170, 168–169; in literature, 114, 52–54, 170, 271n81, 272n86; in opera, 161–172, 197

L’Elvio. See under Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario empiricism, discourse on: Crescimbeni, 20–21; Epicurus, 90; Gravina, 8, 20–21, 50, 76–79, 81, 89, 91–92, 94, 97–100, 103–104, 123–124; Lucretius, 90–91; philosophical influence on: the Accademia fisico-matematica, 51, 76–77; the Arcadian Academy, 7, 20, 22, 38, 194; Queen Christina, 57, 216, 279n24; rejection of: by Descartes, 88–89 enargeia (vivid description), aesthetics of: Arcadian Academy, 30, 50, 52, 100, 194; Aristotle, 86, 97–98; in Gravina, 59, 81–83, 86, 97–98, 250n21, 252n52; in Longinus, 255n101; use of: Crescimbeni, 52–53; Guidi, 1, 39, 50, 52, 69, 72, 105, 114; literature, 271n81; opera, 192, 194; publications by Komarek, 52. See also ekphrasis; image of truth (immagine del vero) L’Endimione. See under Guidi, Alessandro Endymion (Roman deity): depicted in art, 108, 109–111figs, 112, 113fig, 114, 116–122, 170, 258n34, 259nn39,40; depicted in mythology, 107–109, 111–112, 258nn29,30. See also L’Endimione, under Guidi, Alessandro Enlightenment (Illuminismo), 1, 7–10, 13, 22, 78, 99–100. euhemerism, 78, 109, 111–112, 114, 123 the eye(s), discourse on: Aristotle, 86; Bellori, 170; Crescimbeni, 20–21, 30–31, 235n28; Descartes, 90; Gravina, 20–21, 79, 87–91; Lucretius, 90; Plutarch, 141; portrayed in literature and opera: Guidi, L’Endimione, 46–47, 115; Petrarch, 192; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 177, 187, 192–193, 197–198, 201; Scarlatti, La Statira, 134, 159, 172. See also gaze; perception Epicurus, 90, 95 Falda, Giovanni Battista, 5, 226n5; Nuova pianta et alzata della città di Roma, 5fig; Farnese Gardens, Li giardini di Roma, 7fig falsehood (falso), discourse on: Aristotle, 88; Crescimbeni, 25, 30, 65, 195; Epicurus, 90; Gravina, 76, 79–81, 85–86, 89–93, 92–93, 95, 97, 249n10, 253n75; Lucretius, 91; Plato, 84–85; portrayed in: Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 177–178, 183, 185, 194–195, 197. See also fiction (finto) Farnese Gallery, 117–121, 155, 170, 261nn60,61. See also Carracci, Annibale Farnese Gardens on the Palatine (Orti Palatini), 2, 5–6, 19, 53

index Farnese Palace (in Rome), 65, 110fig, 116–117, 170, 213. See also Villa Farnesina fiction (finto), discourse on: Crescimbeni, La bellezza, 28–29, 60–61; Gravina, 76, 81–82, 84, 87, 89, 91–94, 106, 250nn21, 26, 253n75, 257n18; Tasso, 94; represented in art and opera: Carracci, 118, 120; Scarlatti, La Statira, 145, 147, 172. See also falsehood (falso) Filicaia, Vincenzo da, 72, 73, 215 Florentine Camerata, 33, 35–36, 37, 95 Freeman, Robert S., 35, 236n46 Freitas, Roger, 36 Galileo [Galilei, Galileo], 78, 98, 122, 123, 216; Endymion represented as, 109, 216 Gallo, Valentina, 13, 74, 238n2, 239n15 gardens: as operatic settings, 176–181, 196, 198, 202–206. See also individual gardens; Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces); villeggiatura Gasparini, Francesco, 9, 263n6, 273n1 the gaze (guardo; sguardo), depicted in: art, 112–113, 120, 157, 187–189; Guidi, L’Endimione, 43, 45–46; Scarlatti, La Statira, 159, Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 185–201. See also: eye(s),the gender and identity, discourse on: Arcadian Academy, 19–20, 279n22; Arcadian aesthetics, 37–38, 126; Gravina, 59, 107, 111, 114, 122–124, 125; embodiment of: Queen Christina, 54, 210–211, 213–214, 217–21; portrayed in: art, 112–114, 214, 280n29; Crescimbeni, L’Arcadia, 53–54; Guidi, L’Endimione, 54, 107, 114–116, 122–124, 125, 239n12 Gigli, Girolamo, 34, 236n45, 273n3 Giuli, Paola, 53, 64 Gravina, Gianvincenzo (biography and legacy of): Arcadian schism, 81; education, 80; influence on Crescimbeni and Arcadian criticism, 77, 99, 100, 103; influence on Enlightenment philosophy, 78, 99, 100; influenced by Aristotle, 81, 85–87,91, 103; influenced by Descartes, 8, 13, 78, 91, 250n14; influenced by Epicurus, 91; influenced by Lucretius, 91; influenced by Neoplatonism and Platonism, 63, 76–77, 79–81, 83–85, 87, 94–99, 103–104, 107, 111–114, 121–125, 256n9, 261n72; influenced by rationalism, 79, 88, 91, 99–100; 78, 80–81, 89, 91, 98; participation in scientific culture, 51, 75–78, 89–90, 98–100, 104, 107, 109, 122–123, 124–125; philosophical and religious disputes, 79, 98, 103, 123

