The Pasha loves Konstanze and wants to add her to his Turkish harem, but not by force, only if she can return his love. She, a shipwrecked Spanish noblewoman stranded on an alien shore, has already given her heart to another and resolves to be faithful to her Belmonte, even though the sea has probably claimed him. Her intransigence saddens the Pasha, but he continues to implore her to be his.
Such is the main conflict of Mozart's opera Die Entführung aus dem Serail, which I find so difficult to fit into my mouth that I just use the English translation: The Abduction from the Seraglio.
Although I hum to myself Belmonte's hyper-romantic third-act aria, Blondchen's perky tunes, and Osmin's hilarious ravings, my thoughts keep returning to the Pasha, and he has no music at all. His is purely a speaking part. Abduction is in the German style called singspiel, similar to our musical comedy theater, where the characters speak lines as well as sing. In this opera the Pasha alone has only spoken dialog.
To compress three hours into twenty seconds: Belmonte shows up and rescues Konstanze from the seraglio, the Pasha's harem. Everyone rejoices—except the Pasha who remains alone on the stage, head in his hands. Fade to black, curtain down.
Even so, I love Abduction, a treasure chest of the youthful composer's best melodies. It was Mozart's most popular opera during his lifetime, enjoyed by the upper classes and common folk alike. The fresh and lively music conveys enough romance, slapstick, exoticism, wit, and deeply-felt emotion to please every high- and low-brow in the house. My friend, on seeing it for the first time, exclaimed that she didn’t realize Mozart had written such humorous music. And the Turkish theme provides the perfect excuse for noisy marches with loads of brass and percussion (after all, the Turks invented the military band). Fifty years before, the real Turks had been at the gates of Vienna, where this opera premiered, and had almost conquered the city. In Mozart's time, all things Turkish were the rage in the cafés, salons, and music halls—the enemy had become fashionable.
Mozart was a genius at setting up the emotional biases of his listeners. We know from Konstanze's music that she is broken-hearted yet defiant and brave. Belmonte's arias reveal him to be a romantic idiot, foolhardy and otherwise useless. The music of Osmin the guard is so angry, vengeful, and bloodthirsty that we laugh at his over-the-top bullying. The lighthearted arias of the servants Pedrillo and Blondchen tells us they live in the moment and by their wits. So what do I know of the Pasha since he has no notes? Not even entrance and exit music. Why do I not regard him as a hateful barbarian who collects women and throws around cruel threats? Why is he not the villain of the piece?
In the several productions I have seen, this role has been given to an actor who is tall and thin, austere and controlled. While the other cast members are either rhapsodizing about Love or acting just plain silly, the Pasha is portrayed as an ascetic, radiating a severe personal and spiritual discipline. He speaks few words and all are to the point, none are wasted. He is the only person on the stage who behaves in a manner that is rational, normal, sane.
And he is wise. When he catches the others in the act of the sneaking out of the seraglio, he threatens them with torture and death. Belmonte pleads for mercy, promising that his wealthy father will pay a hefty ransom. It is here that we learn it was Belmonte's father who, many years ago, robbed the Pasha of his rightful kingdom and his beloved and drove him into exile. Things haven't turned out too badly for our Pasha because he now has another kingdom, a new harem, ships, an army of janissaries, and a chorus of faithful retainers who sing his praises. However, he still suffers the pain of the wrong done to him. The Pasha has it in his power to destroy his captives, but no. He states that he despises Belmonte's father too much to behave in the same manner as his foe. He will not answer evil with more evil—at this point the San Francisco audience broke into spontaneous clapping and cheering—and he pardons his adored Konstanze and her lover, as well as their two servants. Now I have a reason to applaud the Pasha, but long before the third act I believed in his suffering and loneliness, in his humanity.
I keep wondering: why didn't Mozart give the Pasha any music? One article I read suggested that there were already so many arias in the opera that there wasn't room for the Pasha's. This critic must have been jesting. I find it hard to credit such an argument—too many notes never stopped Mozart. He must have had a reason related to the drama itself. The Pasha's speaking role sets him apart from the other characters. He is the adult who regulates their silly games before they get completely out of control. Mozart could have made the Pasha a Turkish caricature much like the fat and crude Osmin and this is in keeping with how his audience would have viewed someone from the barbaric East. Perhaps the composer's strategy had to do with the symmetry of the drama: the two servants contrast with the two noble persons, and so the terse Pasha balances the blustery Osmin. But, still, why no music? I'm no closer to an answer.
If my reaction is any evidence, Mozart succeeds as a dramatist—he captures my heart and mind and creates a character I will not soon forget. The Pasha remains a mystery and has become one of my favorite roles in opera—a role that has no music.