Formalwear for Concerts and Operas?

 by Hanju Yang  April 21st, 2026

One of the defining features of the BBC Proms—long celebrated for its accessibility—has been its relaxed approach to dress. In the 21st century, however, this hardly feels distinctive anymore. In concert halls and opera houses alike, formal dress codes have largely disappeared, and the expectation of dressing up is gradually fading—both on stage and in the audience.

A few years ago, a teacher of mine confided to me how much she disliked seeing audience members turn up in hoodies and sneakers. To her, it felt—at least outwardly—like a lack of respect for the formally dressed musicians on stage. But when I saw Sheku Kanneh-Mason perform a concerto at the Royal Festival Hall in a floral shirt, coloured socks, and trainers—and still bring the house down—I found myself reconsidering the question: do we really need to dress formally for concerts anymore?   

What counts as “formal” has always been a moving target, shifting across time, place, and culture. As our lives change, so do our ideas about what different clothes are for—and how we wear them. The shirt, now a staple of formal dress, was once little more than an undergarment; aristocratic men, before the 19th century, thought nothing of wearing stockings and high heels. Today, turning up to a standard concert in full white tie might feel as oddly theatrical as wearing a powdered wig and breeches would have in the 20th century. And in European halls, I’ve often seen audiences in eye-catching traditional dress—surely just as dignified, and just as “formal,” in their own context.

For many people, dressing up—however impractical—is still a way of showing respect: for the performers, and for the art itself. In a sense, audience members and musicians alike accept the small discomforts of formalwear in order to present their best selves to one another, and to the music. Footage from the mid-20th century often shows audiences in uniform evening dress, especially at major festivals such as Bayreuth or Salzburg. Maybe it is this visual memory that has shaped a lasting idea, if not a stereotype, of what concert-going and opera-going are supposed to look like.

That idea still lingers, but its hold is loosening. Older audiences tend to feel more at ease in suits, dresses, and leather shoes—attire that, for many of them, once formed part of everyday life. For younger generations, however, the picture is quite different: while some arrive in business-like or designer outfits, most dress casually—especially at concerts by the crossover stars and other “big names.”

© Salzburger Festspiele, festival street Hofstallgasse / Andreas Kolarik

Practicality, of course, matters regardless of age. In the damp chill of autumn and winter, fleece jackets and padded vests are everywhere, and soft-soled shoes are often the most comfortable choice. I have, on many occasions, spotted the late Alfred Brendel in the audience—well into his nineties, always with his walking stick—wearing comfortable black leather sneakers beneath a loosely cut suit.

Do audiences today really need to dress formally? Is it still a necessary way of showing respect? Perhaps not—especially as “formalwear” drifts further from everyday life. The pianist Nicolai Lugansky, for example, always appears on stage in impeccable white tie; yet when I happened to see him in the same hall the following evening, he was an entirely unassuming figure in a jumper, casual trousers, black trainers, and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. I have also seen people attend Bayreuth Festival and Salzburg Festival in T-shirts and slippers without being denied entry—perhaps even a more sensible choice than sitting through the stifling heat of the Festspielhaus, perspiring throughout.   

And yet, speaking for myself, I still like to dress up for concerts—especially when hearing artists I deeply admire. Every concert is an occasion: dressing differently from daily life makes it easier to enter a different state of mind. That, I believe, is true for performers and audiences alike. One need not dress up for the sake of glamour alone, but dress appropriately: bright colours may feel out of place in a Requiem, while lighter music need not be confined to black and white. Rather, one should dress in a way that truly suits the occasion—and even the repertoire.

But if there is one rule for concert dress code, I would say this: nothing that rustles. In moments of stillness, when musical tension hangs by a thread, the slightest crinkle of a down jacket can undo everything.

Carl Maria von Weber - Beyond the Operatic Legend

 by Georg Predota  June 5th, 2026

Carl Maria von Weber’s (1786-1826) life and career are inexorably connected to his opera Der Freischütz (The Marksman). When it was first produced in Berlin in June 1821, the musical world was stunned, as he had created a work that seemed to embody the restless spirit of the young Romantic Movement.

