Stories of Music
Act I
By
James Macon Walton
National Theatre. Prague, ČSSR
4 May 1970
Giuseppe Verdi. Nabucco
Some time back, I wrote a 4100 word article titled “Two Nights at the Opera with Švejk.” It chronicles my journey of personal growth from (1) the evening in 1969 when I attended a performance of Robert Kurka’s The Good Soldier Schweik, presented by Robert Gay’s Opera Workshop of the School of Music of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, through (2) my first reading of Hašek’s novel, to (3) a performance of Verdi’s Nabucco in Prague in 1970. The quest of my journey was to meet, and learn to understand, Švejk. Many of you are familiar with the character of Švejk and already know the history of the composing and premiere of Nabucco, so I shall not discuss these here.
From September of 1969 to June of 1970 I lived in Vienna, studying for exams and looking for work in Europe. In May of 1970 I traveled to Prague for a short visit. I arrived by train in the early afternoon. Prior to my arrival in the city I had had no opportunity to learn what opera was to be performed that night, much less to purchase a ticket in advance. So, as soon as I had found a room in a private home in which to stay, I immediately set out for the opera house (The National Theatre) to see if I could get a ticket to attend whatever performance was to be given that night.
When I reached the opera house the lobby of the building was empty except for one usher. He advised that the performance that evening, Verdi’s Nabucco, was about to start in minutes and, furthermore, that the performance was sold out. I felt somewhat guilty acting as the Ugly American, but I was determined to attend the performance. The Soviet bloc had invaded Czechoslovakia in 1968 and closed its borders to the western world in 1969. By 1970 for a Czech citizen to acquire hard currency was a true luxury. My offer to the usher of two U. S. dollars was immediately accepted! There was barely time to check my coat and I was then allowed to squeeze in with other patrons in the rear main floor standing room section of the house.
I do not know when the National Theatre in Prague scheduled Verdi’s Nabucco for performance in May of 1970–whether, as in certain other countries, it might already have been planned some years in advance, or whether it was scheduled only after the Soviet bloc invasion in August of 1968. I do know that, when I managed, literally at the last minute, to bribe my way to join the audience in standing room at this otherwise completely sold-out performance on 4 May, my only thoughts were of anticipation of an enjoyable evening of lovely music.
And lovely music it was. During the first acts, however, I was puzzled to note that the audience did not seem particularly responsive to the performance and performers. I wondered about the apparent variance between this audience in Prague and the enthusiasm of the audience some months earlier at a concert in Bratislava. Was there some major cultural difference between Czechs and Slovaks?
Then came the third act chorus, “Va, pensiero.” In fairness, I must note that this chorus is beautiful music, it was well-performed, and it is the most popular segment of the opera. But that does not explain what happened next. At the end of the chorus, the audience began to applaud. The applause was not overly loud, not boisterous. None of the seated audience stood, yelled, or whistled. There were no shouts of “Viva VERDI.” But the applause went on, and on, and on. It resolved into the rhythmic cadence (which, in continental Europe, is the highest accolade an audience can give a performer or performance). And it went on, and on, and on. Suddenly I understood. The peoples of Czechoslovakia could no more successfully have resisted the military might of the Soviet Union in 1968 than they could successfully have resisted the military might of Nazi Germany in 1938-39. But they could retain and, within limits, demonstrate their dignity, faith, and national pride. With others in the semi-darkness of the standing room section, under the center of the first balcony, I stood with tears in my eyes. I was no longer a stranger, no longer a foreigner. I had become one together with that audience, and with all citizens of Czechoslovakia, past and present, with Tomáš Masaryk and Eduard Beneš, with Jan Kubiš and Jozef Gabčík and the martyrs of Lidice and Ležáky, with Alexander Dubček and Ota Sik, with Jan Opletal, with Jan Palach, Jan Zajíc, and Evzen Plocek, and with the Good Soldier Švejk. I had finally met Švejk face-to-face, and I finally understood him. And the applause went on, and on, and on.
