Janacek Beyond the Borders [Illustrated] 1580463096, 9781580463096

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Janáˇcek beyond the Borders

Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles of Interest The Poetic Debussy: A Collection of His Song Texts and Selected Letters (Revised Second Edition) Edited by Margaret G. Cobb Music’s Modern Muse: A Life of Winnaretta Singer, Princesse de Polignac Sylvia Kahan “Claude Debussy As I Knew Him” and Other Writings of Arthur Hartmann Edited by Samuel Hsu, Sidney Grolnic, and Mark Peters Foreword by David Grayson Debussy’s Letters to Inghelbrecht: The Story of a Musical Friendship Annotated by Margaret G. Cobb Opera and Ideology in Prague: Polemics and Practice at the National Theater, 1900–1938 Brian S. Locke Schubert in the European Imagination, Volume 1: The Romantic and Victorian Eras Scott Messing Schubert in the European Imagination, Volume 2: Fin-de-Siècle Vienna Scott Messing

Beethoven’s Century: Essays on Composers and Themes Hugh Macdonald In Search of New Scales: Prince Edmond de Polignac, Octatonic Explorer Sylvia Kahan The Ballet Collaborations of Richard Strauss Wayne Heisler Jr. Irony and Sound: The Music of Maurice Ravel Stephen Zank August Halm: A Critical and Creative Life in Music Lee Rothfarb Intimate Voices: The Twentieth-Century String Quartet, Volume 1: Debussy to Villa-Lobos Edited by Evan Jones Intimate Voices: The Twentieth-Century String Quartet, Volume 2: Shostakovich to the Avant-Garde Edited by Evan Jones Music Speaks: On the Language of Opera, Dance, and Song Daniel Albright

A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music Series, in order of publication, may be found at the end of this book.

Janáˇcek beyond the Borders Derek Katz

Copyright © 2009 by Derek Katz All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2009 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-309-6 ISBN-10: 1-58046-309-6 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Katz, Derek. Janácek beyond the borders / Derek Katz. p. cm. — (Eastman studies in music, ISSN 1071-9989 ; v. 72) Includes bibliographical references (p. ), discography (p. ), and index. ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-309-6 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-58046-309-6 1. Janácek, Leoš, 1854–1928. Operas. 2. Opera. I. Title. ML410.J18K38 2009 782.1092—dc22 2009036620 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To my parents, with love and gratitude.

Contents Preface

ix

1

Finding a Context

1

2

Beyond the Czech Language: Janáðek and the Speech Melody Myth, Once Again

13

3

Beyond the Czech Lands: To the East

30

4

Beyond National Opera

50

5

Beyond Western European Opera

76

6

Beyond the Operatic Stage

104

7

Harmony and Mortality in The Makropulos Case

121

Notes

137

Bibliography

155

Scores

163

Discography

165

Index

167

Preface My first contact with music of Leoš Janáðek came while I was in high school, during a period of enthusiastic, if highly undisciplined, self-education in twentieth-century music, relying largely on the LP collection of the Princeton (NJ) public library and on the programmers at WNCN-FM. A similarly-inclined friend urged me to investigate a record of Janáðek’s Sinfonietta (Seiji Ozawa, Chicago Symphony Orchestra, 1969), which I promptly did, playing the recording often enough to get it temporarily banned from the Katz household. Later in life, I persistently (and rather imprudently) dragged friends through readings of the two Janáðek string quartets (Jim Ellison deserves special mention for patiently leading many such sessions from the first violin). My first serious immersion into the study of Janáðek’s music, though, came courtesy of the 1988 international conference “Janáðek and Czech Music,” organized by Michael Beckerman and Glen Bauer at Washington University in St. Louis. I attended the conference not long after graduating from college, while working at the late, lamented Record Hunter in Midtown Manhattan. The conference not only exposed me to many of Janáðek’s works, and to Jaromil Jireš’s wonderful biographical film about Janáðek, Lev s bílou hřívou (The Lion with the White Mane), but also introduced me to a distinguished and congenial group of scholars and to many of the important issues and problems of Janáðek reception and criticism. To a great extent, this book is the result of a longstanding desire to reconcile the portrayals of Janáðek that I have encountered in textbooks, program notes, and some scholarly works—generally either a thorny modernist seemingly more aptly grouped with younger composers than with his own generation, or a composer largely formed by his native region, conditioned most strongly by the inflections of Czech speech and folk music—with the more complicated, problematic, and rich composer that I have experienced as a player and listener. Portions of this book (chapters 1, 5, 6, and part of chapter 4) have their origins in my PhD dissertation for the University of California, Santa Barbara, which I completed in 2000. I would like to thank my disseration committee, which was chaired by Michael Beckerman, and also included Alejandro Planchart and Pieter van den Toorn. My dissertation research in Brno was supported by a grant from the International Research & Exchanges Board (IREX), while my final year of writing was supported by a President’s Year Dissertation Fellowship from the University of California. I am very grateful to both sources. Many people were kind enough to assist me in the Czech Republic. In Prague, I would like to thank Mgr. Aleš B÷ezina for bringing me (and a sizable contingent

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of Californians) to the 1997 Bohuslav Martinø Festival, Dr. Milan Pospíšil for helpful comments about a very early version of chapter 5 presented at that festival, and Dr. Jarmila Gabrielová for translating that work. In Brno, Dr. Miloš Št¥droÞ and the late Dr. Ji÷í Fukað hosted me at Masaryk University, with the help of many students. Šárka Pelanová and Pavel Jirásek were particularly helpful in guiding me through various administrative and bibliographic mazes. Most of all, I would like to thank everyone who helped me in the Janáðek Archive in the Music Division of the Moravian History Museum, both then and in subsequent visits. After being frightened by the horror stories of fellow scholars about European archives, I was shocked by the warm reception with which I was greeted at the Janáðek Archive. I would like to thank the then director, Dr. František Malý, for allowing me to work in the archive, and the distinguished Janáðek scholar Dr. Svatava P÷ibáÞová for helping me to find everything that I was looking for, suggesting material that I didn’t know I was looking for, and for helping me to decipher Janáðek’s appalling handwriting. Mgr. Ji÷í Zahrádka, Jitka Buriánková, and Dr. Voj¥tch Kyas were also exceedingly helpful. Finally, a special thanks to Mgr. Simona Šindlá÷ová for being generous with her time at the archive. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to present versions of some of this material at conferences and festivals. The University of Michigan Czech Cultural Studies Workshops, lovingly tended by Jind÷ich Toman, have been an invaluable resource, and I thank my fellow participants, especially Jindra, Herbert Eagle, Jonathan Bolton, and Matthew Witkovsky for their comments and suggestions. Part of chapter 6 was presented at another international Janáðek conference, “Janáðek’s Brno between Vienna and Prague,” held in London in 1999. My thanks to Geoffrey Chew for facilitating my participation, and for his comments on my paper. Further thanks to Eckhard Weber for inviting me to Berlin for the 2004 conference “Von Grenzen und Ländern, Zentern und Rändern: Der Erste Weltkrieg und die Verschiebungen in der musikalischen Geographie Europas,” at which I read what turned out to be the beginnings of chapter 3. I am also grateful to have been able to participate in the 2003 Bard Music Festival devoted to Janáðek and his world, and thank Christopher Gibbs and Leon Botstein for that opportunity. Thanks also to Caryl Emerson, for kindly sharing her essay on The Makropulos Case before its publication, and to Daniel Albright for looking over an early version of chapter 2. Everyone that I have worked with at the University of Rochester Press has been both patient and helpful beyond any reasonable expectations. Ralph Locke has encouraged and supported me throughout the entire process and Suzanne Guiod has gently, but firmly, guided me through the endgame. Tracey Engel has done a wonderful job with the production of the book, and Cheryl Carnahan has been a laudably thorough and understanding copyeditor. I am especially grateful to the two anonymous readers who reviewed the manuscript for the press. Their expert and detailed comments have made this a stronger book. Any remaining errors are, of course, entirely my responsiblity.

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The musical examples were prepared by Edmond Johnson, student, colleague, and friend, who also helped to edit the manuscript, made many helpful suggestions, and generally bailed me out on numerous occasions. The index is courtesy of Marilyn Bliss, who deserves both credit for her expert work and extra thanks for heroically stepping in at the last minute. The excerpts from Janáðek’s Pohádka and Taras Bulba are reproduced with the kind permission of Bärenreiter Music Corporation. All other examples from Janáðek’s works are used with the kind permission of Universal Edition. My thanks to John Pennino of The Metropolitan Opera Archive for help with the cover photograph. I also have a number of more personal debts. My fellow American scholars of Czech music have constituted an informal support group, upon whom I have leaned at many different stages of my academic career. Brian Locke, Diane Paige, Judith Mabary, and Erik Entwistle, in particular, have all been helpful in various ways, and I owe special thanks to Diane and to Jonathan Secora Pearl for hospitality in Brno. At UCSB, my colleagues William Prizer, Stefanie Tcharos, Timothy Cooley, David Paul, and Paul Berkowitz have been unfailing sources of friendship and support. Michael Beckerman’s name has already appeared more than once in these acknowledgements, but I cannot thank him enough for all of the ways in which he has guided, mentored, encouraged, and supported me. Mike remains my model as both a scholar and as a person, and I am very fortunate to have had him as a friend and mentor. My son Sam, now in his early teens, has barely known a life in which I was not working either on my dissertation or on this book, and, I am sure, has suffered more from this than I realize. He has endured time in the Czech Republic, bedtime stories in Czech, and could name four Czech composers before his second birthday, a circumstance for which I hope he will someday forgive me. Irving Portner, lifelong family friend, has encouraged my love of opera for even longer than I knew that I had one, and I am delighted to have been his companion on a tiny fraction of his visits to the Met. My parents, Stanley and Adria Katz, have been extraordinarily supportive of my musical and scholarly efforts throughout my life. They have been especially responsible about attending Janáðek performances and related events, and, in particular, have a perfect attendence record at Metropolitan Opera Janáðek productions since 1992. This book is dedicated to them.