The resounding success of Der Freischütz changed the composer, and it also placed this particular opera at the centre of his output. This has come at the expense of Weber’s other remarkable achievements in his richly varied output.

Carl Maria von Weber died on 5 June 1826, and since his biography and Der Freischütz have been examined in considerable detail, let us focus on the composer and the wealth of music beyond the operatic stage that deserves to be heard with more frequency.  

A Composer Takes Shape

Caroline Bardua: Portrait of Carl Maria von Weber

In contrast to Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, Weber, the composer, is not really well understood. Well into the 20th century, critical editions of his works, his diaries, correspondence, and writings still did not exist. In addition, most of the music composed before 1802 had also been lost.

Weber was a declared admirer of Mozart and, in fact, related to him, while Haydn seemed to have played a lesser role. During his time in Vienna in 1803-4 he made significant contact with the music of Beethoven and with the opéras comiques of Cherubini, Méhul, Dalayrac, and others.

Also during his time in Vienna, the famed Abbé Vogler taught him harmony, part-writing, and sparked an enduring interest in folk and exotic music. As Michael Tusa writes, “From that time on Weber’s development as a composer was essentially one of constant growth and maturation with no obvious breaks or periods in terms of style or compositional approach.” (Tusa, GMO, 2001)

Unlike Beethoven, Weber seemed to have destroyed most of his preliminary drafts, so it is difficult to gain a clear picture of his decision-making processes. He did borrow ideas from his earlier compositions, and occasionally we find his own comments about composition and aesthetics.  

Brilliance at the Keyboard

Carl Maria von Weber, 1814 (painting by Thomas Lawrence)

Carl Maria von Weber composed instrumental music throughout his life, ranging from the Six Fughettas of 1798 to his 4th Piano Sonata in 1822. We find most major genres of the early 19th century represented, excepting the string quartet and the piano trio.

Weber was an exceptional pianist, and the piano concertos, several variation sets, and the Rondo brillante are directly related to his public performances. In addition, he successfully composed in the newer genres of concert dances for solo piano and concertante works for soloist and orchestra.   

Salon and Concert Hall

Although full of technical challenges, the piano sonatas were designed for private performance, and his contracts with virtuosos led to a number of works, including the concerto written for Baermann and the clarinet. His symphonies and overtures figured prominently into his conducting activities, and most of the surviving chamber music was also composed for public performance.

Weber wrote comparatively little for the fast-growing amateur market, as we find only three sets of four-hand music and six sonatas for violin and piano. We also find a Divertimento for guitar and piano, a set of variations on a gypsy theme, and the “Invitation to the Dance” for solo piano.

The famous “Konzertstück” for piano and orchestra, and the Grand pot-pourri for cello and orchestra, are unusual alternatives to the traditional three-movement concerto, and they might well have been tied to a specific poetic conception.  

Poetry and Song

Ferdinand Schimon: Carl Maria von Weber

Carl Maria von Weber composed roughly 85 Lieder and Gesänge, primarily setting texts of poets with whom he had personal connections. Among his settings of folk poetry, it is not surprising to find excerpts from the Wunderhorn collection.

His German songs do not attempt the depth and intensity of expression we associate with Schubert and later Romantics, but they aim to entertain through wit, sentiment, or poems about the opposite sex.   

Words and Music

We also find songs on the nature of the human condition, and patriotic texts that project the feelings of a well-defined protagonist. “His views on the nature of the lied conventionally emphasize the primacy of the poem and the resultant need for correct declamation and close relationship between verbal and musical syntax.”

Yet he once confided that “the character and inner life of the words occasionally overruled the demands of strict prosody.” (Tusa, GMO, 2001) While Weber is frequently considered a conservative exponent of the genre, Weber’s songs actually demonstrate a remarkably wide variety of formal approaches.   

Dreaming of Italy

Carl Maria von Weber consistently hoped to travel to Italy, and as a result, composed a couple of settings in Italian. Most noteworthy are a number of concert arias written for specific singers, and an Italian cantata composed for a royal wedding in Dresden.

He also composed a large number of ensemble pieces, both with and without piano accompaniment. Duets, trios, and songs with choral refrains occasionally appear in the published song and folksong collections. His most famous choral pieces are six songs for a cappella male chorus, pieces that first accorded Weber widespread acclaim.   