February 2018
A Second Meeting with the Good Soldier Švejk
In May of 1970, during the same visit to Prague when I attended the performance of Verdi’s Nabucco (above) and Mozart’s Don Giovanni (below), I engaged in certain typical sightseeing. On one such occasion I walked from the National Theatre on Národni, north-east to the point where the street name changed to 28. řijna, to the intersection with Václavské Náméstí, then I turned right and continued south-east downhill to its end at Wenceslas Square. Although not the typical town square, this large plaza leads to the impressive neo Renaissance building of the National Museum (Národní muzeum), which had been opened in 1936.
As I approached the museum I had a fleeting impression, more fully-recalled later, that the building appeared to be in a state of disrepair, pockmarked and with its stone facade crumbling. I proceeded to the museum, paid the entrance fee, and turned left into a large display area. As I glanced around to view the room’s contents I noticed the museum “usher,” a man clad the ubiquitous blue smock at that time worn by almost all such custodians in the museums of Eastern-Europe. For my part it was obvious to him, from my clothing, that I was a Westerner. He was some distance away when we made eye contact. At that moment, without speaking or gesturing, the usher, in a simple but distinct movement turned his head to look upward to the high ceiling (some twenty feet overhead). Instinctively my gaze followed his. It took a brief moment for me to register what I saw there. Then my consciousness identified a line of holes, stitched across the ceiling, from the front of the building into the interior of the large room. Much as realization had come to me with the rhythmic applause at the performance of Nabucco at the National Theatre the night before, I instinctively understood that the holes in the ceiling of the Museum’s room had been made by the fire of a machine gun, perhaps from a tank, entering the room through the windows at the front of the building, during the Soviet-bloc invasion in August of 1968! Likewise, the pockmarks in the exterior of the building had come from the impact of bullets from the occupying troops at the same time.
As I said, without a word or even an overt gesture, the usher, who well could have been the Good Soldier Švejk himself, had conveyed the essence of Švejk’s approach to life: we Czechs often can do little to challenge or overcome oppressive authority, but that which we can do is uniquely ours and has its own meaning and value.
In the photograph shown above, taken during one of my subsequent trips to Prague, the National Museum is in the far background. In the mid-background is the equestrian statue, by J. V. Myslbok, of St. Wenceslas. In the foreground there appears to be a memorial to Jan Palach, who, on 16 January 1969, in protest of the Soviet bloc invasion and occupation of Czechoslovakia, had performed self-immolation in Wenceslas Square. While this display is not at the exact spot of his act (it was actually between the statue and the entrance to the Museum), and while there are now other monuments to Palach elsewhere in Prague, I include this photograph to illustrate the import of my narrative here and in the article above.
February 2018
Stories of Music
A Romantic Interlude
Bedřich Smetana Museum (Muzeum Bedřicha Smetany)
Prague, ČSSR
It may be that only those of my readers who (a) have themselves visited Prague and (b) love music, in general, and Czech music in particular will relate and respond to this story. I urge all my readers to free your imaginations to transport you, through time and space, to the moment I describe. See it. Hear it. Feel it. Allow it to enchant you!
Prague is one of my favorite cities in the world. It is certainly one of the most beautiful. The buildings of Prague miraculously have been spared significant damage or destruction from wars, particularity World War II. I have visited Prague four times, from 1970 to the 1990s, in Spring, Summer, and Winter. This story describes an event from one of these trips (the year is immaterial).
Following the tourist ritual, with time spent at the Dvořák Museum and Bertramka (Mozart), I next selected the Smetana Museum. This beautiful neo-Renaissance style building, constructed in 1883-4 and situated on the right bank of the Vlatava River in Prague’s Old Town, in which the Museum is housed, was originally the town’s water works until transformed into the Museum in 1936 (photo left above). It features items celebrating the life and works of the famous Czech composer, Bedřich Smetana (1824 – 1884). The main collection is found in rooms on the first floor of the Museum.
It was a warm summer day. As I viewed the various displays in the large exhibition hall recorded music of Smetana softly was broadcast from speakers. I do not recall the specific composition being played on that occasion. Allow me license, for the sake of the story, to say the piece was Vlatava (also known as The Moldau), one of the six symphonic poems combined into the work Má vlast (My Homeland). Through an open window, the view was of the Vlatava River, across to the Charles Bridge (Karlův most), and further to the Prague Castle (Pražský Hrad) and the Cathedral of St. Vitus (metropolitní Katedrála svatého Vita, Václava a Vojěcha), (photo right above). This melding of place, and time, and sight, and sound, and history is and shall always remain one of the most (culturally) romantic experiences of my life. Come and stand by my side and live the moment…will you join me?