Chapter One

Finding a Context Janáðek’s Success During an intermission feature in a January 2000 Metropolitan Opera broadcast of Rigoletto, participants were asked what names they would remove from, or add to, the pantheon of opera composers once enshrined on the facade of the old Met. The eliminations were fairly predictable, with Gounod taking a particular beating (the Met is clearly the “Faustspielhaus” no longer). The proposed additions were more surprising. One participant nominated Strauss, Puccini—and Leoš Janáðek.1 A long-obscure Moravian with a name bristling with diacritical marks, born in a town too small to be listed in most atlases, may seem an unlikely candidate for the company of Mozart, Wagner, and Verdi. In fact, though, it can be argued that Janáðek is one of the most successful opera composers of the twentieth century. While none of his works is as famous and beloved as, say, Madama Butterfly or Rosenkavalier, Jenůfa is now a repertoire staple, and Káťa Kabanová, The Cunning Little Vixen, The Makropulos Case, and From the House of the Dead are standard fare in the world’s great opera houses. In the 2007–8 season, for instance, there were ten productions of Jenůfa in America and Europe—including productions in Los Angeles, Hamburg, Stuttgart, Cologne, and Prague—and eleven productions of Káťa Kabanová, The Cunning Little Vixen, The Makropulos Case, and From the House of the Dead, stretching from Toronto to Berlin and from Vienna to Sydney. Even the once hopelessly obscure The Excursions of Mr. Brouček was produced twice, in Geneva and Frankfurt. American audiences have been able to choose from productions in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, Seattle, Cooperstown, Dallas, Portland, Philadelphia, San Diego, Long Beach, and Charleston. All of the operas have been recorded, all but the early folksong pastiche The Beginning of a Romance more than once. Five have been recorded in English. Five of Janáðek operas are available on DVD, including competing versions of Jenůfa and The Cunning Little Vixen. Janáðek has also made inroads into other realms of Anglo-American culture. The Cunning Little Vixen, despite the death of the title character (much in the manner of Bambi’s mother), is included in a children’s book of opera stories and is the subject of a BBC animated film (albeit one that significantly abridges Janáðek’s score). The Brothers Quay have made an animated short about Janáðek (Leoš Janáček: Intimate Excursions, 1983), Janáðek’s music fills the soundtrack of Philip Kaufman’s 1988 film of Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and the composer’s youthful

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patriotism serves as a point of reference in Bernard MacLaverty’s Grace Notes, a novel about music and Irish politics.2 While there are single twentieth-century operas that were performed more frequently than any by Janáðek, the only other composer who contributed as many operas to the international repertoire in that century as Janáðek was Richard Strauss. Strauss, though, was one of the foremost conductors in Europe, and his orchestral tone poems had already established him as the continent’s most important composer by 1905, when Salome was first produced. Most of his operas from that point on entered the repertoire immediately. At this same time, Janáðek, although a decade older than Strauss, was still a provincial teacher and journalist, barely known in Prague, let alone outside the Czech lands. His first production outside Brno was still more than a decade away. Although Jenůfa was taken up fairly swiftly in German-speaking lands, none of Janáðek’s other operas received more than one foreign production during his lifetime. For such a sizable body of work to make its way into the international repertoire well after the composer’s death is without parallel in the history of twentieth-century opera. The fact that all these operas are in Czech, a language understood by only a tiny fraction of the world’s opera audiences, makes the circumstance even more remarkable.3 Janáðek’s Czech libretti have been an impediment not only to current comprehension but also to productions during his lifetime. Had Janáðek been able to provide Gustav Mahler with a German translation of Jenůfa in 1904 and had Mahler been as enthusiastic an advocate of that opera as he was of another Czech classic, Smetana’s Dalibor, Janáðek’s long wait for operatic recognition might have been curtailed considerably.4 Another barrier is Janáðek’s frequently less-than-idiomatic vocal writing. The tenor Gregory Turay, who sang Janek in The Makropulos Case at the Met in 1998, when interviewed about Janáðek, complained, “I’m no fan of Janáðek. . . . He writes for instruments.”5 Despite this, Janáðek’s operas have served as vehicles for many of the world’s great singers, especially sopranos—both from the Czech and Slovak lands, such as Št¥pánka Jelínková, Drahomíra Tikalová, Gabriela BeÞaðková, and Lucia Popp, and beyond, including Karita Mattila, Nina Stemme, Jessye Norman, Catherine Malfitano, Anja Silja, Elisabeth Söderström, Leonie Rysanek, Sena Jurinac, and Magda Olivero. It should, then, no longer be necessary to proselytize for Janáðek and plead for his significance as a composer. True, Janáðek is not for everybody, and he never will be. A recent New Yorker profile of the Metropolitan Opera’s general manager Peter Gelb included an interview with one of the Met’s major patrons, who listed From the House of the Dead as one of the operas she could live without, and she admitted that she was not planning to attend the 2009 Met production.6 Still, Janáðek has become about as big as it is possible for a composer of his time to become. This book is primarily concerned with Janáðek’s operas, but the two string quartets are also in the repertoire of any serious professional quartet (as I write, over thirty different performances of the second quartet are

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available on CD). Further, many of the orchestral works are repertoire staples (especially Taras Bulba and the Sinfonietta), as is the Glagolitic Mass. The song cycle The Diary of One Who Vanished is not only frequently performed but has been the occasion of a number of significant semi-staged productions, including one from 2001 directed by Deborah Warner, with Ian Bostridge singing Seamus Heaney’s English translation of Ozef Kalda’s verses.7 The problem remains, though, of how to understand Janáðek and his works. Janáðek exists in two separate critical worlds. One is based in academia and places Janáðek in historical contexts by writing about him in scholarly articles, monographs, and textbooks. The other world is made up of program notes, liner notes, pre-concert lectures, journalism, and other ways of mediating between performers and listeners. In the academy, the task has been to situate Janáðek within the history of musical modernism and find a way to place him in the story of modernism’s triumph over Romanticism. In America, this story is still heavily influenced by Theodor Adorno’s view, as articulated in his Philosophie der neuen Musik (Philosophy of New Music), of the early twentieth century as split between Schoenberg and Stravinsky. Neither a serialist nor a neo-classicist, Janáðek fits on neither side of Adorno’s divide, and, if he is to be portrayed as a significant figure, he must be placed in a third category. The most usual solution is to see him as analogous to Bartók, another pioneering ethnographer, and to describe the distinctive characteristics of Janáðek’s mature style as derived from his studies of Czech folk music and the Czech language, thereby granting him credibility as a modernist while grounding his music in local culture. For anyone who has taken a music history course, this immediately recalls the lamentable textbook practice of quarantining “national” composers in separate chapters, where they can be safely mentioned without contaminating the mainstream of music history. In this scheme, Beethoven and Brahms are composers, without any need of modifiers, while Smetana, Dvo÷ák, and Janáðek are Czech composers. As Richard Taruskin has pointed out in writing about Russian music, canonical figures, such as Verdi and Wagner, tend to be praised as “heroic individuals,” while Russian composers are treated as members of a national (and nationalist) group. Taruskin continues, citing Gary Tomlinson and Tzvetan Todorov, to regret “a common failure to perceive difference without imputing it to inferiority.”8 Outside of the academy, Janáðek’s music tends to be presented as the product of his biography, especially his collecting of folk music, his muchvaunted (if poorly understood) “speech melody theory,” and his notorious infatuation with Kamila Stösslová. Scholarly writings about Janáðek’s work have, for the most part, argued variations on the same thesis: that Janáðek’s musical style is modern and original and that this originality springs directly from the composer’s fascination with the intonations of Czech speech and his interest in folk music from the Czech lands. This is an eminently reasonable approach. This thesis had already been formulated during the composer’s lifetime and would have met with the approval of

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Janáðek himself, who consistently identified folksong and Czech speech as sources of his musical style. Nonetheless, the rather monolithic nature of this approach to Janáðek has tended to crowd out counter-narratives. This study intends to apply critical pressure to the ways in which Janáðek has been understood and to suggest that he is a more complicated and problematic figure than textbooks and program notes would have us believe. Janáðek is far too rich, quirky, and protean a figure to be contained by a single story.

Janáðek as Old Avant-Gardist One of the final chapters of Miloš Št¥droÞ’s 1998 study Leoš Janáček and Music of the 20th Century is entitled “Young Conservative—to Old Avant-Gardist?!?”9 Despite the intriguing punctuation, at the end of this chapter Št¥droÞ did indeed conclude that Janáðek grew into an avant-gardist and declared that Janáðek’s music of the 1920s is one of the most radical manifestations of European music from the first three decades of the century.10 This view of Janáðek’s career as culminating in an avant-garde, or modernist, period is a widespread formulation with a long history. In a 1983 essay, Milan Kundera wrote of Janáðek, “A solitary conservative figure in his youth, he has become an innovator in his old age.” Kundera described Janáðek’s late works as “audacious” and suggested that he must be heard in the company of composers thirty and forty years younger, like Bartók, Stravinsky, Hindemith, Krenek, and Schoenberg.11 Similarly, the opening narration of Jaromil Jireš’s 1986 documentary film about Janáðek declared that “Leoš Janáðek was born deep in the mid-nineteenth century. His music belongs wholly to the avant-garde of the twentieth century. Although he was thirty years older than Bartók or Stravinsky . . . Janáðek’s works rank amongst the most progressive of modern European music.”12 In particular, the idea that Janáðek was somehow generationally displaced can be traced back to the composer’s lifetime. In an enthusiastic 1925 essay, Erwin Schulhoff, almost exactly forty years younger than Janáðek, wrote that as “astounding as it may seem, the septuagenarian Janáðek belongs to the latest generation of composers, whose struggle he has also fought.”13 Hanns Eisler also noted Janáðek’s late fecundity, remarking after a 1927 performance of the Sinfonietta that Janáðek was “entirely unique amongst current bourgeois composers” and “still astoundingly full of creative strength as an old man.”14 In September 1926, Janáðek traveled to Venice to hear a performance of his first string quartet at the annual International Society for Contemporary Music festival. Other living composers whose works were performed at the festival included Roussel, Vaughan Williams, Schoenberg, Ravel, Malipiero, Szymanowski, Stravinsky, Ladislav Vycpálek, Louis Gruenberg, Ibert, Honegger, and Hindemith. These twelve composers, although a heterogeneous group in most ways, shared at least one trait: all were younger than Janáðek. In fact, most were significantly younger,

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with only Roussel and Vaughan Williams within twenty years of his age. Put another way, their average age was forty-four in 1926, while Janáðek had turned seventy-two in July of that year. Another, rather more idiosyncratic, tribute came from Henry Cowell, who visited Brno and lectured at the Club of Moravian Composers in 1926. Apparently the meeting with Janáðek was a success, for in August 1927 Cowell invited Janáðek to be an honorary member of The New Music Society of California. The letter of invitation, although addressed to “Mr. Janarchek,”15 does describe him as “without doubt one of the very greatest of living composers, without reservations.”16 Cowell had already collected Bartók, Bliss, Malipiero, Hába, Krenek, Schnabel, Berg, Casella, and Milhaud as honorary members; all were at least a quarter-century Janáðek’s juniors. The image of Janáðek as an aged modernist has become firmly entrenched in standard music history texts. John Tyrrell’s entry for Janáðek in The New Grove Turn of the Century Masters, for instance, asserts that Janáðek’s late works belong “in sound and spirit with the music of the younger generation around him.”17 Similar judgments can be found in many standard surveys. Jim Samson, in The Late Romantic Era, describes Janáðek’s musical style as “a radical new language” and “strikingly original,”18 while Donald Jay Grout calls Janáðek “individual” and “exceptional” in his A Short History of Opera.19 More recently, Richard Taruskin titled his section on Janáðek in The Oxford History of Western Music “The Oldest Twentieth-Century Composer” and points out that “his music is more often (and more tellingly) compared with that of Debussy, Stravinsky, or Bartók” than with that of Mahler or Richard Strauss.20