Music for Church and Stage

Carl Maria von Weber

Weber composed a substantial number of cantatas and cantata-like pieces, many with religious overtones and celebratory character. Although a devout Catholic who frequently conducted liturgical music, his output of sacred music is small. We only find three complete settings of the Roman Mass.

Between 1809 and 1822, Weber composed music for the spoken theatre and specific productions of long-forgotten plays. Most important is his musical contribution to P. A. Wolff’s Preciosa, commissioned and composed in 1820. The play calls for an unusually large amount of music to characterise the opposed Spanish and gypsy elements in the drama and to take advantage of the singing and dancing talents of the lead actor.

“The play (with Weber’s music) rivalled the popularity of Der Freischütz in the Dresden repertory and was widely disseminated, but with the disappearance of Wolff’s play from the stage Weber’s music has also largely vanished from public consciousness.

Between Enlightenment and Romanticism

Carl Maria von Weber lived in tumultuous times, marked by war, social change, and intellectual upheaval. Like many musicians of his day, he relied extensively on patronage and simultaneously saw the emerging middle-class public as an important stimulus for his art. However, he never composed in a purely commercial manner but attempted to educate this new audience to a higher standard of appreciation.

Scholars have recently questioned Weber’s supposed role as the leading exponent of early Romanticism in music, as the triumphant conclusions of his large-scale vocal and instrumental works have little in common with Romantic alienation, irony, and ambivalence.

Michael Tusa finds, “His works betray a consciousness rooted in Enlightenment optimism and shaped by the Biedermeier desire to restore order to a world shaken by a generation of revolution and war.”

A Legacy Rediscovered

Carl Maria von Weber (cigarette trading card)

While Weber’s life and personality, not to mention his international career, resist narrow nationalist interpretations, he nevertheless became a potent symbol of German musical culture.

His influence on later composers was widespread, as he left his mark on Meyerbeer, Wagner, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Liszt. And according to one study, he helped Berlioz to find his own way to originality.

As Weber’s reputation gradually faded, much of his music disappeared from the repertory. He was overshadowed by Wagner in opera and by Beethoven as the paradigm of instrumental music, while Schubert overshadowed him in the lied.

Still, Weber never entirely disappeared, and his most passionate advocates in the 20th century turned out to be Debussy and Stravinsky, both recognising qualities in Weber’s music that fashion and historiography had dismissed.

10 Classical Pieces That Hook You in the First 60 Seconds

 by Emily E. Hogstad  June 28th, 2026

Some composers prefer to gradually ease their listeners into their piece’s sound world. Others strike like lightning.

Today, we’re looking at the latter type of openings. Within the first 60 seconds, listeners are hooked, whether because of rhythm, volume, atmosphere, or some combination of all of the above.

We’re ranking them in reverse order, saving the most immediately arresting for last.

© Psychology Today

10. Johann Sebastian Bach – Brandenburg Concerto No. 3   

We’re starting with the brilliant whirlwind of Baroque perpetual motion that is Bach‘s third Brandenburg concerto.

The first movement instantly launches into interlocking string patterns that feel almost modern in their rhythmic propulsion.

Instead of writing for a typical string ensemble, Bach divides the players into three groups of three, creating nine independent string lines (plus continuo).

That textured propulsion is so effective that you’re hooked and tapping your foot before you’ve had time to analyse what’s happening.

It’s not loud, but it’s striking, and the whirling rhythms immediately get stuck in your head.

9. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – Overture to The Marriage of Figaro  

Mozart doesn’t announce himself here; instead, he sets up a murmured string motif and then starts sprinting.

From that opening string motif, the overture bursts into breathless motion, setting the stage for a world of mischief and comic chaos.

Within seconds, the energy feels theatrical. Even listening at home, you can envision the curtain of the opera house rising.

It hooks listeners through its cheeky velocity rather than its profundity – and that virtuosic speed is intoxicating.

8. Maurice Ravel – Daphnis et Chloé, Suite No. 2  

This hook works differently from the others on this list. Instead of grabbing attention with a fast attack, Ravel immerses his listeners in a radiant atmosphere. It feels like sinking into a hot bath.