Have you yourself had such an experience in your life to equal or exceed that which I have described? If so, please share it with me. I would welcome the opportunity to select from other such stories which, with the author’s permission and attribution, I could include in this posting. I hope to hear from you.
February 2018
Two Other Romantic Interludes
Your life’s story, Jim, and particularly these latter chapters where you have so beautifully expressed your love of all that culture offers to life, especially opera, reminds me of one other small encounter that I had over 40 years ago. I was on a business trip to Saudi Arabia, with an intermediate call on an architectural client in Rome. I arrived on a Saturday, which gave me the Sunday on my own before the call on Monday. I was able, like you, to get a ticket at the last minute, to the late afternoon performance (about 5PM, which seems a strange hour by American scheduling) of La Forza del Destino. I was simply transported by this Verdi masterpiece, and it remains one of my favorites to this day. In particular, I shall never forget the cultural phenomenon of seeing all the Italian families at the late afternoon performance. Even small children, ages 5 – 10, were there with their parents and grandparents, being introduced to these great Italian masterpieces. Would that all the world had such appreciation for the culture that those of us who have so much for which to be thankful have been able to enjoy.
A couple of decades (!) ago, Anne and I were driving back to Boston after a brief visit to New York City (for an opera, of course!), and we took advantage of the occasion to visit the Cloisters Museum around 195th Street on the northern end of Manhattan. The museum, part of the Metropolitan Museum, is largely composed of a 12th century Gothic chapel, imported stone by stone by the Rockefeller family, probably in the 1930’s, and rebuilt on site. It was Advent season, so the sun was already low in the sky by around 3:00 PM when we arrived. The natural outside light was low and lovely, and it was matched by the inside light, which was soft and warm, much like candle light from the Middle Ages. As we began to walk about the chapel, a soft but distinct sound of Gregorian chant began to filter through the rooms, and we had instantly traveled backward in time some 700 years, and felt ourselves closer to God and heaven than we are ever likely to be again in our lifetimes on this earth.
G. Neil Harper Ph.D.
Thank you for sharing these experiences with me and with my viewers. (JMW)
May 2018
Stories of Music
Tyl Theatre. Prague, ČSSR
6 May 1970
W. A. Mozart. Don Giovanni
In the absence of contemporary written documentation, proof positive of various circumstances of events in Prague in October of 1787 remain in the realm of accepted tradition. Normally I seek to be guided strictly by ascertainable facts but my own personal experiences in this instance compel the romantic in me to prevail over such impulses.
Certain details, peripheral to the specific topic of this story, are verified. In the 17th century a farm villa, subsequently known as Bertramka, was built on the outskirts of Prague by Jan František Bertram. By 1787 it had been acquired by František Xaver Dušek, a Czech composer and one of the most prominent harpsichordists and pianists of his time, and his wife, Josefina Dušková, the soprano for whom Mozart wrote various pieces. It is certain that Mozart and both František and Josefina were friends. Today it seems accepted that, in October of 1787, prior to the premier of Don Giovanni, Mozart stayed at Bertramka and that while there he completed the score for this opera and its overture (photo top left above).
In the late 18th century a theater was built in Prague. Over time it has been known by various names. In 1787 it was called the Prague Italian Opera at the National Theater (of Bohemia). Later it was known as the Estates Theatre and it bears that name at present. In 1948, however, it had been renamed the Tyl Theatre (after the dramatist J. K. Tyl), and it was known by this name when I attended a performance there on 6 May 1970 (photo bottom left above).
Following the overwhelming success of his trip to Prague in January and February 1787 Mozart was commissioned to compose an opera, intended to be performed in honor of a visit to Prague on 14 October 1787 by Archduchess Maria Theresa of Austria. However, Mozart had not completed this new work on time and, on that occasion, instead Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro was presented. The new opera, Don Giovanni, had its premiere on 29 October 1787.