Janáðek as Folklorist For all of Janáðek’s originality, though, he is paradoxically seen very much as a product of his native region. Most of these authors partition their historical narratives geographically, placing Janáðek within the context of Eastern Europe, East-Central Europe, or Czechoslovakia, often implying that Janáðek’s exile in the hinterlands of Moravia precluded a more normal musical development. Carl Dahlhaus, for instance, has described Janáðek as an “outsider, living in provincial isolation,”21 while in William Austin’s words, “[Janáðek’s] eminence was the reward of a long, hard, lonely adventure.”22 These texts also stress Janáðek’s dependence on both folk music and the intonations of native speech. Elliott Antokoletz, for example, after discussing Janáðek’s work as a folksong collector, described him as a composer whose works were “infused . . . prominently within the modality of Moravian folk music” and as one whose compositions were generated “by means of varied repetitions of a few basic melodic motifs derived from the rhythm and inflection of his native Czech language.”23 Similarly, Grout wrote that Janáðek’s “melodic idiom . . . grew organically out of the rhythms

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and inflections of national speech and folk song.”24 The most recent edition of Norton’s A History of Western Music (originally by Grout, now under the stewardship of J. Peter Burkholder), the final arbiter of musico-historical issues for most American music majors, also states that Janáðek “devised a highly personal idiom” based on “the rhythms and inflections of peasant speech and song.”25 Again, this assumption that Janáðek’s musical language is inextricably connected to his geographical circumstances is hardly a new idea. In the article quoted earlier, Schulhoff, after placing Janáðek in the company of a younger generation, continued on to state that the older composer “plays his Moravian soil, which is sound for him.”26 Similarly, Ernst Krenek, in a 1925 address to the Congress of Music Aesthetics in Karlsruhe, described Janáðek as a composer “who, without actually using the typical devices of ‘modern’ music, still manages to seem absolutely new and original.” Krenek then cited Janáðek as “only one example of a whole series of composers whose work is rooted in the national folksong. . . . [F]olksong is an inexhaustible source of power for those who are able to find roots in it thanks to favorable conditions within their various countries.”27 The idea that Janáðek’s putatively progressive stylistic tendencies are linked to his ethnographic interests, implied in the earlier Antokoletz quote, has been made explicit by Dahlhaus, who has written that “the proximity to the new music, which is perceptible in Janáðek, is closely connected to the folkloristic tendencies that he pursued.”28 Dahlhaus’s presentation of Janáðek is akin to that found in Theodor Adorno’s Philosophy of Modern Music, which includes a footnote in which Janáðek is designated an “extra-territorial” composer, whose use of tonal materials can be excused by his geographical isolation. Like Bartók, Janáðek comes from an area where “the developmental tendencies of Occidental music have not been fully accepted.” This “truly extra-territorial music . . . has a power of alienation that allies it with the avant-garde, and not with the nationalistic reaction.”29 This idea, confined to a footnote in the Philosophy of Modern Music, can be traced to a 1928 essay about “stabilized” music. In this essay, “Die stabilisierte Musik,” Adorno explained that the isolation of South-Central Europe from industrialization allowed Bartók and Janáðek to use folk music, which springs from “the natural sources of music making,” for radical ends. Bartók and Janáðek, though, are exceptional cases for Adorno, who generally considers folklorism a type of “stabilized music,” which is inherently reactionary. In this formulation, neo-classicism is the form stabilized music takes in the “advanced, rational” states, while folklorism is its counterpart in the “backward, essentially agrarian lands.”30

Janáðek as Modernist? At first it would seem that Janáðek’s own comments about the leading composers of the day reinforce his image as a devout modernist. He was clearly flattered,

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for instance, to be considered in the company of composers like Schoenberg and Schreker. In a feuilleton about the Berlin premiere of Káťa Kabanová, he wrote, “We were all there, Schrecker [sic] and Schönberg.”31 He wrote to Max Brod after the same event that “Schrecker [sic] and Schönberg came to me with compliments about Káťa Kabanová. That pleased me most of all.”32 In his 1925 speech on the occasion of receiving an honorary doctorate from Masaryk University, Janáðek compared himself to Schreker, Schoenberg, and Debussy, all of whom he described as “moderns.”33 Other remarks, though, suggest a different aesthetic orientation. For instance, Janáðek damned Schoenberg’s Op. 24 Serenade, a piece he heard at the Venice International Society for Contemporary Music festival, as “reeking of the pub”34 and included Schoenberg in a list of too-frequently imitated composers, asking “[b]ut how long did Beethoven march in the footsteps of Mozart and Haydn? And aren’t there already among us enough Mahlers, Strausses, Schoenbergs, Debussys? Everyone plods after them, though. Why?”35 Even as late as 1927, the “old avant-gardist” was capable of sounding quite a bit like a crotchety conservative, complaining to the Berlin Opera that “[t]oday, Palestrina, Beethoven, Mozart reign alongside musical filth—and there is no God to separate by His word the land from the sea.”36 Hardly the words of a closet radical. Returning to some of the arguments summarized previously, we find similar inconsistencies. Adorno’s ascription of Janáðek’s musical development to his status as a product of a backward, agrarian society is difficult to reconcile with the brief train ride between Brno and Vienna, with the latter city presumably a fair specimen of a well-developed industrial society. This argument is made even more ludicrous by the knowledge that Adorno apparently thought Janáðek, like Kafka, hailed from Prague.37 To be fair to Adorno, his responses to specific pieces by Janáðek, particularly the first string quartet and Věc Makropulos, are considerably more subtle than his broader theories would suggest.38 In the Makropulos review, for instance, he pointed out that Janáðek had broken from folklorism. Nonetheless, this does seem to be an example of a syndrome identified by Jarmil Burghauser, of viewing the Czech nation as “a rural, peasant nation” that arose from “something of a state of barbarity during the 18th century.”39 Burghauser detailed the distortions in Dvo÷ák reception caused by assuming the composer was a “primitive, natural genius, with no reflective power.”40 A similar warning is probably in order for Janáðek studies. Even within the Czech context, Brno was hardly the backwater the many tributes to Janáðek’s isolation might suggest. As Št¥droÞ rather acidly put it, Brno was “no wilderness with bears and wolves.” While Janáðek was born in tiny Hukvaldy and returned there at the end of his life, he was, at least after age ten, an essentially urban creature or, as Št¥droÞ called him, “entirely a man of the city and later also the composer of the city.”41 Other attempts to elevate Janáðek by linking him with more established composers or by arguing that he is important as an operatic innovator are similarly

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problematic. Winton Dean, for instance, has suggested that Káťa Kabanová “has affinities with ‘Pelléas et Mélisande’ and still more with ‘Boris Godunov,’ “42 but, as John Tyrrell has pointed out, “such affinities probably reflect shared instincts and casts of mind rather than direct influence.”43 In an interview with Tyrrell, Charles Mackerras was even more explicit about the ways Janáðek is different from the composers to whom he is often compared: “Janáðek uses the wholetone scale, and yet it does not remind us of Debussy, he uses folk-like themes totally dissimilar from Dvo÷ák and Smetana’s nor do his complicated rhythmic structures seem to derive from the youthful Stravinsky.”44 Janáðek is also frequently invoked as a pioneer of Literaturoper by virtue of his use of a prose libretto for Jenůfa, a distinction to which he consciously aspired. In a program leaflet for the 1904 premiere of Jenůfa, the anonymous author (presumably the composer himself) stressed that Janáðek had used a prose text and claimed he had been anticipated only by Alfred Bruneau (Le rêve, premiered in 1891), and even then only in performance, as Janáðek had already completed Jenůfa before becoming aware of Bruneau.45 More than a decade later, Janáðek still stressed this aspect of the Jenůfa libretto. In a 1915–16 Hudební revue article he wrote, “I knew . . . that I could cope even with the prose of Jenůfa. And I composed it in prose.”46 While Janáðek can be excused his pride in his assumed innovation, the question of priority is of little interest now. Bruneau’s foresight has done nothing to save him from oblivion, and both composers were anticipated by more than two decades by Musorgsky’s Zhenit’ba (The Marriage) of 1868. In any case, by the 1920s, when Janáðek’s mature operas were composed, a prose libretto was hardly an oddity.

Janáðek as Realist The scholarly debates summarized earlier tend to assume that it is to Janáðek’s credit that he can be placed alongside canonical figures of musical modernism such as Debussy, Stravinsky, or Bartók. While these comparisons may increase Janáðek’s street cred in the academic world, defending Janáðek as a modernist does little to explain his success in the public sphere, especially as an opera composer. The most successful opera composers of the early twentieth century were typically not the radical progressives but rather the more stylistically conservative composers like Strauss and Puccini. In fact, there is something of an inverse relationship between public success and academic respect. Joseph Kerman notoriously wrote that Strauss and Puccini “fed and fed on the huge operatic traditions of the past,” producing, in Kerman’s estimation, “second-rate stuff.”47 Janáðek’s interest in folk music is little more help as an explanation for a place in the operatic canon. Folklorism was hardly an enduring force in twentieth-century opera. The last remnants of the Central European nationalist tradition, such as Jaromír Weinberger’s Švanda Dudák (Schwanda the Bagpiper, 1927) or Zoltán

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Kodály’s Háry János (1926), are much better known through excerpts on orchestral programs than as stage works. Perhaps because of this, some attempts have been made to connect Janáðek’s operas to other works that have held the stage. The operatic movement with which Janáðek is most often linked is verismo, or realism, usually in connection to Jenůfa.48 Theodora Straková has written an article on this subject, briefly tracing the history of verismo from Verdi and Bizet to Mascagni, Leoncavallo, and Puccini and detailing Janáðek’s contact with this tradition, stressing his enthusiasm for Carmen and Cavalleria rusticana, which he reviewed in 1891 and 1892, respectively. Straková excerpts portions of these reviews that praise harmonic innovation in both works, attempting to associate Janáðek with what she sees as the positive traits of verismo (naturalism) and to distance him from the negative (sentimentality). In Straková’s formulation, verismo could either be effectively expressed through folk melodies or exotic music or descend to sentimental and even trivial music.49 She is careful to place Janáðek in the former category, stating that “above all, Janáðek’s compositional principles distinguish him from the verists. The melodies are based on folkloristic elements and speech motives. . . . Janáðek also quotes no foreign melodies in Jenůfa. This is another way in which the melodic technique of this opera is far removed from that of the verists.”50 Dahlhaus also sees a similar dual nature for verismo, juxtaposing its “aspirations to realism” with its “melodramatic energy.” For Dahlhaus, the apparent paradox that Janáðek’s enthusiasm for Cavalleria rusticana was not expressed through stylistic homage in Jenůfa can be reconciled by understanding the realistic characteristic of both works.51 Miloš Št¥droÞ also finds veristic traits in Janáðek but suggests that his musical and dramatic impulses come from folklore. As Št¥droÞ puts it in one essay, “Janáðek treated Moravian folklore in the way of naturalistic realism, which led him very close to verismo situations.”52 Janáðek had common cause with Mascagni and Leoncavallo, in the sense that “in the search for the truth of life Janáðek agreed with the verists.”53 In this formulation, Janáðek, more than being influenced by verists like Mascagni and Leoncavallo, independently arrived at a different type of naturalism through his ethnographic research in the late 1880s. Janáðek’s fieldwork both provided him with some of the musical materials for Jenůfa and isolated him from the excesses of late Romanticism. Only some of the musical hallmarks of Janáðek’s verism in Jenůfa can be traced to Italian verism. According to Št¥droÞ, some of the veristic characteristics of Jenůfa, such as Janáðek’s decision to drop the original overture, do seem to be consequences of his encounters with Italian opera.54 In other cases, though, musical elements that might sound veristic are actually derived from folk music. Whole tone harmonies that may be reminiscent of Puccini can also have resulted from Janáðek’s use of the Lydian tetrachords common in Moravian folk music.55 There are at least two problems with this focus on Janáðek as a realist. The first is that discussions of Janáðek and verismo rarely advance beyond Jenůfa. Osud