305

Gravina, Gianvincenzo (literary theories of): beauty, 79, 91, 121–122; catharsis, 56, 93–94, 126; cognition (cognizione), 88–90, 253n75; the eye(s), 20–21, 79, 87–91; evidence, 76–77, 78, 81, 87, 89, 94, 106–107; falsehood (falso), 76, 79–81, 85–86, 89–93, 92–93, 95, 97, 249n10, 253n75; fiction (finto), 76, 81–82, 84, 87, 89, 91–94, 106, 250nn21, 26, 253n75, 257n18; gender and identity, 59, 107, 111, 114, 122–124, 125; image of truth (immagine del vero), 76–77, 81–83, 91–92, 95–96, 105, 107, 125, 250n21; imagination, 79, 82–83, 87–94, 96, 99, 107, 250n26, 152n52; judgment (giudizio), 31, 87–91, 104, 195, 242n44; love, 54, 91, 105, 107, 121–123, 239n13, 257n18; mannerism, 30, 92, 93, 117, 118, 124; mimesis, 82–87, 94; mythology, 58–59, 78, 92, 106–107, 124, 253n75, 256n9; narrative (favola), 82, 85, 96, 107, 253n75, 256n9; nature, imitation of: 59, 82, 85–86, 91–92, 95–96, 118, 124, 251n32, 252n52; novelty (novità), 36, 54–55, 79, 93, 124; observation, 79, 85, 98, 100, 106; passions and affections, 83, 87, 91, 95–96, 114, 121, 243–244n58, 252n52; pastoral drama, 57–59, 63; perception, 8, 20, 23, 31; perspective, 20, 89–91; reason (ragione), 80–81, 88, 90, 98, 106–107; the senses, 36, 81–82, 87–91, 95, 97, 99, 123, 253n72; style, 23, 29–30, 82–83, 91–92, 105; the sublime, 58, 92–94, 108, 239n13, 243n58, 255n101; virtue (virtù), 97, 98, 243–244n58, 249n10; wonder (maraviglia), 10, 36, 82, 93–94, 97, 105, 124, 253n81 Gravina, Gianvincenzo (works of): —Della ragion poetica, 67, 82, 87–92, 125; reception of, 67–68, 71–72, 255n96, 256n1 —Delle antiche favole, 82, 88 —Discorso sopra l’Endimione, 1, 39–40, 71, 75–87, 89, 91, 92–100; aesthetic resonance with the Farnese Gallery, 116–117, 120–121; analysis of Guidi’s L’Endimione, 50, 54–57, 59, 77, 81, 104–107, 111, 114, 121–122, 123–125, 239n13; as Arcadian performance, 39, 126; epistemological and ontological arguments of, 104, 106; rhetorical strategy in, 77, 81, 104–105, 107; structure of, 76–77, 86–87 —Hydra mystica, 79, 249n9 Graziosi, Maria Teresa Acquaro, 52–53 Guarini, Giovanni Battista, 58–59, 61–62, 67 Guidi, Alessandro (biography and legacy of): death and burial, 66; early career, 64–65; court poet to Queen Christina; 65, 215;