Ravel composed this music as a ballet, later extracting two orchestral suites from it.

The opening movement of his second orchestral suite – titled “Lever du jour” (“Daybreak”) – begins in a shimmer of sound that gradually blooms into radiant colour.

Over the first minute, the orchestra sound becomes enormous and almost painfully beautiful: luminous, layered, alive.

7. Sergei Rachmaninoff – Piano Concerto No. 2   

Few openings in the repertoire feel as inevitable as the tolling piano chords here.

They begin in the solo piano part, dark and ominous and resonant, each one weightier than the last.

Within 60 seconds, the orchestral strings sweep in with a heartbreaking theme, and the emotional temperature rises dramatically.

Once that theme arrives, the emotional tenor is set, and it becomes impossible to turn away.

6. Edvard Grieg – Piano Concerto   

This is considered one of the great concerto entrances in the repertoire. It features a massive timpani roll, then a cascade of piano chords.

The piano part tumbles down the keyboard in a gesture that feels both virtuosic and defiant.

After that attention-grabbing opening, Grieg immediately launches into a march that is somehow both jaunty and deeply dramatic, setting the stage for the rest of the movement.

5. Sergei Prokofiev – “Montagues and Capulets” from Romeo and Juliet    

This excerpt begins with horror-soundtrack dissonance. After some unforgiving shrieking chords, the low brass and strings start stomping and swinging forward.

The rhythm is famously heavy, ceremonial, and almost brutal.

Within seconds, thanks to that tonal contrast and that forbidding rhythm, Prokofiev establishes the violent world of the ballet: proud and tense and dangerous.

4. Richard Wagner – Overture to The Flying Dutchman   

Wagner‘s opera The Flying Dutchman tells the story of a cursed 17th-century ghost ship.

Writing this overture, Wagner was determined to portray the mood of a storm at sea – and he succeeded.

Stormy strings and brassy surges create immediate turbulence, imitating roaring winds and lashing waves with scrubbing tremolo bow strokes and trumpet fanfares.

3. Igor Stravinsky – The Rite of Spring   

Stravinsky‘s ballet The Rite of Spring made a major splash at its riotous premiere in the spring of 1913.

It opens with a bassoon playing at the tippy-top of its register. The sound is strange, reminiscent of some kind of ancient woodwind instrument. Within seconds, you know you’re somewhere new.

By the time other instruments enter, the tension and sheer strangeness are palpable.

It’s a quieter kind of shock than some of the other pieces on this list, but historically, it’s certainly among the most disruptive 60 seconds in music history.

2. Carl Orff – Carmina Burana   

There’s absolutely no warm-up here. Straight out of the gate, the chorus explodes with full force, with percussion hammering underneath.

It’s overwhelming – almost operatic in scale – and it seizes attention through sheer sonic weight and repetition.

It’s one of the most dizzying openings ever written for orchestra and chorus.

However, the opening movement that we think has the best hook in classical music history…

1. Ludwig van Beethoven – Symphony No. 5   

Four notes. That’s all it takes. Short-short-short-long. Everyone is familiar with it, even those who have never listened to a symphony in their life.

It has since become a cultural shorthand for the idea of “fate knocking at the door.”

More than two centuries after their composition, those first seconds still feel inevitable.

Those first four notes, and the carefully crafted phrases that follow, are among the most memorable first 60 seconds ever written in classical music history.

Conclusion

Across centuries and styles, composers have found countless ways to seize our attention, whether through rhythm, colour, drama, or sheer volume.

But in these ten opening movements, one thing is clear.

Sometimes you don’t need an hour of classical music to be convinced. Sometimes 60 seconds – and the lightning flash of inspiration behind them – are enough.

Numbering a Symphony: Schubert’s Great, D. 944

by Maureen Buja  June 15th, 2026

Depending on your sources, Franz Schubert (1797–1828) has his final symphony, The Great, D. 944, variously numbered as Symphony No. 7 or Symphony No. 8 or Symphony No. 9 or Symphony No. 10. We now know, through style and paper studies, that many different works got confused in the numbering of the symphonies.