As referenced above, in my article relating to the performance I attended of Verdi’s Nabucco in Prague on 4 May 1970, during that same visit I was able to attend a performance of Don Giovanni in the Tyl Theatre on 6 May 1970. I have no recollection of the performance itself and the Czech artists of the cast that night were unknown to me. The greatest significance to me of this event was the historical perspective of attending a performance of this specific opera in the very house in which it was premiered just shy of 203 years previously! What I do remember about that evening, as I climbed to find my seat in a high balcony, was that the wood interior of the building conveyed an overwhelming sense of age (as well as a scary risk of fire!).
This story is one of gratitude. Gratitude for history, and for Prague itself, so elegantly portrayed by Joseph Wechsberg in his Prague: The Mystical City, with its three-fold foundation: Czech, German, and Jewish. For Fate which spared the city destruction in World Wars. Prague, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and certainly one of my favorite places to visit. Prague: a unique gift of the past to the present…to relive even a small part of 29 October 1787 on 6 May 1970! Gratitude for all the artists, writers, and composers of the past who gave of themselves so that we today can live wrapped in the beauty and joy which they have bequeathed to us.
February 2018
Stories of Music
Metropolitan Opera. Dallas, Texas
8 May 1954
Gaetano Donizetti, Lucia di Lammermoor
To date I have attended more than 300 performances of operas, in 22 cities in 12 countries of the world. This is the story of the first of these performances.
In 1953-54 the Optimist Club of Little Rock, Arkansas, my home town, sponsored an Oratorical Contest for high school students. I was in the 10th grade at Little Rock (later Central) High School when I entered, and won, the local contest. I progressed through a series of higher-level challenges and was selected to represent this club at that year’s national convention which was to be held in Dallas, Texas.
Having achieved the placement of its candidate for the finals at the national convention, the local club decided to send a back-up contestant to Dallas to cover should I not be able to present my speech. The young man selected, Earl, was a 9th grader from another school in town. Earl was an avid fan of opera. In those days the only exposure we in Little Rock had to opera was the Saturday afternoon radio broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera (of New York). But Earl’s involvement went far beyond just listening to the radio. He had acquired autographed photographs of many of the leading opera singers and I am sure his family had numerous recordings of operas and that they had attended performances in other cities and states. Earl had learned that, at the very time he and I were to be in Dallas for the Optimist Club sessions, the Metropolitan Opera which in those days toward the end of its formal season in New York City toured a number of cities in the States, was to perform two operas in Dallas. Earl advised me that he planned to get a ticket for one of those performances and asked me if I wished to join him. I myself had followed the Met broadcasts for some time and had a beginner’s interest in opera (although I had not yet attended a performance of any such work). I readily agreed to accompany him for this event. The work we selected was Lucia di Lammermoor in which the role of Lucia was to be sung by Lily Pons and Jan Peerce was to sing the role of Edgardo.
This was my first time to see/hear an opera, and it was a long time ago. Memories from such a distance tend to be selective. As Wikipedia notes, “Lily Pons (April 12, 1898 – February 13, 1976) was a French-American operatic soprano and actress who had an active career from the late 1920s through the early 1970s. As an opera singer she specialized in the coloratura soprano repertoire and was particularly associated with the title roles in Lakmé and Lucia di Lammermoor.” I do remember seeing, in The Dallas Morning News (Page 6, Section II, left photo above), the day of the performance a photograph of the flamboyant soprano taken during an interview in her hotel room the day before. A reporter advised her that the performance in which she was to sing the following night was sold out. Her reply was “They love Lucia and they love Lily!” In later years and from other performers I would have considered such a comment to be arrogant, and I would have been irritated. In this instance, however, I have never held these remarks from this diva to be offensive–they were, rather, fully justified!
Being my first time in the audience for an opera performance, I am certain that I had little understanding of or appreciation for that which I was seeing/hearing. In fact, I have only one overriding impression of any portion of the presentation. I had no idea what a coloratura soprano was or was to sound like. Instead, I just thought Lily Pons was “showing off!” In later years, as I attended more and more operas, I came to realize the significance of what that first performance had represented. Even if I do not now remember other details, I know that what I heard was exceptional and that it was a unique introduction to all my experiences of operas to come.