306

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Guidi, Alessandro (continued) imitation of Chiabrera, 1, 40, 65–67, 73, 194; imitation of Pindar, 1, 61, 66–68, 70–73, 194, 248n121; later patrons; 64–66; reception of, 13, 22, 64, 66–74; literary style, 1, 39–40, 47, 50, 52, 54, 64–72, 105, 248nn121,122; visit to Rome, 65 Guidi, Alessandro (works of), 65–66 L’Endimione: —genre and form: the elegiac mode in, 48–49; narrative structure, 43, 46–47, 77, 114,116, 119, 155; as pastoral drama, 41–44, 47, 49, 75, 105–106 —performance and publication, 1, 39–40, 49, 54, 56–57, 65, 66, 67, 75; and Arcadian identity, 108, 109, 126; as precursor to Arcadian opera, 49, 61 —Queen Christina and, 40, 44, 47–50, 52, 55–57, 64–65, 105, 115–117, 217–218 —representation of: allegory, 55–57, 217–218; beauty, 46–47, 115; catharsis, 42, 56; dreaming, 115; the eye(s) and the gaze, 43, 45–47, 115; gender and identity, 48, 54, 107, 114–116, 122–124, 125, 239n12; image of truth (immagine del vero), 38, 56; landscape, 41–59, 53–57, 112, 114; love and lovesickness, 41–47, 56, 114–116, 119; narrative typologies, typology, 107–109; nature, 209; Neoplatonism, 40, 44–45, 47–48, 54–57, 67–68, 115, 121–123, 217–218, 261n72; the passions and affections, 45–49; the sublime, 62, 67–69, 72, 105, 108, 248n121; wonder (maraviglia), 54–57, 64, 116, 123 Haecht, Willem van, 275n13; Studio of Apelles, 147, 149fig Handel, George Frideric, 9, 11, 36, 230n26 Harris, Ellen, 13, 236n45, 237n55 Hart, Clive, 112 Heller, Wendy, 36 Holmes, William C., 131–132, 156–157, 164, 263n6, 266n25, 267n31, 268nn36,37, 269n57, 270nn74,76 Homer, 67, 83, 86–87, 106, 167 Horace [Horatius Flaccus, Quintus], 33, 58, 69 icon, mythos, and tupos (analytical strategy), 12, 107–109, 114–116, 120–121, 124–125, 126, 174. See also image of truth (immagine del vero) iconography, 12, 109; represented in opera: Pollarolo, 188–189, 194–195, 202, 208, 274nn6,7; Scarlatti, 127, 157, 160, 174, 273n91. See also

icon, mythos, and tupos; mythography; typology illusion, 10, 14, 91; Carracci, 118–121, 261n61; Komarek, 50–52; Pollarolo, 187, 191, 194; Scarlatti, 137 image of truth (immagine del vero): —as analytical framework, 12, 14, 38, 74, 77, 81, 107, 126 —Gravina, 76–77, 81–83, 91–92, 95–96, 105, 107, 125, 250n21; influenced by: Aristotle, 81, 85–87, 91, 103; Bellori, 170; Epicurus, 91; Lucretius, 91; Plato, 81, 85, 95–96, 103–104; —in Arcadian poetry and opera, 194; in Guidi, L’Endimione, 38, 56; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 174, 189, 194–195, 209, 222; in Scarlatti, La Statira, 139, 145, 170, 172, 174, 209, 219 —See also: enargeia (vivid description); icon, mythos, and tupos; nature, imitation of imagination, 9–10, 12, 20; aesthetics: Aristotle, 86, 98; Carracci, 116, Crescimbeni, 29–31, Gravina, 79, 82–83, 87–94, 96, 99, 107, 250n26, 152n52; portrayed in Guidi, L’Endimione, 65, 68, 74; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 198, 205 intellect (ingegno), discourse on: Crescimbeni, 36, 195; Descartes, 88; Gravina, 36, 79, 87–88, 90, 95–96, 98–100; Neoplatonism, 122. See also reason (ragione) L’istoria della volgar poesia. See under Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario judgment (giudizio), discourse on: Aristotle, 88–91; Carracci, 116–117; Crescimbeni, 31; Descartes, 90, 277n4; French bon goût, 17,19; Gravina, 31, 87–91, 104, 195, 242n44; depicted in: court ballet, 212; Scarlatti, La Statira, 130, 145, 147, 156, 159; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 198 Juvarra, Filippo, 4, 228n15 Ketterer, Robert, 265n12 Komarek, Giovanni Giacomo, 39, 50–52, 240n24 La forza della virtù. See under Pollarolo, Carlo Francesco landscape painting, 3–4, 18, 59, 86, 118, 225n3, 226nn,6,8, 227nn10, 229n18, 244n64; architecture and monuments depicted in, 3–4, 48, 54, 226n5, 227n12. See also individual artists 3–4, 18, 54, 118, 170, 227n10 landscape, pastoral: depicted in Crescimbeni, L’Arcadia, 52–54, 60; depicted in Guidi,