Wilhelm August Rieder: Franz Schubert, 1875 after 1825 watercolour (Vienna Museum)

Knowing the D. numbers is important here! D. stands for Otto Erich Deutsch (1883–1967), an Austrian musicologist who created the first comprehensive catalogue of Schubert’s works (just as Bach‘s works have BWV numbers and Mozart‘s have K. numbers, the D. numbers are for Schubert’s works).

George Fayer: Otto Erich Deutsch, 1927

The problem stems from two places: Only one of Schubert’s last symphonies was truly completed, and, as publishers started to publish the works, they didn’t want gaps in the numbering.

Symphony No. 7 in E minor, D. 729, written August 1821, never went beyond a draft. It was never completed by Schubert, who sketched out the entire work but abandoned it in the middle of scoring the first movement. It showed a radical change from his earlier symphonies, which were very much based on Haydn and Mozart. D. 729 was originally not given a number, but when later scholars and performers started to make editions of it, it received a number, bumping D. 759 and the following symphonies.

With the addition of the now-completed D. 729, the earlier numbered Symphony No. 7 in B minor, D. 759, we now know as Symphony No. 8, with the nickname of ‘The Unfinished’ because there are only two completed movements of it (a third movement only exists in sketches). It was written in October 1822 and sent by Schubert to his friend, Anselm Hüttenbrenner, as a thank-you to Hüttenbrenner’s Graz Music Society, which had given Schubert an honorary diploma.

There’s a hypothetical D. 849 symphony that was written between June and September 1825, which was referred to in Schubert’s letters. It has been nicknamed the Gmunden-Gastein Symphony after the place where Schubert was located when he wrote his letter.

There’s a Symphony D. 936a that exists only in sketches and might have been written in mid-1828. This is now known as Symphony No. 10.

Then there’s the symphony in C major, D. 944. Now known as Symphony No. 9, this is the only symphony among his late works that Schubert actually completed. No matter what the number of the symphony might be, keeping track of the D. numbers will help you sort them all out!

Although originally thought to have been written in Schubert’s last year (1828), we now know that it was begun when he was in Gmunden-Gastein. D. 849, as numbered by Deutsch, actually does not exist. The Great C major, D. 944, was begun in 1824 (as evidenced by the letter dated March 1824, and as evidenced by the use of paper from that time). It was completed in the spring or summer of 1826, and it was sent to the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Schubert couldn’t afford to have the orchestral parts copied, so he dedicated the work to the Gesellschaft. In response, they gave him a small payment, had the parts copied, and did a trial run-through sometime in 1827. They never did a public performance of the work, though, as they thought it too long and difficult for the orchestra on hand. It wasn’t until Robert Schumann saw the manuscript in 1838, 10 years after Schubert’s death, that a public performance took place. He brought a copy of the score, given to him by Schubert’s brother Ferdinand, back to Leipzig, where it was given its premiere at the Leipzig Gewandhaus on 21 March 1839, with Felix Mendelssohn conducting. Robert wrote an article of celebration for the work in his magazine, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, where he praised its ‘heavenly length’. When Mendelssohn took the symphony to Paris and London, orchestras refused to perform it because of its length and difficulty.

The work is considered Schubert’s finest work for orchestra, and the Scherzo movement is one of particular joy. The symphony is important in changing Schubert’s style from working solely on thematic development (as he learned from Beethoven) and focusing more on melody. The work is full of optimism and grand statements, starting from its opening horn call. The ‘joyous alfresco dance’ of the Scherzo develops from its opening statement to form a movement that is more monumental than scherzo movements were expected to be.

This recording was made in November 1957 in the Salle Wagram in Paris, with the Orchestre des Cento Soli under the direction of Ataúlfo Argenta.

The Orchestre des Cento Soli was a French classical orchestra based in Paris that began recording in 1953.

Ataúlfo Argenta

Spanish conductor Ataúlfo Argenta (1913–1958) studied at the Madrid Royal Conservatory and held his first positions with the Orquesta Nacional de España (Spanish National Orchestra), becoming the second conductor in November 1946 and, by January 1947, joint director. By 1950, he began conducting the Paris Conservatory Orchestra, appearing with them until his accidental death in 1958. He also started appearing with the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande from 1954. This recording brings out his energetic approach to Schubert’s music.

