Kay’s and my Florence production of Monteverdi’s Orfeo in 1984 was one of the most exciting and gratifying events of my whole career. The idea was born at dinner in a restaurant on the Arno in Florence with our friend Luciano Berio in 1982.

He told us that he had just been made Artistic Director of the Maggio Musicale di Firenze for 1984. When he outlined his plan to stage two outdoor versions of L’Orfeo, one recomposed by him and colleagues, and one newly commissioned ballet, I jumped in with the idea that, to balance these modern concepts, he needed performances of the original Monteverdi opera, done with as exact fidelity as possible to the original Mantuan ones of 1607.

What would it be like he asked? My mind went into creative overdrive, I improvised a detailed production concept. We didn’t want a theatre, because the Gonzaga performances were in a large room, but the Salone cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio would be perfect. A small cast, doubling as chorus and soloists, and a small orchestra of solo original-instrument musicians would all be in early 17th century costume. So would the Italian stage hands, in full view of the audience.The performers would process in during the opening Toccata, carrying the lit candles that would illuminate the stage, and process out at the end.

A ruined temple would be built on the open platform and the musicians could sit on either side. There would be lots of continuo instruments: Harpsichords, Archlutes, Organs, Regals and Harps. There might be no conductor. Kay would choreograph the  many dances, I would prepare the music, creating a new edition for the occasion. Kay and I would direct the rehearsals together.

As I finished, rather breathless fifteen minutes later, Luciano simply leaned across the table and said: “Done. Send me full estimates when you get home”. We were astounded and thrilled, and especially pleased because we had two years to flesh out our ideas.

Estimates came under various headings: Performers fees, Rehearsals, the Edition, Designer , Candles and other lighting, travel, hotels and so on. The stage scenery would be made in Florence by the Opera workshops; the costumes in London. We were careful not to underestimate just to get the job, and we added a clear 10% overrun option to each section. It all came to several hundred thousand pounds, but quite soon all our quotes were accepted and we were in business.

During 1983, in among normal conducting and teaching duties, we worked on the edition and had scores and parts made, auditioned singers in our Swiss Cottage flat, booked musicians, and worked intensively with our lovely designer Terence Emery. Almost all  the ideas I had come up with impromptu by the Arno were carried forward to the production. Many were of course elaborated, but only two were changed: Firstly, the ruined temple became a beautiful free-standing one, pillared like a Greek temple, open at the sides with steps all round. Three back cloths and two turning side panels could changed by costumed stage attendants.

Secondly, at the last moment we were forbidden to use live candles. It transpired that three hundred years earlier a city law was passed to protect the superb Vasari ceiling paintings in the Salone,-from candle-lit performances just like ours!  My complicated candle-changing plan was translated into gentle electric one.

I did quite a lot of research in the old British Library about the Classical Golden Age, and discovered an amazing early 17th Century  source: a fascinating Mantuan treatise on acting! Among other things it surprised us about naturalism in what we had supposed to be a highly theoretic style. For instance: “When two shepherds are singing a mourning song their eyes should meet in sympathy”. That’s exactly what happens in Orfeo! Another delightful find was about lighting. I had worked out that we would need 300 candles for each performance to light the stage, assuming the attendants would renew them as they burned down. The Mantuan source suggested exactly that number!!

Rehearsals always began with exercises, led by Kay, in which we all joined, followed by readings from me about the Renaissance, the Classical period, and poems like Milton’s Lycidas: “Weep no more woeful Shepherds, weep no more, for Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead” etc. Then Kay would set the first scene, with its dances, and I would set the second. Next day I would revise the first scene and she would revise the second. This way of working was made much easier because  we didn’t have a “concept”, we were simply telling the story. Hand and arm gesture was  important, and became crucial as things developed.

Monteverdi’s printed score told us that he had a keyboard at each “angolo” of the stage, and so we began by setting the cast so that they could see one of the players. But after a few days I realised that this was impractical. I announced that from now on the keyboard players would instead follow the singers. The cast was alarmed; they were used to following a beat. “But you will be helping us, hiding behind a pillar or something.”  “No, I said, “we have to find another way. From now on you are all in charge”. And find a way we did, largely by using their own hand gestures.For instance, right at the start of the opera the whole chorus exclaim together :Vieni Imeneo, deh vieni”, without any orchestral introduction as there would be in Purcell or Handel. In our production one singer initiated a gesture, and the whole group (of 12) flung their arms to the heavens. Electrifying for the audience, and also for the orchestra as it was their cue too. They played on each side of the stage, looking in and following the cast, not only in the singing but also in the dancing. The cast just started a dance and the players had to follow. I remember he two violas, behind the violins, called out that they could not see the dancers’ feet. “Then stand up” I cried. It was magical for the audience to see the whole piece without any sign of direction. Nick Kenyon wrote in a glowing Times review that the ensemble was so perfect that a conductor could never have improved it.

We played four or five nights, to charmed audiences, and the reviews were a joy. “Prophetica e Moderna” was one surprising headline, and really summed up what we were trying to do. Using the wisdom of the past, we nevertheless wanted the audience to feel they were watching a modern drama rather than a museum piece. The Salone was a magnificent setting for our Orfeo. I watched from high up in the Gallery at the back, waiting for my tiny role as the Echo in the last scene.

Two years later we were invited to repeat Orfeo in Rome, and also in Bath, Cardiff, and the Proms in London. The Proms show was fully staged; our temple went up one night, and disappeared the next. In between, 5000 people in the Albert Hall saw the first successful opera in history, originally played for a small, elite, aristocratic  audience in 1607.