index L’Endimione, 41–49, 54–56, 112, 114; depicted in pastoral drama and poetry, 238n9, 243n51; depicted in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 202–208; depicted in Scarlatti, La Statira, 159, 171; discourse on: Arcadian Academy, 3–4, 6, 8, 18, 48–49, 54, 59, 83, 86; Gravina, 59, 86, 124, 244n62. See also gardens; Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces) Lemene, Francesco de (count), 22, 48, 88, 194, 215 Leonio, Vincenzo, 21, 26 locus amoenus, 6, 42, 56, 59, 203, 206, 215, 239n10, 243n51. See also landscape, pastoral; pastoral drama Lorrain, Claude (Gellée), 3, 18, 48–49, 54, 118, 227n10, 240n19; View of the Campo Vaccino, 6fig, 229n18 Louis XIV, King of France, 13, 57, 217 love and lovesickness (erotomania), discourse on: Accademia Reale, 213; Conti, 68; Crescimbeni, 26–27, 57, 59; Gravina, 54, 91, 105, 107, 121–123, 239n13, 257n18; represented in: art, 189, 259n40, 280n30; court ballet, 212, 278n14; Crescimbeni, L’Elvio, 61, 63; the Endymion myth, 108–109, 122, 258n30; Guidi, L’Endimione, 41–47, 56, 114–116, 119; Lemene, 48; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 177, 182–183, 185, 189, 192, 194–196; Scarlatti, La Statira, 131, 137–138, 143, 150, 153–154 Lucretius [Lucretius Carus, Titus], 90–91, 253n70, 255n103 Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 13; Armide, 205, 266n23 mannerism: defined by Crescimbeni, 8, 25, 27–28, 30, 32, 195, 234–235n24, 235nn29,35, 274n5; defined by Gravina, 30, 92, 93, 117, 118, 124; rejection of, 1, 10, 72, 74, 117–118, 194; represented in opera, 195. See also Marino, Giambattista Marino, Giambattista, 2, 32, 36–37, 72, 79, 195, 260n52; criticisms of, 25, 195; on novelty (novità) and wonder (maraviglia), 93–94 Martello, Pier Iacopo, 20, 67, 236n44 marvelous, the. See wonder (maraviglia) Medici, Leopoldo de’ (cardinal), 24, 223, 255n103 Menzini, Benedetto, 22, 67, 73, 194, 247n105 Metastasio, Pietro [Trapassi, Pietro Antonio], 8, 70–71, 74, 174 Michelangelo [Buonarroti, Michelangelo], 72, 118, 119, 260n58 mimesis, discourse on: in Aristotle, 85–87, 94; in Gravina, 82–87, 94; in Plato, 82–85, 94. See

307

also enargeia (vivid description); image of truth (immagine del vero) Mirollo, James, 93 mirror(s), discourse on: Plato, 84–85; depicted in: art, 188–189, 192, 208; the Endymion myth, 122; Petrarch, 192; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 11–12, 186–189, 191–192, 194–195, 201, 204, 208, 223; owned by Queen Christina, 214, 221, 223 Muratori, Lodovico Antonio, 8, 20, 66, 99, 103, 208, 229 mythography, 12, 122, 159. See also icon, mythos, and tupos; iconography; typology mythology, discourse on: Crescimbeni, 20, 28, 59, 63; Gravina, 58–59, 78, 92, 106–107, 124, 253n75, 256n9; Plato, 86. See also euhemerism narrative framing: art, 112, 117–119,121; Scarlatti’s La Statira, 146–156, 159 nature, imitation of: art, 59, 116–119, 209, 251n47, 255n93, 260n58; discourse on: Gravina, 59, 82, 85–86, 91–92, 95–96, 118, 124, 251n32, 252n52. See also image of truth (immagine del vero) Neoplatonism, as a philosophical influence: Crescimbeni, 30; Gravina, 63, 77, 81, 94–99, 103–104, 111, 121–125, 255n101; Queen Christina, 47, 57, 213, 215, 217–218 novelty (novità), 10, 36–37; discourse on: Crescimbeni, 28–29; 32–33, 36; Gravina, 36, 54–55, 79, 93, 124; in narrative: Guidi, L’Endimione, 54–57, 65; Scarlatti, La Statira, 139, 170; in style: Guidi, 68, 71, 248n121; mannerist poetry, 93 observation, 20, 78, 98, 109; discourse on: Bellori, 170; Gravina, 76, 78–79, 85, 91, 98, 100, 104, 106, 124; Queen Christina’s interest in, 216, 223; represented in opera: Scarlatti, La Statira, 155; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 178 ocularcentrism, 20, 22, 30, 38, 50–52, 98, 123, 240n24. See also visual culture ocular devices, 51, 78, 109, 111fig, 194, 216–217 opera, Arcadian: discourse on, opera, Arcadian: discourse on, 8–9, 17, 20–22, 32–38, 63, 173–174; patronage of, 21–22, 30–31 opera seria, 9, 22, 37, 71, 74 Ottoboni, Pietro (cardinal): as librettist, 11, 25, 34, 219, 228n15; as patron, 7, 11, 25–26, 219: of art, 268n53; of Arcadian gatherings, 25–26, 263n4; of opera, music, and theater, 40, 138,

