"Dido" is a tender and austere scroll full of secrets, forebodings and mutually reflecting mirrors. Like all good art, it offers us a reading on several levels: as an epic about fate, as a narrative about duty and feelings, as a story about a conspiracy, as a political text that, under the symbolism of a dash from an ancient reading, offers the illumination of a complex political moment (the fall of James II, The restoration and supremacy of the Anglican current, which prevented Catholics from ascending to the throne or becoming part of the royal family by law)... and who knows how else.
Likewise, like any good art, it offers us the possibility to successfully immerse ourselves in an intense, emotional and very concise drama even without such diverse contexts and layers.
This is, of course, also a matter of your openness to the experience, as well as our ability to penetrate the architecture of the work.
On the formal level, in five scenes Purcell, with the unity of pulse and tonality, creates compact units that pass in a seamless and rhythmic change of spontaneous recitatives and choral blocks, rounded off by instrumental preludes and dances. The motifs are extremely recognizable, almost hit-making; pregnant rhythm, play with repeated syllables, discreet polyphony and character painting ensure a harmonious sequence of very vivid sound images. In the tonality architecture, the key elements are ultimate economy and practicality: the first act takes place entirely in C minor (Dido's anxiety and relationship with Aeneas), i.e. C major (the insistence of the surrounding characters on their union and the presentation of a bright future), with the exception commentary by the choir (E minor), which in this way also reinforces its role as an ancient choir, addressing us from the tonality off. F minor is reserved for the witch's cave and the whole pagan work (a very problematic tonality in the historical arrangement)... and so on; the catastrophe itself is placed in the tonal middle of G minor, where every true tragedy has its place.
The number of characters is small, and their complete separation allows one singer to serve two characters (except for the title roles). The recitative is such a faithful copy of the speech, as if the composer was fed from the very springs of the Florentine "camerata"; and yet so skilfully interspersed with arios, as Monteverdi could only do. In short, everywhere we look, we are shown the ability to achieve a lot with a little. The arch of the opera is closed by two chaconnes; one from the beginning, in which Dido announces her anguish, and the final one, the famous "Lamento", in which anguish finds its tragic calm and catharsis in the arms of Thanatos.
Here, after all, the significance of the multi-layered reading diminishes - as does the entire background of the mechanics of Purcell's masterpiece, and the pocket Venuses of the baroque opera repertoire. What remains is the experience of the completely overwhelming and magnificent dignity of man, whose triumph over fate is manifested in surrender and renunciation. Dido's character radiates a far more masculine energy than Aeneas, who, not because of subjection to Jupiter, fate and higher order, but because of a lack of self-discipline, leaves a somewhat soft impression.
You won't hear Dido, where the stereotypical "ne me quitte pas" ("don't leave me") comes through her tears; in the ancient poise and courage of someone who does not know where he is going, but goes with a dedication worthy of the adventure of human life, he tells us: "Remember me, but, ah! forget my fate”.