Performed by
Ataulfo Argenta
Orchestre des Cento Soli

Recorded in 1957

Official Website

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Jacques Offenbach (Born on June 20, 1819): Le Papillon A Butterfly in Flames

 by Georg Predota  June 20th, 2026

The magnificent German-born French composer Jacques Offenbach composed nearly 100 operettas, and his opera The Tales of Hoffmann had a powerful influence on Johann Strauss II and Arthur Sullivan.

But did you know that he also composed music for the 1860 ballet Le Papillon (The Butterfly), his only work in this genre?

To celebrate Offenbach’s birthday on 20 June 1819, shall we revisit this often-overlooked chapter in his life?  

A Ballet for Emma Livry

Jacques Offenbach (photo by Nadar)

The idea of creating the ballet originated with Marie Taglioni, a Swedish-born Italian ballet dancer whose fragile and delicate dancing typifies the early 19th-century Romantic style. Yet, Taglioni didn’t want the leading role for herself, but for her young protégée, the French ballerina Emma Livry.

Emma Livry gave her triumphant début in La Sylphide in 1858, and she danced the leading role in a divertissement in the opera Herculanum in 1859. A new star was born, and a new ballet was commissioned with Taglioni as the choreographer, Saint-Georges as the librettist, and Jacques Offenbach as the composer.

For the new ballet, hoping to create a work entirely identified with Livry, Saint-Georges opted for a fairy tale that was lighter in character and devoid of complexities. Essentially, it would tell the story of good and evil fairies, an enchanted princess who is cursed by the evil fairy, and the lovestruck prince who sets out to rescue her.  

A Butterfly by Any Other Name

Jules-Henri Vernoy de Saint-Georges

According to petipasociety.com, the ballet’s title was decided at the last moment. “Saint-Georges favoured Zaidée, which he had intended to be the name of the heroine, but Marie Taglioni requested Farfalla, the Italian word for butterfly.”

“Royer, the Opéra director, preferred the title Le Papillon et la Fée (The Butterfly and the Fairy), but those who were guarding Emma Livry’s interests objected, arguing that such a title took the focus away from her and gave too much prominence to a secondary character. After some discussion, it was finally decided that the ballet would be simply called Le Papillon.” (Le Papillon)  

An Enchanted Forest in Circassia

The action is set in Circassia, a former country and historical region in Eastern Europe that spanned the western coastal portions of the North Caucasus, along the northeastern shore of the Black Sea. The first act takes place in a forest, and we meet the evil old fairy Hamza, treating her servant roughly.

Hamza has been turned into an ugly woman for once, abducting Farfalla, the Emir’s daughter, who now serves as her maid. As she looks in the mirror, Hamza’s only wish is to become young again and be eligible to marry, but she will only recover her beauty if someone kisses her.

The young Prince Djalma and his entourage enter the scene, and they come across Hamza’s cottage. After enjoying food and much wine, Hamza sees this as the opportunity she has been waiting for. However, when the prince sees Farfalla, he falls in love. He dances a mazurka with her and thanks her with a kiss. 

The Butterfly Princess

Emma Livry as Farfalla in Le Papillon

Once the prince has left, the tipsy Hamza is teased by the others and flies into a rage. She lures Farfalla into a box and, with her magic crutch, transforms Farfalla into a beautiful butterfly. The cottage is soon filled with butterflies, which Hamza chases away.

With the prince resting in a forest clearing, a member of his party brings him a butterfly he has caught. But when the butterfly is pinned to a tree by the prince, it suddenly turns into Farfalla. She escapes from his grasp and rejoins the other butterflies.  

Hamza now arrives in the clearing with her gardener. She locates Farfalla with her magic crutch and tries to catch her in a net. Yet, as she has left her magic wand unattended for a moment, her gardener Patimate recognises Hamza as the kidnapper of the Emir’s missing daughter.

He seizes the magic wand, and when Hamza loses her powers, he frees Farfalla. Patimate tells Djalma about Farfalla’s real identity, but he forgets to take the magic wand, and it is stolen by a leprechaun. While the leprechaun rushes away with the wand, the prince carries Farfalla to his uncle’s palace.  