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(Fate), which was strongly influenced by Charpentier’s Louise, is occasionally invoked, as is Brouček.56 Of the late operas, though, only Káťa Kabanová, which by virtue of its village setting and sordid subject seems closely akin to Jenůfa, is usually included in discussions of verismo, and at that only briefly.57 The other problem is the assumption that Janáðek was interested in verismo as a model for dramatic realism but that its musical devices were beneath his artistic dignity. Robin Holloway has written that Janáðek “makes verismo and Wagnerismo seem as stylized as aria and cabaletta” and that he refuses to “wow his audience all’italiana.”58 Even more explicitly, Jaroslav Vogel has claimed that “the careful study [Janáðek] made of Puccini was mainly dictated by his wish to master the weapons of the opposite camp.”59 And yet, when Janáðek’s pupil and great advocate Rudolf Firkušný was interviewed in 1991, among his brief reminiscences was the memory that Janáðek “was very fond of Puccini, especially ‘Madama Butterfly.’ Although [Janáðek’s] musical language can be deliberately rough, there is an Italian lyrical quality to some of it.”60 Could Puccini really have been “the opposite camp?” Perhaps Dahlhaus’s “melodramatic energy” is not just a distraction from the realism of Jenůfa but also one of the keys to a fuller appreciation of the late operas.

Looking for New Paths The way in which critical reception of Janáðek’s relationship to verismo has been distorted by the lenses of folklorism and modernism is but one example of the effects of party lines on Janáðek studies, effects that go far beyond verismo and far beyond opera. This study, while focusing on Janáðek’s later operas, will draw on other works in an attempt to provide a more nuanced picture of Janáðek’s interactions with the Czech language, with Slavic culture, with Czech and Western European operatic traditions, and with theatrical modernism. The hope here is not to overturn or refute previous writings about Janáðek but rather to suggest that the stories we already tell about him are often more complicated than they might at first seem and that there are other critical avenues yet to be explored. This book is not a biography of Janáðek. John Tyrrell’s monumental twovolume study, Janáček: Years of a Life (2006 and 2007), is the definitive work in that area, and it is hard to imagine that it will ever be supplanted. I have leaned heavily on those volumes and am, like all scholars and devotees of Janáðek, very much in Tyrrell’s debt. Without his research, translations, and editoral work, the field of Janáðek studies would be impoverished beyond recognition. This is also not a comprehensive survey of Janáðek’s operas. The chapters that follow include substantial sections on all the operas from 1917 on, but I have made no attempt to provide a self-sufficient guide to any of them. For that, although they are not proper scholarly sources, I recommend Tyrrell’s liner note essays for

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the Mackerras series of Janáðek opera recordings for London (Decca), ideally supplemented by his Janáček’s Operas: A Documentary Account. Instead, this book uses moments from Janáðek’s operas (and, occasionally, instrumental and choral works) to illustrate the complexities of Janáðek’s relationships to language, culture, and music. Although it does not move through Janáðek’s works in order of composition, the book is organized along loosely chronological lines, starting with Janáðek’s “speech melody theory,” an intellectual obsession that began around the turn of the twentieth century; continuing on to Janáðek’s musical responses to World War I, and then to the ways Janáðek’s uses of elements from older Czech operas changed after the war. The remaining chapters examine Janáðek’s relationship to Western European opera and use his final opera, From the House of the Dead, as a case study of his lack of interest in theatrical modernism, with an epilogue about The Makropulos Case. More specifically, chapter 2 examines the ways Janáðek’s notorious “speech melody theory” influenced his compositions and argues that that influence is much less pervasive and specific than generally assumed. Chapter 3 addresses Janáðek’s interest in Russian culture by reading his compositions around the time of World War I for musical traces of his political hopes. The argument here will be that Janáðek abandoned the type of musical nationalism expressed through simulated folk music exactly at the moment when his engagement with Russian culture reflected real-world desires and possibilities, only to return to them when Russia ceased to be of practical interest to him. Chapter 4 uses two operas, The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century and The Cunning Little Vixen, to show that Janáðek’s connections to nineteenth-century Czech operatic traditions were surprisingly persistent and have important interpretive implications. Although Janáðek is inevitably identified as a Czech composer, it is generally assumed that by the 1920s he had lost touch with the nationalist tradition, because of either stylistic advances or political changes. I will argue, though, that there is a strand of the Czech national opera tradition that begins in Smetana’s The Bartered Bride, remains vital through the end of the nineteenth century, and reappears in The Cunning Little Vixen, composed well after the founding of an independent Czechoslovak state. Chapter 5 places Káťa Kabanová within the context of Western European opera, with particular attention to Wagner, Gounod, and Puccini. Janáðek’s treatments of a quintessentially operatic situation, the love duet, are compared to examples from earlier operas to demonstrate that he was drawn to conventionally operatic situations and reacted to them musically in typically operatic ways. The final context in which Janáðek will be placed is that of early-twentiethcentury Czech culture. Janáðek’s last opera, From the House of the Dead, contains a short opera-within-an-opera that features Don Juan. This is just one of many appearances of Don Juan in the Czech lands in the first decades of that century. In Chapter 6, Janáðek’s version is compared with an opera by Erwin Schulhoff, a Max Brod novel, and a musical theater piece to show that at least as a dramatist,

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far from being an old avant-gardist Janáðek was in many ways a convinced conservative. While he may belong, as many have argued, with much younger composers in terms of his musical idioms, as a dramatist his instincts are more typical of his real age. Among opera composers, his near-contemporaries Strauss and Puccini are perhaps better company than the modernists (Bartók, Stravinsky, Hindemith, Krenek, and Schoenberg) suggested by Kundera. The last chapter discusses the end of The Makropulos Case, attempting to provide an example of the type of critical reading this study hopes to encourage. Perhaps Janáðek’s provincial life and personal idiosyncrasies have stood in the way of a thorough critical evaluation of his work. It is difficult to look past the image of the quaint old man in the white suit, notating the melodies of his strange native tongue on his cuff and expounding his crackpot theories about acoustics, and see a major figure in music history, just as it is difficult to hear beneath the personal and exotic sonic surfaces of his operas and make out the conventional structures that lie beneath. Janáðek’s awareness of operatic tradition, though, was just as great as that of his better-known contemporaries, and his relationship with it was just as vital. Janáðek outlived Puccini by only four years. Perhaps opera’s Golden Century could be extended by that small margin to encompass one more exponent of the Great Tradition, one who spoke no Italian but nonetheless felt as free to find inspiration in Butterfly and Tristan as in Moravian folksong.

Chapter Two

Beyond the Czech Language Janáˇcek and the Speech Melody Myth, Once Again Lost in Liverpool In Karel ïapek’s 1929 story “Historie dirigenta Kaliny” (The Orchestra Conductor’s Story), a Czech orchestra conductor named Kalina finds himself in Liverpool. Although he speaks no English, he is able to communicate with the local orchestra through an international vocabulary of physical gestures. As he explains, “[F]or example, when I do this with my arms, everyone knows that it means a mystical soaring and redemption-from-the-burdens-and-sorrows-of-life sort of thing.”1 When he first arrives in Liverpool, Kalina wanders through the city, finally getting lost at dusk among the dock pilings. There, he overhears a conversation between a man and a woman. Although he cannot make out a word of their discussion, he can tell by the melodic qualities of their voices that one was convincing the other to commit a violent act and that a murder was imminent. Unfortunately, he cannot impart this information to the uniformly non-Czech-speaking policemen he encounters, and he has to wait until the next afternoon’s newspapers to see his hunch confirmed by headlines of “MURDER.” ïapek’s Kalina shares a number of traits with Janáðek. ïapek and Janáðek had been brought together by Janáðek’s opera Věc Makropulos (The Makropulos Case), whose libretto was assembled from ïapek’s play of the same title. The two men corresponded about the legal implications of Janáðek’s venture, and ïapek attended the Brno premiere in December 1926 (ïapek’s brother Josef also designed the sets for two Prague productions of Janáðek operas—Příhody lišky Bystroušky (The Cunning Little Vixen) in 1926 and The Makropulos Case in 1928). Although Janáðek’s conducting career was long over by that time, he did travel to England in 1926, and, like Kalina, he spoke no English. Aside from this biographical coincidence, though, Kalina’s description of the sinister conversation as a musical duet, and his ability to understand the conversation solely through the contours and inflections of speech, immediately suggest Janáðek’s many writings about speech melodies (nápěvky mluvy).2 Like Kalina, Janáðek believed speech not only carried semantic content but also conveyed information about the inner life of the speaker in its speed, register, rhythm, and intonation.3 As Janáðek said in a 1928 interview, “[W]henever someone spoke to me, I

