Iolanta

STORY

15th century, in the south of France. The daughter of King René of Provence, Iolanta, is blind without knowing it. She lives in seclusion with her nurse Martha and her attendants Brigitta and Laura, and has a vague feeling that something is missing from her life. In anticipation of a visit from her fiancé, Duke Robert of Burgundy, the king summons the physician Ibn Hakia, who explains that a cure might be possible, provided that the princess is made aware of her condition. The king refuses. Robert of Burgundy arrives at the palace with the intent of breaking off his engagement because he loves another. His companion, the Count of Vaudémont, falls under the spell of the Iolanta as she sleeps in the garden. When she wakes up, he soon realises her affliction: she cannot tell the colour of the roses. As he praises the wonders of light and the joy of beholding one’s beloved, she insists she has no need of sight. The king, however, uses the situation to persuade her to accept treatment, claiming that without it, he will put Vaudémont to death. Iolanta gives in and follows the doctor. Far from executing the young count, the king in fact grants him his daughter’s hand. At that moment, cries of joy ring out: Iolanta has regained her sight. All praise the Lord.

INSIGHTS

A tale of blindness and awakening

An encounter with director Stéphane Braunschweig and conductor Pierre Dumoussaud.

One creates a stage space that is both protective and oppressive, the other reveals clear, inner music. Together, Stéphane Braunschweig and Pierre Dumoussaud turn Tchaikovsky's opera into an experience that invites us to open our eyes.

Between paradise and prison

The libretto sets the action in a paradise garden, a secluded haven where Iolanta lives without knowing she is blind. Stéphane Braunschweig chooses to represent this space in an abstract way, not as an enchanting refuge but as a sterile and artificial place. On stage: a large white box, a green carpet that muffles sounds, artificial flowers. ‘It's beautiful, bright and smooth, but this space evokes a prison, a place cut off from the outside world and reality. I wanted something that was both voluminous and empty.’

This scenic emptiness expresses the fundamental melancholy of the main character, her awareness of a lack that becomes the driving force behind her quest. The set thus becomes a reflection of Iolanta's condition: protected from the world but locked in an illusion.

Light as a dramatic device

Stéphane Braunschweig turns light into a theatrical experience. He uses it as a sensitive dramatic device, conveying the characters' states of consciousness. ‘When Vaudémont discovers that Iolanta is blind, I have planned for the stage to be plunged into darkness. The audience then adopts his gaze and feels the astonishment he experiences.’ Upon her recovery, the set opens to a backlight, blurred and hesitant, like a difficult first contact with reality. Finally, a dazzling light floods the auditorium, breaking down the barrier between stage and audience and drawing everyone into this revelation. For the director, this lighting design echoes the score itself, ‘in which Tchaikovsky deploys a veritable poetics of chiaroscuro, leading us from darkness to light.’

A score that opens up to impressionism

‘This is the first time I have conducted an opera in Russian. It's a discovery that is as exciting as it is dizzying,’ remarks Pierre Dumoussaud. ‘We are used to Tchaikovsky's flamboyant works. Here, the opera is short and sober. So I want to stay close to the feeling. He sees Iolanta as ‘the Russian Pelléas et Mélisande’: light, never overwhelming orchestral writing that accompanies the intimate journey of two children awakening to love and to themselves. The musical sobriety refocuses the listener's attention on the voices. Dumoussaud stresses that he  wants ‘the singers to be above all voices, conveyors of emotions and symbols, rather than psychological characters.’

From the introduction, a serenade for wind instruments creates a gentle atmosphere, prolonged by the strings and harp on stage. Then, the score expands and brightens until it becomes, according to Dumoussaud, ‘a hymn to light with a whole palette of sound colours that is something akin to impressionism.’

Inner shadows and spiritual light

Beneath the gentle exterior, Braunschweig recalls the latent anxiety that runs through the work: the anxiety of what is missing, the inner turmoil of the father caught between overprotection and guilt, the fear of opening one's eyes to the world. ‘The melody of the cor anglais, from the introduction onwards, imbues the audience with a melancholy that, more than blindness, is perhaps the illness from which Iolanta suffers.’ He identifies this underlying tension as the dramatic driving force. ‘Iolanta, protected, knows vaguely that something is missing, and this absence becomes her strength.’

This anxiety also reflects Tchaikovsky's own torment at the end of his life. ‘We should not forget the inner conflict he experienced, particularly around his hidden homosexuality,’ Dumoussaud points out. The contrast between the first scenes illustrates this intimate dimension: a first feminine, floral, virginal tableau, followed by masculine scenes marked by paternal overprotection and the conquering spirit of young men. ‘These gender oppositions find resolution in the symbolic union of Iolanta and Vaudémont, a union that is not carnal but turned towards light and awakening.’ Beyond that, the work has a spiritual dimension, blending religion and pantheism. Inspired by the faith of Iolanta's father, the oriental accents of the doctor, and nuances of belief erased by Soviet censorship, it offers a universal opening. ‘It is a work in which faith is central, regardless of its spirituality. The feeling of anxiety gives way to calm in a finale where all forces converge, a true happy ending,’ emphasises the conductor.

A timeless quest

Between stage and pit, Braunschweig and Dumoussaud share a common interpretation: the work is above all a story of reconciliation with oneself and with the world. For the director, ‘Iolanta is not a passive character who receives revelation, but an active one who chooses to step into the light despite the risks.’ The conductor continues: ‘There is no social criticism in this work. It expresses the inner quest for love, the discovery of sensuality, knowledge of oneself and others.’

In this sense, the opera, both intimate and grandiose, resonates with current questions such as the temptation to blind oneself and the need to live fully in the world. Braunschweig explains: ‘Iolanta's fate as a woman cannot be separated from her relationship with her father, who wants to overprotect her in a world where reality takes on frightening forms. This desire to withdraw into oneself obviously speaks to us. It is a deadly danger. Iolanta tells us that, despite our fears, we must open our eyes to the world.’

Tchaikovsky's last opera is neither a flamboyant fresco nor an edifying moral tale, but a delicate and symbolic work of transition that heralds the sensibilities of the 20th century. It reminds us that despite our fears, choosing the light may be the greatest act of all.

Vinciane Laumonier