In the third episode, wherein the memories of Fontainebleau lead Elisabetta to summon all the natural elements of the gardens of her present land, Spain, to sing of her and Carlo’s love, Nézet-Séguin elicits a more legato approach to the opening phrase, “Tra voi, vaghi giardin.” This is another instance of preference. The phrase, marked pp at a slow tempo in 4/4 (the time signature of the whole aria), brings the voice in after the downbeat, with the eighth notes of its first five syllables gathered into a triplet and marked staccato under a phrase arc. This is a combination encountered repeatedly in Verdi, and always open to interpretation. But I don’t see how it can just be the same legato it would be without the staccati; some delicate articulation of the wordnotes has to be intended, and N-S obtains only a smoothing-out.

Because of time constraints, Nézet-Séguin skips from the end of the “Francia!” episode to the end of the aria. So we don’t hear what he might have said about Episode Four—the allegro agitato with which Eliabetta bids final farewell to her youth and illusions of love, and wishes only for the peace of the grave—or about the return to A with a restatement of the opening lines, now in much grander form with the brass coming in under the voice, as if the monks were still chanting their evocation of Carlo Quinto, “the great Emperor who is now no more than silent ashes.” Would N-S now have countenanced  a stronger chest on the low C#s, if only for the sake of audibility? We don’t know, but perhaps not, since he has already encouraged the singer to keep the descending phrase “dark,” and that doesn’t lead that way. In the very last two bars, though, he inadvertently draws out a healthy registral response. This phrase, “reca a’ piè del Signor,” progresses chromatically up through the passaggio from C# to F#, with the first three syllables accented. The singer had solved this by taking the phrase in an unaccented piano, sneaking through the chest/head transition safely, but wanly, with a little upward portamento to carry her from E# to F#.  N-S disagrees with this (I second the motion), and recommends a more definitive break before the E# (there’s a corona here), and then taking the interval more cleanly, without the portamento. Now the singer, less concerned about a “break,” renders the first syllables more strongly on the chest side (though not intensely, and still without the accents), and bring the magnificent scene to a more satisfactory close. N-S does not comment on the newly awakened chest.

I’ll save a summing-up of all these Don Carlo micro-events till I’ve at least glanced at a few more moments from these masterclasses. The “This Is Opera!” Jacobins have great fun with the opening line of the Count’s recit from Figaro. They set up a little recursive loop, with N-S urging “Breathy! More breath!” and his baritone charge getting in a mumbled assent, over and over. In the fragment I’ve seen, we don’t actually hear anything from the baritone, so I can’t comment on his voice or approach. Most young baritones cast in Mozart roles these days are of a comparatively light, warm-timbred variety for whom “More breath!” is the last thing needed. But I don’t care if this one sounds like Tito Gobbi (something tells me he doesn’t)—this is still terrible advice. As TIO shouts, it ruins any chance of a clean PHONATION. Of course, there’s such a thing as a stage whisper, useful for the now-rare actor who knows how to project it. Experienced big-voiced singers—let us say Ezio Pinza asking “Leporello, ove sei?“—can use the sung equivalent, sparingly and in appropriate circumstances, without damage. And this moment in Act 3 of Le Nozze is often taken as an appropriate circumstance. But think about it: why? Obviously, Susanna has good reason, way upstage there, to tell Figaro “. . . hai già vinta la causa!” at a sotto voce. But now they’ve run off. There’s no one to overhear the Count, and he’s in a rage. Come to think of it, I wonder if the Count’s recit and aria shouldn’t be taken frankly as a direct-address scene, to which Figaro’s “Aprite un po'” would then be the counterpart. It’s certainly no contemplative monologue, like the Countess’s arias or Susanna’s “Deh, vieni,” and it could well be staged as the Count’s one chance to appeal to us on his own behalf, at the same time giving him something active to play. Then the Count would turn directly to us and loudly inquire, “‘Hai già vinta la causa! Cosa sento?” Makes sense to me. However, even if we stick with the more usual talking-to-himself pretense, there are well-established ways of rendering an anger-containing sotto voce without “Breathy! More breath!”, and those are the ways that  should be taught.