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may not have grasped the words, but I grasped the rise and fall of the notes! At once I knew what the person was like: I knew how he or she felt, whether he or she was lying, whether he or she was upset.”4 Janáðek’s so-called speech melody theory plays an extraordinarily prominent role in Janáðek reception and has become firmly lodged in popular and journalistic discourse. Much of this prominence must be a result of the frequency and passion with which Janáðek wrote about speech melodies. Janáðek reported various dates for his first researches into speech melodies, but Milena ïernohorská and John Tyrrell have convincingly established 1897 as the year in which Janáðek conceived of the speech melody.5 He began to systematically notate speech melodies in 1897 and wrote extensively about them beginning in 1903, continuing to collect and write about speech melodies for almost all his adult life.6 These writings contain the notorious assertion that “speech melodies are windows into people’s souls,” as well as the claim that “sounds, the intonations of human speech, indeed of every living being, have had for me the deepest truth.” 7 These quotes are from a 1928 interview, but they do not sound markedly different from the 1915–16 article in which Janáðek claimed he “could see far deeper into the soul of a man to whose speech I had listened through its speech melody”8 or his 1905 statement that “the melodic curves of speech are an expression of the complete organism and of all phases of its spiritual activities.”9 Many of these articles include reproductions of Janáðek’s handwritten transcriptions of speech melodies. These are short verbal utterances (usually in Czech, but including other languages and sounds, especially birdsongs), set to musical lines that mimic the inflections of the original speech. These notated speech melodies are not, of course, literal transcriptions of the sounds Janáðek heard. Turn-of-the-century Moravians did not communicate in song, nor did Janáðek claim they did. Further, Janáðek’s musical notation should not be taken as a precise record of his auditory experiences. Janáðek’s few attempts at quasi-scientific precision, like his use of a Hipp’s Chronoscope to measure the durations of his fragments, are unconvincing, suggesting highly implausible speech speeds.10 Janáðek purchased the chronoscope in 1922 for use in his ethnographic research, having become familiar with it through Wilhelm Wundt’s work on reaction times as psychological phenomena.11 Although the Janáðek literature frequently gives the impression that he carried the chronoscope around with him while collecting speech melodies, the device was too bulky to be easily transported, and Janáðek had to base his measurements on his memories of what he had heard. As Tyrrell put it, “Janáðek might well have imagined that he was being more ‘scientific’ than he was.”12 Despite the care Janáðek put into the musical notation of his speech melodies, and despite his occasional provision of accompaniment parts, Janáðek never intended for these little pieces to be sung. As he wrote in a 1910 article about children’s speech, “I beg you, do not sing the phrases I have taken down in notes: enunciate them in such a way that the notes may indicate the modulations of

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speech.”13 It seems most reasonable to regard Janáðek’s collected speech melodies as little compositions, intended to be analogous to the speech he heard and to preserve the emotional truths of that speech, rather than as precise indications of what that speech sounded like. As Miloš Št¥droÞ put it, the speech melody notations are “artistically stylized objects.”14 It is also important to distinguish between actual speech melodies, that is, the speech Janáðek heard (or that surrounds us today), and Janáðek’s notations of speech melodies.

The Czech Language and Text Setting in the Nineteenth Century It seems likely that Janáðek’s explorations in speech melodies were at least in part prompted by a specific incident in 1897. In May of that year, Dvo÷ák came to Brno to conduct the orchestra of the Prague National Theater in a program of his music to benefit the Brno Theater fund. Although Janáðek failed to meet Dvo÷ák in person, he did write him to ask for advice about his newly composed cantata, Amarus. Dvo÷ák wrote an encouraging letter in response, praising Janáðek for having made “a substantial step forward” and being “on a good path” but asking (twice) for “more melody” and, significantly, for “rather more correct declamation.”15 Janáðek was hardly alone among nineteenth-century Czech composers in having a problematic relationship to musical settings of Czech poetry. His searches for musical analogues to the natural inflections of spoken Czech are part of a long and contentious history of attempts to reconcile the Czech language with poetic and musical norms derived from other languages. In particular, the intersection in Czech between syllabic stress and vowel length created difficulties for poets, librettists, and composers during the National Revival and was the subject of considerable debate and experimentation. All words in spoken Czech are accented on the first syllable. This is similar to Slovak, to which Czech is closely related, and, outside the Slavic languages, to Hungarian. In Polish, stress falls consistently on the penultimate syllable, while in Russian it is not predictable. This accentuation pattern, though, separates Czech from English and the major European languages and causes immediate problems for translations of poetry in those languages into Czech and for the application of metrical patterns derived from foreign models to Czech verse. The downbeatheavy nature of Czech is further exacerbated by the tendency of monosyllabic prepositions to be joined to the following word and to assume the initial stress of the compound (single-letter prepositions, like “k,” “u,” “v,” and “z,” are elided onto the following word) and by the absence of definite articles, which might otherwise have offered opportunities to begin sentences with unstressed syllables.16 Because of this, Czech prose tends to scan as a combination of trochees (for twosyllable words and also for four-syllable words, which have a secondary stress on the third syllable) and dactyls (for three-syllable words).

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f ? # # # # C œ . œj œ Œ Sme - ta - na,

S œ. œ œ Œ J

Sme - ta-na,

Sœ . œ. œœ J

Sme - ta - na sprich

œ. aus!

Example 2.1. “Smetana, Smetana, Smetana sprich aus!”

An additional complication is caused by the presence of two vowel lengths in Czech. Vowels graced with accent marks, such as those found over the “a” in “Dvo÷ák” and the second “a” in “Janáðek,” are approximately twice as long as those that are unadorned (the “ø” in “Jenøfa” and “Martinø” is equivalent to “ú,” that is, a double-length “u”).17 These long vowels tend to be perceived, especially by non-native speakers, as stressed syllables. The problems caused by stress and vowel length in Czech have bedeviled even such an apparently simple task as pronouncing the surnames of the most famous Czech composers. For instance, there are no long vowels in Smetana’s name, but German speakers nonetheless stressed the second syllable often enough for him to sing his name to the opening phrase of Beethoven’s Fidelio Overture to demonstrate the proper first-syllable accentuation (example 2.1).18 Dvo÷ák’s name should be stressed on the first syllable, with a long “a,” but most American musicians and radio announcers stress the “o” without lengthening the “a.” Janáðek fares somewhat better in America, with the stress usually in its proper place on the initial syllable, but those who lengthen the “a” usually stress it as well, turning the first syllable into an upbeat. This last habit is neither new nor peculiar to America. As early as 1871, Eliška Krásnohorská described a similar tendency for Czech musicians to accentuate long vowels, even when not in the first syllable of a word. Let every Czech say: ‘přilítlo jaro,’ every musician will sing ‘p÷ilítlo jaro.’ This is the consequence of foreign influence, foreign intonation, foreign rhythm and melody, to which we have become accustomed. So, above all, let the composer guard against declaiming the first syllable of a multi-syllable word weakly or as an upbeat: there is not a single multi-syllable word in Czech that is weakly accented, since each is pronounced with an accent on the first syllable; whether it is long or short, this strong syllable must be sounded on a strong beat.19

The poets of the National Revival faced the difficult task of creating a literary Czech where none had existed before and also of bending this new dialect to verse forms based on foreign models. Despite Czech’s natural tendency to favor trochees and dactyls, Czech dramatists followed the lead of Schiller and Shakespeare and used blank verse in iambic pentameter for their more exalted efforts. The situation was further complicated by the existence of a competing tradition

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of quantitative verse (called časomíra), based on long and short syllables rather than accentuation.20 Worse yet was the lot of composers, who had to find musical settings appropriate for the metrical solutions their librettists chose. The most serious problems were found at the beginnings and ends of musical phrases. If the librettist gave in to Czech’s bent for trochees and dactyls, then every musical phrase would start on a downbeat. This works fairly well for music based on polkas and waltzes (like much of The Bartered Bride) but makes it difficult to provide musical variety. Meanwhile, unless the poetic lines end with a monosyllable (which is difficult to arrange in Czech), the musical phrases will always end on a weak beat (what, in the Bad Old Days, we used to call “feminine endings”), again limiting musical variety. Furthermore, nineteenth-century composers, especially those who were not native speakers of Czech, frequently had difficulties effectively matching poetic and musical stresses. Most notoriously, Smetana, whose first language was German, had considerable trouble working with Czech libretti. Janáðek’s own copy of the score to The Bartered Bride has marks in red pencil throughout the first act, indicating places where Smetana had made errors in text setting.21 In most of the passages Janáðek highlighted, Smetana had set three- or four-syllable words with the first syllable used as an upbeat and the musical stress falling (incorrectly) on a downbeat second syllable (Ma-řen-ko). In the case of four-syllable words, Smetana often has the fourth syllable on a strong beat, thereby placing not only the primary stress but also the secondary stress in the wrong places (do-vě-d¥-la). It is tempting to think Janáðek might have been particularly irked by Smetana’s habit of setting a form of the male lead’s nickname with the first syllable on an eighth-note upbeat and the second syllable (with a long vowel) on a downbeat quarter note (Je-níč-ku), as this probably approximated the mispronunciation of his own name he would have heard from Brno German speakers. In most of the cases singled out by Janáðek for criticism, Smetana’s melodies fit the German text much better than the Czech. For instance, in Jeník’s first entrance in the opening chorus, in Czech “má dra-há Ma-řen-ko” has the stress in the wrong place in “Ma-řen-ko” and has a quarter note on the short vowel and an eighth note for the following long vowel in “dra-há.” “Má,” which has a long vowel and should be stressed, is placed on an upbeat eighth note. In German, though, “o theu-re Ge-lieb-te” is perfectly acceptable. Similarly, in the next number, Ma÷enka’s aria that begins the second scene, “o to-bě do-vě-d¥-la” is much less idiomatic than “mein ge-lieb-ter Kon-rad mir.”22 Around 1870, possibly as a result of increased public attention to questions of text setting, Smetana became much more careful with his musical accentuation (and, apparently, less dependent on German cribs). In 1869, Otakar Hostinský, then only twenty-two but soon to become a major figure in Czech musical aesthetics (and a fervent Smetana supporter), delivered a public lecture on prosody and published on the same subject in 1870.23 The next year Eliška Krásnohorská,

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Smetana’s librettist from 1875 on, published a three-part article in Hudební listy that both offered practical suggestions about text setting and made specific criticisms of The Bartered Bride.24 Krásnohorská’s article in particular was influential and stimulated debate on the subject of prosody. It was at about this time that Smetana was working on Libuše, which shows marked improvements in text setting between the first sketches and the final version (Smetana was still tinkering with the setting of three- and four-syllable words in Libuše as late as 1882).25 Smetana’s struggles with prosody were at least in part attributable to his imperfect command of the Czech language, but even a native speaker of Czech like Dvo÷ák had to grapple with similar issues. Jan Smaczny has found many problems with accentuation in Dvo÷ák’s early song cycle Cypresses. While Dvo÷ák’s text setting did markedly improve, with an especially naturalistic style for Rusalka, the larger problems of balancing stress and vowel length and of reconciling the demands of Czech and German versions of poetry and libretti were never completely resolved, either in theory or in practice.26 Traces of these problems seeped into twentieth-century performance practice as well. Czech recordings of nineteenth-century operas sometimes find singers subtly altering notated rhythms, especially in recitative-like passages, to stretch long vowels.27 When attempting to link Janáðek’s researches into speech melodies with his compositional practices in vocal music, it is important to remember that Czech prosody was already a complex and problematic area.

