It’s very common, and very tempting, to think of Cio-Cio-San, the title character of Puccini’s "Madama Butterfly," as one of the great innocent victims in opera. She’s easily dismissed by the other characters in the piece and by commentators and audiences through the opera’s tumultuous history. Certainly Pinkerton sees her as a child, a doll to do with as he pleases.
Sharpless too completely underestimates Butterfly’s emotional intelligence and her resolve. He assumes, wrongly, that Butterfly continues to see herself as Pinkerton’s wife out of a misguided sense of loyalty.
Arizona Opera presents "Madama Butterfly" January 27-29 at Phoenix Symphony Hall and February 4 & 5 at Tucson Music Hall
In fact, Butterfly is in possession of a game-changing secret: there is a child – Pinkerton’s child – and Butterfly understands how this raises the stakes. For while Pinkerton might be capable of abandoning her and the sham marriage, he will not abandon his own flesh and blood. Of course, she is right. The knowledge that he has a son does in fact draw the errant husband once again to the little hillside house.
Butterfly acts less like a victim and more as a young woman searching to redefine her place in a society which offers her few choices. She surely knows that marriages between Japanese girls and American service men of the sort brokered by Goro did not last beyond the length of the foreign deployment. Yet Butterfly chooses to give herself over entirely to her new life, renouncing her traditional Japanese religious beliefs, throwing away the ottoke (the figurines which represent the spirits of her ancestors) and attempting to oversee a completely American household, long after Pinkerton has left. Is it for love? Yes, I think so. But it is also a way to stop living the geisha life which she finds so hateful, and to have some measure of control over her fate, even though she is then trapped between the two societies.
It’s true that Tosca takes matters into her own hands in an impressive, if impulsive, way, and that Manon always retains a firm belief that she can improve her lot. But I’m not sure that either would have the patience or moral fortitude to embark on Butterfly’s path: to willingly be ostracized by one’s family and society, to turn down a marriage that offers comfort and security, to live for years on a slim hope, and even in the end, to believe so strongly in one’s sense of self that suicide becomes the logical alternative. Rather than allow others to define her – as victim, as abandoned wife, as abandoning mother – Butterfly again chooses her own path. She may indeed be a tragic heroine – certainly we wish that her love and faith had been better placed – but we cannot ignore the strength of her character or the nobility of her struggle.
Sharpless too completely underestimates Butterfly’s emotional intelligence and her resolve. He assumes, wrongly, that Butterfly continues to see herself as Pinkerton’s wife out of a misguided sense of loyalty.
In fact, Butterfly is in possession of a game-changing secret: there is a child – Pinkerton’s child – and Butterfly understands how this raises the stakes. For while Pinkerton might be capable of abandoning her and the sham marriage, he will not abandon his own flesh and blood. Of course, she is right. The knowledge that he has a son does in fact draw the errant husband once again to the little hillside house.
Butterfly acts less like a victim and more as a young woman searching to redefine her place in a society which offers her few choices. She surely knows that marriages between Japanese girls and American service men of the sort brokered by Goro did not last beyond the length of the foreign deployment. Yet Butterfly chooses to give herself over entirely to her new life, renouncing her traditional Japanese religious beliefs, throwing away the ottoke (the figurines which represent the spirits of her ancestors) and attempting to oversee a completely American household, long after Pinkerton has left. Is it for love? Yes, I think so. But it is also a way to stop living the geisha life which she finds so hateful, and to have some measure of control over her fate, even though she is then trapped between the two societies.
It’s true that Tosca takes matters into her own hands in an impressive, if impulsive, way, and that Manon always retains a firm belief that she can improve her lot. But I’m not sure that either would have the patience or moral fortitude to embark on Butterfly’s path: to willingly be ostracized by one’s family and society, to turn down a marriage that offers comfort and security, to live for years on a slim hope, and even in the end, to believe so strongly in one’s sense of self that suicide becomes the logical alternative. Rather than allow others to define her – as victim, as abandoned wife, as abandoning mother – Butterfly again chooses her own path. She may indeed be a tragic heroine – certainly we wish that her love and faith had been better placed – but we cannot ignore the strength of her character or the nobility of her struggle.
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