On 4 May 1955, on the Met tour, then in Memphis, for a performance of Il Barbiere di Siviglia, I once again heard Lily Pons sing, this time in the role of Rosina. I am sure she was still as enthralling as before, but I must have realized what I was hearing because I have no specific recollection of that performance (which included Robert Merrill, Jerome Hines, Fernando Corena and George Cehanovsky).
My next performance of Lucia was again by the Met, but this time in the old Met House, 1411 Broadway (between 39th and 40th Streets), 5 April 1958. Jan Peerce was Edgardo and Lucia was sung by Roberta Peters. Peters, whom I would hear numerous times over the years, was exceptional in the coloratura roles but not, I think, the equal of Lily Pons, my first Lucia.
February 2018
Stories of Music
Giacomo Puccini, Tosca
Metropolitan Opera. Memphis, Tennessee
10 May 1956
Lyric Opera of Chicago. Chicago, Illinois
19 November 1960
First impressions can lead to a variety of emotions. My first two performances of Tosca forged indelible memories of circumstances by which all future performances of this opera I attended would be measured. This is not to say that these first performances “ruined” all later versions for me, but they did create elements which no subsequent performance was ever able to match, much less exceed!
In the preceding article (Met, Dallas, Lucia) I mentioned the assistance of the younger student, Earl, in arranging for me to join him for my first performance of an opera. For the next two years, when then we were both attending the same high school (although not in the same year’s class), Earl’s mother made it possible for Earl and me to be excused from attendance at school for two days. On these occasions she drove us from Little Rock to Memphis where the Metropolitan Opera, as part of its spring tour, presented two operas. We arrived in time to attend one performance the first night, then stayed over in a hotel to be able to attend the second performance the next night, driving home after its completion.
In the Tosca of 10 May 1956 Jan Peerce was Cavaradossi, Walter Cassel was Scarpia, and Licia Albanese sang the role of Tosca. I have no specific recollection as to the music, either of the orchestra or of the singers. The aspect which I relate here was one of staging. At the end of the second act there is a scene which, with the one exception I note here, is followed in all performances of this opera. After stabbing Scarpia to death, and when Scarpia is lying dead on the floor of his chamber, Tosca follows a set ritual. To a repeated three-chord passage by the orchestra, Tosca first takes a lighted candlestick from a table and places it to one side of Scarpia’s body. Then she takes a second candlestick and places it on the other side of the body. Finally she takes a crucifix from the wall and places it on the chest of Scarpia’s body. With the first of the three chords Tosca takes up the item; to the second chord she moves back to Scarpia’s body; then the item is placed down timed exactly to the third of the chords. Following these actions, Tosca stands to her full height. The orchestra follows with a bold “whirring” passage, and Tosca rushes from the room.
In this performance the staging for Tosca’s (Albanese’s) exit had her, to the the “whirring” music of the orchestra, fling her long and flowing scarf around her neck (à la Isadora Duncan) just before she turned to flee. For me, that unforgettable and perfectly-timed gesture epitomized both the character of Tosca and the agony of her predicament. In each of the four or five times I have attended subsequent performances of Tosca I have waited, in hopeful anticipation, for a repeat of this single gesture of staging, only to be disappointed every time!
My next performance of Tosca, as indicated above, was at the Lyric Opera of Chicago in November of 1960 (when I was a student at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois). Giuseppe di Stefano was Cavaradossi, Renata Tebaldi was Tosca, and Tito Gobbi was Scarpia. Although I was disappointed in its failure to repeat the staging of Tosca’s exit at the end of the second act (discussed above), this evening introduced me to the next “standard” by which to judge all subsequent performances of this opera. Over the following years I had the great honor to hear/see Tito Gobbi perform numerous times in various roles (primarily at the Lyric). In addition to his exceptionally beautiful and powerful voice, he was a consummate actor. In his Scarpia, and, in Verdi’s Otello, his Iago he portrayed the epitome of Evil. In all future productions of Tosca I attended, no matter how satisfyingly a Tosca and Cavaradossi performed, the Scarpia never induced the fear and chill of a Tito Gobbi!
May 2018