The Party Line: What We Think We Know about Speech Melodies A widespread assumption in the Janáðek literature holds that there is a strong link among the Czech language (or Moravian dialects), speech melodies, and Janáðek’s compositions. This assumption, shared alike by musicians, journalists, critics, and scholars, goes back to the composer’s lifetime and remains firmly entrenched to the present day. In its simplest form, this assumption is manifested by assertions that Janáðek’s musical style was directly conditioned by his native language. This view has always been especially strong outside the Czech lands, where innocence of the Czech language has rarely been seen as an impediment to recognizing its traits in music. An early example comes from the London Morning Post, concerning a 1922 performance of Zápisník zmizelého (A Diary of One Who Vanished): “[Janáðek’s style is] saturated with the melody of his people’s language till it has become an absolutely natural means of musical expression, and incidentally something absolutely original in the whole domain of music.”28 Similarly, moving forward about a quarter century and over to the Soviet Union, Rostislav Dubinsky (the first violinist of the original Borodin Quartet) wrote of his experience rehearsing Janáðek’s second quartet: “Janáðek’s highly individual style was

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for us as strange as a foreign language. Measure by measure, page by page, this remarkable quartet opened up for us a new world of sounds, colors and rhythms, and gradually seemed like the inflections of speech. We felt as if we had started speaking Janáðek’s language without a dictionary.”29 More specifically, speech melodies are often posited as the link between speech and music. Miloš Št¥droÞ, for instance, wrote that “it seems that Janáðek’s systematic recording of speech melodies was a major influence on his operatic style and poetic in general.”30 Even more explicitly, Wilfrid Mellers assumed that this influence extends to purely instrumental works. Writing of the piano sonata, Mellers claimed that “the inflections of speech (which Janáðek transcribed into his notebooks) . . . are inherent in it.”31 The most detailed accounts, including those from within the Czech lands, explain that speech melodies were a source of motivic material. Jaroslav Vogel, in the introduction to what (before Tyrrell’s Years from a Life) was long the standard biography of Janáðek, wrote that “[speech melodies] became the basis of his thematic work. The most striking ideas would be repeated either literally or in a free variation . . . in the voice itself or in the orchestra.”32 Similarly, in his 1962 biography of Janáðek, Jan Racek wrote that “the speech melodies have a deep meaning in [Jenůfa], they determine the basic character of melodies and motives and are organic components of the dynamic and dramatic expression.”33 Directly following Racek, Carl Dahlhaus contended that “Janáðek construct[ed] his orchestral melody from speech melodies” and “was able to draw form-building consequences from the speech melodies themselves.”34 Czech musicology during the Communist era was also strongly influenced by Boris Asaf’yev’s theories of intonatsiya, which led scholars like Antonin Sychra to search for connections between speech melodies and Janáðek’s compositions.35 This potpourri should give some idea of the breadth, persistence, and imprecision of what John Tyrrell has called “the speech melody myth.”

What Janáðek Wrote about Speech Melodies There is, of course, a relationship between speech melodies and Janáðek’s operas, and, at least in general terms, the composer was quite clear about the nature of this relationship. Janáðek consistently emphasized the importance of speech melodies for opera but also insisted that his actual collected melodies were not used as composition material. As early as 1903, he suggested that “listening carefully to the people’s speech melodies is a good preparation for the studies of an opera composer,”36 an idea he reiterated throughout his career. In a 1926 letter, he wrote that “no-one can be an opera composer who has not studied living speech.” In the 1928 interview cited earlier he affirmed his belief, stating “I have an enormous collection of [speech melodies]. You see, these speech melodies are windows into people’s souls—and what I would like to emphasize is this: for dramatic music they are of great importance.”37

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The importance of speech melodies, though, was emphatically not to be honored by using speech melodies as the raw material for art music. The assumption that Janáðek’s vocal lines were a kind of collage of speech melodies was apparently prevalent enough by 1916 for him to testily complain, “[I]s it conceivable, however, that I could furtively take collected speech melodies, these cuttings from alien souls so sensitive that they hurt, and ‘compile’ my work out of them? How is it possible to spread such nonsense?”38 Immediately after the earlier statement about the importance of speech melodies, Janáðek continued to complain that “Dr. Nejedlý has reproached me for making, in effect, a musical composition out of all my jottings, for putting it all together. Well, this just cannot be done. I cannot take a motif out of Mr. X and put it on the back of Mr. Y.”39 Janáðek was also infuriated by the suggestion that his putative reliance on speech melodies for vocal works somehow lessened the value of his instrumental works. As he wrote to Rosa Newmarch in 1926, “My worst enemy could not write a worse comment. I won’t even mention the nonsense and untrue data. They say that my principle of the so-called speech melodies is harmful to my orchestral compositions. Which means that everything in the London concert is worthless.”40 According to Janáðek, his method for composing dramatic music was to start with the libretto; fashion motivic material that reflected the emotional truth that would have been expressed, had those words been spoken; and then allow that motivic material to permeate the orchestral texture. As he wrote in 1916, “[A]ccording to my principles of composition, where tune is created by the word, the whole melody depends thus upon the sentence, it couldn’t be otherwise. Of course there are some composers who can fit up any kind of text with their readymade tunes. That’s something I can’t do.”41 In the same year, he also asserted that “it is necessary to support the motif of the word in the orchestra.”42 It is important to emphasize that Janáðek’s discussions of the “motif of the word (motiv slova)” do not concern text setting as such. This is not part of the centuriesold struggle between word and music in opera, contested by Monteverdi, Gluck, Mozart, and Strauss. The motif of the word, on the contrary, could exist even in the absence of the word that spawned it. After hearing Jenůfa sung in German at the Vienna Court Opera, Janáðek was moved by the Czech speech melodies and understood their emotional content, even when allied to German words: A Czech heart is settled inside a hard shell of foreign words. . . . The melodic sweetness of the Czech word has disappeared in the German version, the musical union of speech melody has thinned out . . . [but] even a Czech speech melody in German chills, and produces tears. . . . Our passion, kept in place by the notes even in the German version, remained the same passion of which our blood, our body is capable! It is because of this that the work has triumphed. . . . [I]t is what has not been translated from the Czech that has triumphed: speech melody, the seat of the emotional furnace.43

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To summarize: 1. Janáðek never claimed to use actual speech melodies he had collected in his vocal works. With one partial exception (discussed later), there are no known instances of compositions that incorporate collected speech melodies.44 2. When Janáðek writes about using “speech melodies” in his operas (as in the earlier quote about Jenůfa in German), he is refering to newly composed motives and melodies that are analagous to the speech melodies he collected, because both actual speech and Janáðek’s vocal motives are capable of conveying “emotional truth” through their rhythms and inflections. 3. Janáðek claimed to compose his operas (at least around the time of Jenůfa) by beginning with words, crafting motives inspired by the words, and then constructing an orchestral fabric out of those motives (“supporting the motif of the word in the orchestra”). Given Janáðek’s own insistence that he would never do such a thing, the repeated emphasis on his failure to use collected speech melodies in his operas may seem like overkill. However, given the persistence in popular literature and journalism of the idea that Janáðek’s musical language is somehow made up of speech melodies, it probably bears repetition. Similarly, the often imprecise use of the phrase “speech melody” to refer variously to the spoken utterances Janáðek heard, to his notated transcriptions of those utterances, and to newly created motivic material in his vocal works provokes the reminder that it is necessary to distinguish between actual Czech speech and what I (awkwardly but stubbornly) call “collected” or “notated” speech melodies.

What Janáðek Actually Did John Tyrrell has identified two significant gaps between Janáðek’s speech melody theories and his actual practice. The first of these is that, despite Janáðek’s great pride in having composed Jenůfa to a prose libretto, he manipulated that libretto to approximate the effect of metrical verse. In a notice printed in the program for the January 21, 1904, Brno premiere of Jenůfa, Janáðek claimed to be the first to have composed an opera to a prose libretto (ignoring Musorgsky and admitting only Alfred Bruneau as competition) and emphasized that it was the “truth of speech melodies” that led him to do so.45 Janáðek reaffirmed the connection between speech melodies and a prose libretto in a 1916 feuilleton entitled “Around Jenůfa”: “It was during the time of such general familiarity with speech melodies, some fifteen years ago, that the first act of Jenůfa was composed. I knew then that I could cope with the motif

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of any word . . . that I could cope even with the prose of Jenůfa. And I composed it to prose.”46 Nonetheless, Tyrrell has shown that Janáðek substituted words, added and subtracted words, and repeated lines to create passages that were closer to poetry than to prose.47 It is far from surprising that Janáðek should have reached some compromises in his first attempt to set a prose libretto. Tyrrell, though, has shown that Janáðek also used similar devices (if on a smaller scale) in Káťa Kabanová.48 The other inconsistency Tyrrell has identified concerns Janáðek’s claim to have always fit music to words rather than the other way around. The most obvious counterexample, albeit one from before the onset of Janáðek’s speech melody research, is Janáðek’s early opera Počátek románu (The Beginning of a Romance, 1891), which is largely a pastiche of folksongs and dances with new words overlaid on the preexisting tunes. Tyrrell has also found examples of words grafted onto already-composed music in Osud (Fate, 1903–7) and in Výlet pana Broučka do měsíce (The Excursion of Mr. Brouðek to the Moon, 1908–16), both works composed after the first version of Jenůfa.49 If, then, Janáðek did not consistently follow his own recommended process for generating both vocal lines and orchestral textures from speech melodies, what can we say about the relationship between speech melodies and Janáðek’s operas? It is clear that no direct relationship exists between actual collected speech melodies and vocal parts in the operas. However, there still could be relationships between the style of Janáðek’s speech melody notations and particular moments in the operas. There does seem to be a scholarly consensus that, on the one hand, Janáðek’s notated speech melodies share certain musical traits and, on the other, that his operas contain a number of distinct types of vocal writings, some of which resemble the fragments in the speech melody notebooks. The most thorough exposition of this argument comes from a 1992 article by Paul Wingfield. Wingfield isolates eleven characteristics of Janáðek’s speech melody notations and suggests that these characteristics can be used to “construct a working theoretical model of Janáðek’s concept of operatic speech melody.”50 Wingfield then argues that this “operatic speech melody” style is just one of many vocal styles found in the operas, describing Jenůfa as “hybrid in terms of vocal writing” and finding four distinct vocal styles in one passage from Káťa, including “minimally stylized speech melody” and “heightened speech melody.”51 Wingfield’s summation—that by the time of Káťa, Janáðek had refined an approach that “enabled him in his last four operas to incorporate realistic styles of vocal writing within a larger system of continually fluctuating textural and stylistic dialogue . . . permit[ing] small-scale application of his speech melody theory while at the same time undermining that theory’s basic premises”— can stand as the most convincing statement to date about the uneasy nexus of speech melody and opera.52