308

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Ottoboni, Pietro (continued) 263n4, 266n25. See also La Statira under Scarlatti, Alessandro Ovid [Naso, Publius Ovidius], 48, 167, 242n36, 271n81 Palazzo Colonna, 138, 266n23 Palazzo della Cancelleria, 40, 138, 139, 171, 228n15, 263n4, 266n25, 268n36, 269n67 Palazzo Farnese (in Rome), 65, 110fig, 116–117, 170, 213; Farnese Gallery, 117–121, 155, 170, 261nn60,61. See also Villa Farnesina Palazzo Riario (Corsini), gardens of: 2, 5fig, 39, 49, 51, 213–215, 216, 280n27, 281n38. See also Accademia Reale; Christina, Queen of Sweden; Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces) paradigms, narrative: 84, 94–95, 97, 103–105, 107, 116, 120, 124; in opera, 130, 174 paragone, in art: 208–209, 275n13, 276n29 Parrhasian Grove (Arcadian meeting spaces), 2–7, 18, 19, 39–40, 49, 53, 66, 240n20, 241– 242n36; architecture and monuments in, 3–6, 53, 240n20, 241–242n36; final garden on the Janiculum, 6, 49, 240n20, 241–242n36; literary allusion to, 26, 71–72. See also individual gardens and palaces Pasquini, Bernardo, 9, 50, 138, 219, 246n94, 266n23 the passions and the affections, 32, 63, 243n49 —discourse on: Burt, 32, Cimorelli, 248n121; Conti, Antonio, 68; Conti, Natale, 112; Crescimbeni, 33, 174, 176; Descartes, 211, 277n4; Gravina, 83, 87, 91, 95–96, 114, 121, 243–244n58, 252n52; Molière, 63; Queen Christina, 211–212, 218 —representation of: in drama and opera, 130, 265–266n17; Guidi, L’Endimione, 45–49; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 175–185, 195; Scarlatti, La Statira, 132, 147; Tasso, Aminta, 238–239n9. —See also love and lovesickness; reason pastoral drama (favola pastorale): catharsis in, 42, 56; landscape depicted in, 238n9, 239n18, 243n51; Neoplatonism in, 55, 242n47; scholarship on, 13, 40, 55; theories of: Crescimbeni, 25, 28, 34, 57, 59–64, 245n82; Gravina, 57–59, 63. See also individual works and authors perception, discourse on: Arcadian aesthetic, 22, 74; Aristotle, 81, 89, 94, 123; Bellori, 52; Crescimbeni, La bellezza della volgar poesia,