Temptation and Deception

Louise Marquet in Le Papillon

The second act takes place at the Emir’s palace, and the happy Djalma and Farfalla arrive in a golden carriage. It is quickly established that Farfalla is indeed the Emir’s daughter and that she can marry his nephew.

Djalma is overjoyed, but when he tries to embrace Farfalla, she repulses him. Farfalla reminds him that not long before, he wanted to impale a butterfly on a tree. As he tries to kiss her anew, Hamza, who had been lurking nearby, throws herself between them and obtains the kiss meant for Farfalla.

The spell on Hamza is working, and she is turned into a beautiful young girl. Prince Djalma is confused by seeing two beautiful women, and he courts Hamza, hoping that Farfalla will throw herself into his arms.

Treacherous Hamza, however, turns Farfalla back into a butterfly and puts a spell on Djalma, conjuring up a vision of an enchanted garden before his eyes. Clearly, Hamza wants to marry Djalma herself.  

Broken Wings and Broken Spells

In the last tableau, amid the grandiose gardens, Djalma awakens to find himself surrounded by a swarm of butterflies, including his beloved Farfalla. Hamza, accompanied by her sisters, the Diamond Fairy, the Pearl Fairy, the Flower Fairy, and the Harvest Fairy, arrives for the wedding.

At the rehearsal for her wedding, she summons a band of golden harps and a torch carrier. Farfalla is attracted by the glow of the torch, but in touching the lamp, she burns her wings, and the spell is broken.

She regains her human form, and Hamza’s sisters break the magic crutch and together transform Hamza into a statue. Farfalla and Djalma are reunited, and the fairies lead them into the enchanted Fairy Kingdom, where they are married.  

High Expectations and Mixed Reactions

Le Papillon, 1860 stage décor

Le Papillon was first presented, to high expectations, by the Paris Opera Ballet at the Salle Le Peletier on 26 November 1860. Even Emperor Napoleon III was in the audience, but the ballet received a mixed response.

“The plot was criticised for lacking simplicity and flow, and many felt that it had relied too much on the scenic effects. Offenbach’s score was also criticised, but this mainly came from music purists who were shocked that such a composer of popular music should be given a hearing within the walls of the Opéra.”

“The more open-minded, who listened without forming their opinions in advance, gave a more positive reaction, praising the skilful orchestration and the abundance of melodies. Some of the numbers that were particularly praised were the Valse des rayons, the mazurka entitled La Lezginka, the Bohémienne and a pastoral march.” (Le Papillon)  

Russian Revival

Marie Taglioni (1850)

Livry’s performance was a huge success, and Taglioni said about Emma, “it is true that I never have seen myself dancing, but I would like to think I did it like her.” Between 1860 and 1862, Emma Livry performed Farfalla forty-two times. However, she suffered fatal burns in a tragic theatre accident in 1862. She died in 1863 at the age of just twenty, and the ballet disappeared from the Paris Opéra repertoire.

Le Papillon was resurrected in 1874, but not in Paris, but rather in Russia. Marius Petipa, the dancer and choreographer who worked for nearly 60 years at the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, extended the ballet from two to four acts, and Ludwig Minkus composed brand new music for Offenbach’s score.

Revivals and Legacy

Marius Petipa

Fast forward to 1979 and a production for the Houston Ballet, which adapted the scenario with the score re-orchestrated by John Lanchbery. The plot was pared down and reset in Persia, retaining many of the comic situations. Compared to Offenbach’s original 1860 score, however, Lanchbery integrated his own composition while changing the order of the numbers in the original score.

Today, Le Papillon is often considered a historical oddity, yet its story remains compelling. Conceived for the extraordinary Emma Livry and brought to life by Offenbach’s intoxicating melodies, it remains a relic of a vanished theatrical world.

While Le Papillon was Offenbach’s singular excursion into ballet, the score reveals many of the qualities that would later make him a great success. Above all, his unfailing gift for melody would subsequently light up the operetta stage, and some of the best melodies from Le Papillon found their way into later compositions.