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In Search of the Operatic Speech Melody Style It is convenient that so many of Wingfield’s examples come from Káťa Kabanová because the existence of sketches for a nearly complete earlier setting of the libretto affords a particularly rich glimpse of Janáðek’s working methods. The sketches and early versions of passages that appear to be in the operatic speech melody style show that, even in an undeniably mature work, this style was just one of multiple possibilities Janáðek was willing to consider for any given libretto fragment and that Janáðek’s choices often seem motivated by musical rather than linguistic considerations. Many passages in Káťa Kabanová resemble the fragments in Janáðek’s speech melody notebooks. One such passage comes from the long second-act duet for Boris and Káťa. Káťa’s brief outburst “Ty cheš mojí zkáze” (“You wish to ruin me!”) is set to a compressed outburst at the bottom of the soprano’s range (example 2.2a). This eruption meets Wingfield’s criteria for the “operatic speech melody” style. It is a self-contained unit, both syntactically and musically; it uses short rhythmic values; it is contained within the span of a tritone; three of the six pitches are the same, and it plausibly mimics the rhythmic and intonational inflections of spoken Czech. In an earlier version, though, this passage spans a minor sixth and rises above the staff to a top B-flat (example 2.2b). The earlier version creates a very strong emphasis on the first syllable of “zkáze” (“ruin”), granting it a highly operatic B-flat on a downbeat, before falling back into the staff for the rest of the phrase. In the final version, Janáðek has placed the entire phrase within a bar, dropped the tessitura by about an octave, and changed the order of the words. “Zkáze” is still the melodic high point of the phrase and is still set to the largest melodic interval, but the scale of the gesture is much smaller. The final version is certainly more like speech, but that style was not Janáðek’s first response to the text. Both versions may express the same psychological “truth,” but, if so, that truth is expressed through very different musical means. The two musical settings seem unlikely synonyms in Janáðek’s notional thesaurus of Czech emotional expression. Another passage that seems to have caused Janáðek some trouble comes from the third-act duet for the same two characters, as Káťa says to Boris “co jsem ti cht¥la ÷íci” (“I wanted to tell you something”). The copy of the full score used by conductor František Neumann for the first Brno production contains a canceled passage that is replaced on the next page with the setting found in the published score.53 In this case it is the earlier version that appears more speech-like, with the repeated C-flats, the quintuplet, and the narrow range (example 2.3a).54 In the final version (example 2.3b), the direction of the line is inverted and the range is expanded. This may reflect a change in Janáðek’s conception of the line’s emotional impact, but it seems suspiciously likely that he was more interested in creating a phrase that would musically parallel one heard shortly before (example 2.3c).

Example 2.2a. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, two before [16] (final version).

Example 2.2b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II (early version, p. 29).

Example 2.3a. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III (canceled passage in Neumann’s score, p. 96c).

Example 2.3b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III, two before [33] (final version).

Example 2.3c. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III, eight after [32] (final version).

Kudrjáš

6 • œ œ œ. & 16 R R J

P÷e - ce však

Varvara

• Rœ Rœ Jœ

po - jed - nou

œ R jí

#œ. J

œ #œ R J

þert

ne - dá

œ. spát

6 ‰ . # œ # œR œ ‰ . # œ œ n œ # œ j œj # œ b œ œ œ b œ b œ b œj œr b œ œ b œ ‰ . & 16 R R R R R #œ J R J R R J JR R R Co na tom,

ze dvo - ra

ve - dou vrát - ka

kte - rá

se

Example 2.4a. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II (earlier version, p. 45).

ze-vnit÷ za - ví - ra - jí

beyond th e czech language Kudrjáš

Varvara

6 ‰. & 16

œ R Rœ œR

‰.

P÷e - ce však,

4 œ. b œ œ œ Rœ J RÔ RÔ ÔR Ô

po - jed - nou jí

þert

œ œ R R bœ R

ne - dá

6 ‰ . Rœ Rœ b œ ‰ . œ œ œ œ 2 œ Jœ Rœ b œr œr œr œ & 16 R R R R R R R Co na tom,

ze dvo - ra

ve - dou vrát - ka,

kte - rá se

2



25

œ. . J ‰ spát

2 r 2 œ œr œr œr œr

ze - vnit÷ za - ví - ra - jí

Example 2.4b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, [25] (final version).

In fact, hardly any parameter of prosody seems to have been off-limits in the revision process. This next, longer passage from an exchange between Kudrjáš and Varvara originally exploited the compound meter to allow longer notes for almost all of the long vowels (example 2.4a). Only one long vowel, in the first “jí,” is assigned to a sixteenth note, while all the others are assigned to eighth notes or longer values. This would appear to demonstrate Janáðek’s keen interest in preserving the rhythms of spoken Czech, but in the final incarnation, 6 meter, duple groups and rests are used to almost despite the retention of the 16 completely efface the distinction between long and short vowels. In the published version there is now only one example of a long vowel placed on a longer note (“vrátka”), with the other long vowels appearing in groups of equal note values (example 2.4b). The resulting music has the look of the speech melody style, with its repeated pitches and mixture of duple and triple groupings, but the sketches show that one of the most distinctive properties of the text has been lost in revision. Many of the passages that seem like excellent examples of the speech melody style turn out to have been adapted from more melodically ambitious material. One example is a fragment from Káťa’s third-act mad scene. The parlando in the low register, the obsessive repetitions of the pitch D, and the passage’s extremely limited compass are all speech-like (example 2.5a). Janáðek’s first response to this text, though, was considerably more expansive. Although similar in rhythm, the tessitura is higher, and the melody ranges over more than an octave (example 2.5b). It turns out that the exclamation “Ano!” (“yes!”) was originally followed by a comma rather than an exclamation point and that no rest separated the word from the rest of the clause. There is also evidence that, even as late as Káťa Kabanová, Janáðek was willing to bend his own rules and allow musical material to be generated by something other than the “motive of the word.” Here is another seemingly innocuous fragment, this time from the introduction to Kudrjáš’s Act II guitar serenade (example 2.6a). Once again, this passage ranged more freely in an earlier version (example 2.6b). Even more significant, though, this original version seems to be instrumental in conception, for it is nearly identical to the unison string figure used to open the scene (example 2.6c). There is always the possibility, of course, that the figure first occurred to Janáðek in connection with the

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& 22 Œ

3

œ

œ

Œ

A - no!

j j j j Œ œ œ œ œ #œ 3

3

se - be

o þest,

œ

je - mu

j œ œj œj œj

po - ko - ÷e - ní!

Example 2.5a. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III, two before [20] (final version).

Kát’a

3 bœ bœ bœ 3 Œ bœ &[2] œ b œ

A - no,

se - be

o

þest,

[22] Œ

j œ b œ b Jœ œ b œj b œj 3

je - mu

po - ko - ÷e - ní!

Example 2.5b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III (earlier version, p. 62).

yet-to-be-composed sung passage, but it seems more likely that he simply wished Kudrjáš to echo the strings. This is a small example, but there appear to be other instances in Káťa Kabanová of vocal lines derived from instrumental fragments, continuing the practices Tyrrell found in earlier operas. These examples from Káťa Kabanová suggest that at this point in his career, the speech melody style was something toward which Janáðek worked in the course of the compositional process rather than something produced by an immediate response to his texts. This style seems to have been a musical abstraction that could be applied to passages originally conceived in very different ways rather than a consistent response to the properties of spoken Czech.

The Exception There is one known instance of a collected speech melody that found its way into an opera, albeit in a significantly altered form. In 1903, Janáðek published an article in Hlídka that contained speech melodies he had collected at the Luhaðovice spa.55 A five-year-old boy is asked “What is love?” He replies, “When Nana and Johan love each other!” Janáðek did not record a speech melody for the question, but he did provide one for the answer (example 2.7a). There is already a slight change between the published version and the transcription in Janáðek’s notebook.56 The published speech melody has an additional sixteenth note. The text in the notebook is difficult to read at this point, but Janáðek may merely have left out a syllable and corrected the oversight when copying the speech melody into the manuscript for the article.57 The entire exchange reappears twice in Fate, once as an exchange between a boy and his mother and later as part of an opera-within-the-opera composed by his father. Janáðek seems to have attached special importance to the question “What is love?” He quoted the question in a letter to Kamila Urválková (upon whose life the opera’s events were nominally based) and used it as part of a provisional title on his libretto copy.58

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Example 2.6a. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, five before [4] (final version).

Example 2.6b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II (earlier version, p. 3).

Example 2.6c. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, opening (final version).

The exchange in the opera, though, is quite different from the published speech melody. The words are slightly different, as Janáðek replaced “Johan” with the monosyllabic “Žán,” reversed the order of the names, and put the verb in 9 , altered the rhyththe plural. Musically, Janáðek changed the meter from 43 to 16 mic values to accommodate the new syllabic arrangement, and featured an ascending minor seventh, roughly in place of the original descending perfect fifth (example 2.7b).59 Even in this almost certainly unique example of a verbal phrase drawn from life, Janáðek was more interested in musical coherence than in fidelity to his source. He probably wanted to avoid the descending fifth in the published speech melody, both because of its prominent use elsewhere in the opera to set the word “osud” (“fate”) and because that same interval had just been heard twice when the boy called for his mother. Conversely, the introduction of the rising minor seventh links the boy’s answer to the preceding question (“Do you know what love is?”), which outlines the same interval, albeit a half-step higher.60

Where Does This Leave Us? The Wingfield article cited earlier concludes with a rather subversive question. Wingfield suggests that his own description of Janáðek’s methods is reminiscent of recent Wagner scholarship and asks whether Janáðek might have “learnt more from his extensive study of Tristan . . . than he was prepared to acknowledge publicly?”61 I will argue in chapter 5 that there is audible evidence that Janáðek was quite willing to profit from his repeated and thorough engagement with Tristan.

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Example 2.7a. “When Nana and Johan love one another!” (published speech melody).

Example 2.7b. Osud, Act II.

In a larger sense, though, Wingfield’s provocative proposal is disquieting. If the rich and flexible approach to text setting found in Janáðek’s last operas can be compared to Wagnerian techniques, how special is the much-vaunted speech melody theory? How different is Janáðek’s vocal writing from that of the many other late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century composers who were concerned with realistic prosody? Surely Janáðek was sincere in his many articles discussing the importance of speech melodies for dramatic music, but do we need speech melodies to explain his operas in anything other than a biographical context? If the strongest claim that can be made for speech melodies is that characteristics shared by Janáðek’s collected melodies can also be found in a small subset of his vocal writing, a subset that rests within a continuum of styles, that hardly seems to justify the ubiquitous role of speech melodies in the Janáðek opera literature. In general, even in specialized scholarly literature, there seem to be two tendencies that undermine attempts to find a precise and well-defined place for speech melodies in Janáðek’s operas. The first danger is the temptation to collapse Wingfield’s “operatic speech melody” into the larger category of vocal writing that accurately reflects the rhythms and intonations of spoken Czech. Miloš Št¥droÞ, for instance, takes a broader view than Wingfield of Janáðek’s speech melody style, defining it as “vocal writing that creates the illusion of mimicking the rhythms, stress patterns and inflections of the spoken form of its text.”62 A definition this capacious, though, could just as well apply to Musorgsky’s Zhenitba (The Marriage) or Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, both of which contain vocal writing that aspires to the condition of spoken prose more obviously than anything by Janáðek does. In fact, Janáðek explicitly disapproved of Debussy’s approach. In a New York Times interview preparatory to the 1924 Metropolitan Opera production of Jenůfa, Olin Downes asked Janáðek if he liked Pelléas et Mélisande. Janáðek replied: To a certain point, but there is too little melos. It is too little speech and too little song. Melody cannot be replaced in music, and I prefer a better balance