29–31; Descartes, 88–89, 98; Epicurus, 90; Gravina, 8, 13, 20, 23, 31, 76–78, 80–82, 88–92, 94, 96, 99, 103–105, 123–124, 253n75; Lucretius, 90; Tasso, 94; portrayed in: Scarlatti, La Statira, 147, 172. See also cognition (cognizione); imagination (fantasia/phantasia); judgment (giudizio) perspective: in art and architecture, 4, 21, 51, 119, 121, 147, 188–189, 227n10, 233n13, 274n8; discourse on: Descartes, 90; Gravina, 20, 89–91; represented in opera: Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 186, 188, 194, 201–202, 209; Scarlatti, La Statira, 146–157, 159–160, 174, 209, 219 Petrarch [Petrarca,Francesco], 24, 192, 243nn49,51; discourse on: 24–26, 30, 233n14; influence on: Arcadian poetry, 67, 171, 194; art, 223, 275n11; Gravina, 80; Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 192, 223 Pindar, 1, 61, 66–68, 70–73, 248n121 Placella, Annarita, 14, 77, 78, 250n14 Plato, 84–85, 94, 95, 97, 108, 155, 254n92, 256n9 Platonism and Neoplatonism, influence on: Accademia Reale, 213, 215; art, 113–114, 118, 170, 215, 251n47, 259n40, 260n58; Caloprese’s students, 250n14; Crescimbeni, 26–27, 29–30, 235n33; Guidi, 40, 44–45, 47–48, 54–57, 67– 68, 115, 121–123, 217–218,261n72; Gravina, 63, 76–77, 79–81, 83–85, 87, 94–99, 103–104, 107, 111–114, 121–125, 256n9, 261n72; mythography, 122; opera, 138, 155, 265n12, 270n71 Pliny, the Elder [Secundus, Gaius Plinius]: 141, 144–145, 147, 156–157, 189, 208, 258nn27,30 Plutarch, 127, 139–144, 146, 168–169, 171–172 Pollarolo, Carlo Francesco, La forza della virtù —and Arcadian reform, 173–174, 176 —arias in: “A l’armi, a l’armi,” 201; “Fernando e il mio sposo,” 181, 182ex, 183; “Già la tromba à l’orecchio mi suona,” 193–194; “Il giubilo danzi,” 199–200ex; “Lusinghe vezzose,” 186–187ex; “Pensieri addio,” 204–205ex; “Per darti guerra,” 185–186, 194; “Queste d’or crespe lucenti,” 190ex, 191; “Sin da’i Gallici campi . . . In compormi le trecce,” 189–190fig, 191; “Vado a bearme il core,” 177, 178–180fig —intellectual discourse in: beauty, 175–176, 180, 183, 185–186, 191, 193–194, 196, 202–203; falsehood (falso), 177–178, 183, 185, 194–195, 197; illusion, 187, 191, 194; love, 177, 182–183, 185, 189, 192, 194–196; paragone, 208–209; the passions, 175–185, 195; perspective, 186, 188, 194, 201–202, 209; reason (ragione), 175,

index 176, 181–183, 185; the senses, 181–182, 185, 193–198, 205; style, literary, 194–195; truth (vero), 180–183, 194; virtue (virtù), 175–176, 183, 185, 206; vision, 193, 196, 198; wonder (maraviglia), 195; —narrative elements: allegory, 175–176, 196, 207–208; framing devices, 191, 207–208; historical sources, 175–176; image of truth (immagine del vero), 174, 189, 194–195, 209, 222; influence from Spanish theater, 176, 183, 195 —performance aspects: scenography, 197, 202, 206; staging, 201 —representation of: dance, 197–199, 201, 206; the eye(s), 177, 187, 192–193, 197–198, 201; gardens, 176–181, 196, 198, 202–206; the gaze, 185–201, 206; iconography, 188–189, 194–195, 202, 208, 274nn6,7; landscape, 202–206; mirrors, 11–12, 186–189, 191–192, 194–195, 201, 204, 208, 223; portraits, 194, 196–197, 209; statues, 176–183, 180–181, 185, 196, 198, 202 Poussin, Nicolas: and Bellori, 170; landscape painting, 3–4, 18, 54, 118, 227n10; Selene and Endymion, 112, 113fig., 114, 259n40; Triumph of Flora, 267n32 Prati di Castello, 2, 4, 225–226n3, 241–242n36 Quondam, Amedeo, 14, 249n10, 250nn14,19 Raphael [Sanzio, Raffaello], 51, 119, 170 rationalism, philosophy of: Ceva, 88; Descartes, 78, 89, 211; Gravina, 79, 88, 91, 99–100; Plato, 94; Queen Christina’s interest in, 48, 212–213. See also empiricism; Enlightenment; reason reason (ragione), 243n49, 258n29; discourse on: Ceva, 88; Crescimbeni, 26, 30; Descartes, 211, 277n4; Gravina, 80–81, 88, 90, 98, 106–107; Lucretius (trans. Marchetti), 253n70; representation of: in drama, literature, and opera, 211, 265n12; in Guidi, L’Endimione, 40, 48; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 175, 176, 181–183, 185. See also intellect (ingegno) Reni, Guido, 72, 139 Rosa, Salvator, 3, 227n10 Rosand, Ellen, 35 Sala delle Muse, 217, 223, 282n50. See also Christina, Queen of Sweden; Palazzo Riario San Pietro in Montorio, 2, 4, 5 Sannazaro, Jacopo, 48–49, 52–53, 239n18, 242n36, 244n64

309

Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great, 168, 169fig Scarlatti, Alessandro, La Statira —accompanied recitative, 161; “Crudo cielo,” 161, 166–167ex; “Notte, notte serena,” 161–162ex —arias: “Dovrò per mia rivale,” 150; “Esser potrai crudele,” 150–151, 151–152ex, 152–153; “Invitti guerrieri,” 137, 163ex; “Quei sospir che sparsi al vento,” 132, 133–134ex; “Re trafitto,” 161; “Punir ti voglio,” 138; “Resista chi puo al dardo d’amore,” 135, 136ex, 137; “Se t’appaga,” 135 —intellectual discourse in: beauty, 132, 134–135, 137, 140, 147, 150, 156, 159, 161; fiction (finto) 145, 147, 172; judgment (giudizio), 130, 145, 147, 156, 159; love, 131, 137–138, 143, 150, 153–154; Neoplatonism, 138, 155; passions and affections, 132, 147; perception, 147, 172; the senses, 138, 156, 159; virtue (virtù), 127, 130, 147, 150–154, 219 —narrative elements: alterations to traditional narrative, 142–145; classical sources, 127, 139–146, 156–157, 168–169, 171–172; dramatic precedents, 128–131, 263n9, 264n11, 265n16; ekphrasis, 161–171, 271n81; perspectival and framing devices, 146–161, 209, 219; image of truth (immagine del vero), 139, 145, 170, 172, 174; narrative typologies, 130, 131–132,138, 144; visual sources, 139, 142, 146 —performance aspects: scenography, 46, 162–164, 166–167, 267n31, 269n57, 270n74, 271n78; singers, 131–132; staging, 156–157 —reception of, 131, 138–139; in broadsides, 132, 134, 138 —representation of: allegory and symbolism, 127, 145–147, 157, 171–172, 218–222; the eye(s) and the gaze, 134, 159, 172; gender and identity, 127, 159, 219; iconography and moving portraiture, 147, 148–149figs, 156–157, 158fig, 159–160fig, 168–169fig, 170–171, 174, 209, 219,273n91; landscape and the pastoral in, 132, 159–160, 206, 209; onstage paintings, 146–147,154–156 —See also Alexander the Great; Apelles; Campaspe Selene and Endymion, 112, 113fig., 114, 259n40. See also Poussin, Nicolas Seneca the Younger [Seneca, Lucius Annaeus], 60, 106, 265n28, 277n6 the senses, discourse on: 23, 37, 74; Crescimbeni, 30–31, 36; Descartes, 90; Epicurus, 90; Gravina, 36, 81–82, 87–91, 95, 97, 99, 123,

310

index

the senses, discourse on (continued) 253n72; Lucretius 90–91; representations of: in art, 259n40; in drama and opera, 265n12; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 181–182, 185, 193–198, 205; in Scarlatti, La Statira, 138, 156, 159. See also eye(s), the; perception Sergardi, Lodovico [pseud. Settano, Quinto], 69–70; Satire di Q. Settano, 70fig skepticism: Descartes, 88–89, Epicurus, 90, Gravina, 78, 80–81, 89, 91, 98; Queen Christina, 277n8 Sodoma, Il [Bazzi, Giovanni Antonio]: Darius’s Mother before Alexander, 160fig Stampiglia, Silvio, 9, 21, 34 Statira: as historical figure, 140, 143; portrayals of: in art, 160fig, in literature, 128; in opera, 128–129, 139; in operatic broadsides, 132; in Scarlatti’s La Statira, 132, 138, 142–144, 147, 150, 154–156, 159–160, 167, 170, 172 statues, statuary, and sculpture —as a literary device: Gravina, 82–83, 94, 274n5; Mirollo, 93 —Queen Christina’s collection of, 214, 217, 280n27, 282n50; and self-fashioning, 213, 217, 223 —representation of: in art, 117, 120, 147, 189, 196, 261n61, 275n13, 276n29; in opera and drama, 36, 265–266n17, 273n3; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 176–183, 185, 196, 198, 202; in Scarlatti, La Statira, 269n57 Stevenson, Kay Gilliland, 112 Stradella, Alessandro, 11, 215 style, literary: in the Accademia Reale, 65, 117; in the Arcadian Academy, 4, 17, 20, 22, 38, 50, 62, 74, 194; of Guidi, 1, 39–40, 47, 50, 52, 54, 64–72, 105, 248nn121,122; discourse on: Crescimbeni, 21, 23–28, 30, 33, 57, 195, 235nn27–29,35,39; Gravina, 23, 29–30, 82–83, 91–92, 105; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 194–195 the sublime, discourse on: Crescimbeni, 26–27, 62, 235n27, 235n29; Gravina, 58, 92–94, 108, 239n13, 243n58, 255n101; as poetic style: Guidi, 62, 67–69, 72, 105, 108, 248n121 Tasso, Torquato, 66, 72, 254n86; emulation of: Guidi: 40, 42, 55, 61–62, 64, 67, 238– 2399nn9,11,15; reception of: in the Arcadian Academy, 194; by Crescimbeni, 25–26, 29, 60–62; by Gravina, 80, 94, 260n52

taste —Arcadian (buon gusto), 2, 6–8, 10, 17–19, 38, 49, 71, 74, 116; departures from French bon goût, 20–21; influenced by Queen Christina, 14, 17–18, 116, 220; and literary reform, 17, 20–21, 22; and opera, 8–9; and villeggiatura, 3, 206, 215, 226n6 —discourse on, 71; in Crescimbeni, 22, 24–25, 32–34, 60–61 —French (bon goût), 17–18; influence on Queen Christina, 18, 217, 277n10; influence on the Arcadian Academy: 17–20 —in art, 116–117 —in poetry by Guidi, 39, 64–65, 69, 72–73, 248n122 —See also Arcadian Academy; style, literary Tcharos, Stefanie, 13, 226n7, 228n13, 234n20, 237n55, 267n35 Teatro Capranica, 229n20, 262n2 telescope, 51, 109; depicted in art, 111fig Tempesta, Antonio: Spring, 135fig, 267n32 Thomas, Troy, 114, 259n40 Tintoretto [Robusti, Jacopo], 112–113 Titian [Tiziano Vecellio]: and landscape painting, 59, 86; works of: Venus Anadyomene, 158fig, 214, 219; Venus with a Mirror, 188–189, 214, 223, 274n9, 275n15; Woman with the Mirror, 188–189, 192 Tordinona Theater: history and patronage of, 126–127, 131, 172, 217, 220, 229n20, 262n2; performance of Scarlatti’s La Statira, 126–127, 131, 138, 172, 174, 267n31 Trevisani, Francesco, 269; Apelles Painting Campaspe, 148fig Triumph of Flora. See under Poussin, Nicolas typology, 12, 107–109, 116, 123, 130–131, 138, 144, 172, 187. See also icon, mythos, and tupos; iconography; mythography Vasari, Giorgio, 208, 254–255n93, 260nn57–58, 276n29; Lives of the Artist, 118 Venus (Roman deity), depictions of: in art, 59, 157–158fig, 159, 188–189, 196, 214–215, 274n9, 275n13, 280n30; in mythology, 189, 275n15; operatic allusions to: 157–159, 171, 189–192, 219 Vergil [Virgilius Maro, Publius]: 48, 58, 63, 67, 112, 167, 239n18, 271n81 verisimilitude. See icon, mythos, and tupos (analytical strategy); image of truth (immagine del vero); nature, imitation of; see also under Crescimbeni, Giovanni Mario

index Veronese, Paolo Cagliari, 188–189, 214, 265n12 Vico, Giambattista, 8, 13–14, 99, 103, 230n23 Villa Farnesina, 119, 160fig, 171. See also Palazzo Farnese villeggiatura, 3, 206, 215, 226n6 virtue —discourse on: in Crescimbeni, 27, 60, 195, 235n30; in Gravina, 97, 98, 243–244n58, 249n10; in Tasso, 254n86 —in Queen Christina’s self-fashioning, 211–212, 214, 223; in court ballets, 211–213, 217, 278nn11,14 —representation of: in art, 280n29; in Guidi, L’Endimione, 115; in opera, 265n14; in Pollarolo, La forza della virtù, 175–176, 183, 185, 206; in Scarlatti, La Statira, 127, 130, 147, 150–154, 219

311

vision: aesthetics of, 9, 20, 22, 30–31, 51–52, 78, 155, 253n72; representation of: Pollarolo’s La forza della virtù, 193, 196, 198 visual culture, 11, 123, 174, 176, 195, 216, 233n13. See also ocularcentrism Vivaldi, Antonio, 9, 237n55 Vivid description. See enargeia wonder (maraviglia), aesthetics of: Conti, A., 68; Crescimbeni, 10, 29, 36, 235n35; Gravina, 10, 36, 82, 93–94, 97, 105, 124, 253n81; Marino, 93; representation of: in Guidi’s L’Endimione, 54–57, 64, 116, 123; in Scarlatti’s La Statira, 170, 156. See also novelty (novità) Zeno, Apostolo, 8, 33, 35, 173–174, 209, 263n6 Zirardini, Giuseppe, 72–73