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of symphonic style and musical diction than Debussy believed in. . . . Opera must be an organic whole, based equally upon truthful declamation and upon the song which the composer must evolve from his own creative spirit.63

The other (closely related) danger is that of creating too large a category of operatic speech melody. Št¥droÞ’s definition leads him to include the unmeasured monotone declamation of the lawyer Dr. Kolenatý in The Makropulos Case in his discussion of the speech melody style.64 The first problem this raises is that Janáðek’s notation for the lawyer’s pompous drone, with blocks of freely recited text under long notes, does not resemble that used in the published speech melodies, where rhythmic values are indicated for individual syllables. A second difficulty is that Janáðek uses similar notation for Mill Foreman’s recitative in Jenůfa, Act I, scene ii, a portion of the opera most likely composed before he had begun to collect speech melodies or theorize about their use.65 Finally, there are other, perhaps more plausible antecedents for Dr. Kolenatý’s recitations from legal documents. Janáðek could just as well have remembered other examples of characters reading in operas. Sharpless’s halting attempts to read Pinkerton’s letter to Cio-Cio-San in Act II of Madama Butterfly begin with a similarly monotonal string of ten repeated pitches, with the first eight on unvaried eighth notes. An even more similar passage can be found in another opera dear to Janáðek, Charpentier’s Louise. The first act concludes with Louise miserably reading the newspaper to her father, her unhappiness expressed through a dull recitation consisting entirely of low D-flats. A more distant ancestor might be Verdi’s use of plain speech for the letter reading in La Traviata. In Testaments Betrayed, Milan Kundera perceptively argued that Janáðek’s interest in spoken language was “not the specific rhythm of the language . . . or its prosody . . . but the influence on spoken intonation of a speaker’s shifting psychological state.”66 Kundera called Janáðek’s investigations an attempt to understand the “semantics of melodies” and suggested that Janáðek was so powerfully drawn to opera because it allowed him to musically manifest his “unique psychological lucidity.”67 This is perhaps the most plausible approach to the speech melody problem: an approach that places Janáðek’s researches into speech melodies in a subsidiary role, part of the composer’s larger struggle to (Kundera again) “define emotions musically,” rather than granting it the kind of powerful and central agency so much of the Janáðek literature would suggest. As Tyrrell put it, “[F]or all of the ‘objective,’ ‘scientific’ aspects that Janáðek stressed, speech melodies in the end reflect much more of him than they did of their speakers.”68

Chapter Three

Beyond the Czech Lands To the East The standard narratives of Janáðek’s compositional career tend to stress the astonishing fecundity of its last decade. Between 1918 and his death in 1928, Janáðek wrote nearly all the major works for which he is now known, including both string quartets, the song cycle The Diary of One Who Vanished, the Concertino, the Capriccio, the Sinfonietta, the Glagolitic Mass, and the operas Káťa Kabanová, The Cunning Little Vixen, The Makropulos Case, and From the House of the Dead. This outpouring of masterworks is generally attributed to a coincidence of professional, personal, and political factors in Janáðek’s life in the years 1916 to 1918, coalescing around three events. The first of these events was the 1916 Prague production of Jenůfa. This longdelayed staging was the pivotal moment in Janáðek’s transformation from a provincial teacher to an internationally known opera composer. Not only was it the first production of a Janáðek opera outside Brno, it was also the beginning of Janáðek’s associations with both Max Brod and Universal Edition, leading to the German translations and publications that would expose his later operas beyond the Czech lands. The next event was Janáðek’s first encounter with Kamila Stösslová at the Luhaðovice spa in July 1917. Stösslová would be the muse of Janáðek’s last decade. Although Janáðek’s affection was largely unreciprocated and his fantasies of intimacy and parenthood were never realized, he claimed Stösslová as the inspiration for many of his late works, seeing her in characters from his operas and songs and weaving his imaginary life with her into instrumental works. The third event was the establishment of an independent Czecho-Slovak state on October 28, 1918. Of the three, this event remains the least examined. While there is a general assumption that the founding of the First Republic spurred Janáðek’s creativity, either through an overflow of patriotic sentiment or by freeing him from nationalist concerns and allowing him to address issues of broader human import, little attention has been given to Janáðek’s specific reactions to events of World War I. His output during the war years does, though, seem to suggest meaningful connections to current events. Both Janáðek’s choices of subjects and the musical details of many works composed during and immediately after the war show him responding to changing political and military circumstances.

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31

Janáðek, Russophilism, and Pan-Slavism Janáðek’s musical responses to the war can roughly be divided into two categories. During the first years of the war, when it seemed possible that the czar’s armies would liberate the Czechs from the Austro-Hungarian empire, Janáðek found opportunities to musically hint at his support for Russian military efforts. After the Russians were defeated in 1915, Janáðek turned to more local concerns, choosing subjects that either suggested opposition to the Habsburgs or pride in the newly established Czecho-Slovak state. Before the war, it was possible for Janáðek to either conflate or move fluidly among his regional identity as a Moravian, his national aspirations as a Czech, and his broader attraction to Slavic civilization, as expressed through a fascination with Russian culture. Janáðek was already a passionate Russophile of long standing by 1914. One of the earliest signs of his Slavonic orientation was his renunciation of his given name, Leo, in favor of the more Russian- (or, at least, Slavic-) sounding Lev. Janáðek had begun to style himself as Lev by 1868, and Lev remained his professional name until 1880.1 He had begun to study the Russian language by 1873, during his time at the Brno Teachers’ Institute, at least to the extent of learning the Cyrillic script, which he used for personal notes (in transliterated Czech) in his exercise books.2 Janáðek was sufficiently infatuated with the Russian language to give Russian names to both his children, born in 1882 and 1888. As Tyrrell has pointed out, the two names, Olga and Vladimír, were not unusual in the Czech lands at the time, but it may not be a coincidence that they are also the names of two of the protagonists from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin.3 Janáðek’s fascination with Russian culture blossomed over twenty years later, when his brother František moved to St. Petersburg in 1895 and invited the composer to visit during the next summer. Janáðek returned from the trip infatuated with all things Russian, publishing three lengthy articles about his travels in Lidové noviny and founding a Russian Circle in Brno.4 Janáðek’s general enthusiasm for Russian culture also encompassed a love of Russian art music. Despite the apparent affinities between Janáðek’s speech melody theories and Musorgsky’s attempts to preserve the inflections of spoken Russian in his vocal works, there is no evidence that Janáðek was familiar with any of Musorgsky’s music before 1910 or that he had any particular interest in Vladimir Stasov’s “Mighty Handful.”5 Instead, his heroes were Anton Rubinstein, with whom he hoped to study, and Tchaikovsky, whose Eugene Onegin and The Queen of Spades were the subjects of lengthy and laudatory reviews by Janáðek.6 The Queen of Spades made a particularly strong impression on Janáðek. He saw The Queen of Spades in 1896, while in the midst of composing Jenůfa, and he seems to have halted between the first and second acts of Jenůfa as a result of his encounter with the Tchaikovsky work. Tyrrell has argued that The Queen of Spades suggested certain types of characters and dramatic situations that would reappear in Janáðek’s later operas and perhaps even influenced Janáðek’s sense of the relati-

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onship between orchestral textures and vocal motives.7 Janáðek, though, seems to have responded to the two Tchaikovsky operas primarily as dramatic, rather than national, music, although he did praise Tchaikovsky’s understanding of folk music in both reviews. Janáðek does not seem to have been committed to any preconceived notions about musical “Russian-ness,” perhaps leaving him freer to invent his own musical Russia than a composer beholden to Stasov would have been. The most obvious fruits of Janáðek’s musical Russophilism are, of course, his compositions based in some way on nineteenth-century Russian literature, which he read in the original, including Taras Bulba (after Gogol), the “Kreutzer Sonata” String Quartet (after Tolstoy), and the operas Káťa Kabanová (Ostrovsky) and From the House of the Dead (Dostoevsky).8 It can be difficult to separate out the tangled strands of Janáðek’s national and regional prejudices. For the teenage Janáðek, dubbing himself Lev and requesting clothes made of Russian cloth was a way of identifying with the Czech minority in a Brno dominated by German speakers, as well as a way of signaling sympathy with Russia. As he wrote to his uncle in 1868, “[Y]ou don’t know how I love these Czechs, you won’t believe how I hate these Germans, these Germans who don’t have their own homeland, who came into our beautiful Czech lands, to take our beautiful homeland away from us, attach it to themselves and then Germanize us.”9 Despite Janáðek’s adolescent passion, though, his world did not consist of a simple binary opposition between Czech and German but rather of a more elusive web of shifting and overlapping identities. Janáðek’s affectation of a Russian name signaled not only his sympathy with Russian culture but also a broader allegiance to a Slavic identity. Depending on the context, this could identify him as part of an international community of Slavs (as opposed to Teutonic German speakers throughout Europe), as a native Czech speaker (as opposed to German speakers in the Czech lands), or, even more specifically, as a Moravian (as opposed to Bohemian Czech speakers). In a very general sense, Janáðek’s Russian orientation is a typical symptom of Czech nineteenth-century pan-Slavism. The Czech National Rebirth movement tended to express the distinctive position of Czechs within the Habsburg empire in terms of an opposition between Germanic and Slavic cultures. This opposition was strongly influenced by Johann Gottfried Herder, who not only encouraged the preservation and cultivation of Slavic languages such as Czech, Slovenian and Croatian but also, although classifying the Slavs as barbarians, identified them as the future leaders of Europe. Herder contrasted rural Slavs with the putatively more civilized portions of Europe and found the Slavs to be closer to nature and less decadent.10 Herder praised the Slavs as “charitable, almost extravagantly hospitable, devoted to their rustic independence, yet loyal and law-abiding.”11 While encouraging the Slavs to see themselves as benevolent and morally upstanding, Herder also portrayed them as victims of German aggression.12 Herder’s ideas inspired the first stirrings of Central European pan-Slavism, led in the early nineteenth century by Jan Kollár and Pavel Josef Šafa÷ík.

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Later in the century, the leaders of the National Rebirth, in attempting to answer Herder’s call to the Slavs to “be awakened from your long, sluggish sleep, be freed from your chains of slavery,” freely applied Herder’s image of the Slavs as passive victims in their relationship with Vienna. František Palacký, one of the leaders of the National Rebirth and author of the first Czech scholarly history of Bohemia and Moravia, followed Herder in framing a “natural law of polarity,” juxtaposing the putatively peaceful, democratic Czech character against German authoritarianism.13 Most famously, in his 1848 letter in which he refused to participate in the Frankfurt Parliament, Palacký declared, “I am not a German. . . . I am a Bohemian belonging to the Slav group of nations.” It is important, though, not to equate this opposition between Slavic and Germanic cultures with a specific political program or with a desire for independence from the Habsburg empire. Palacký, for instance, rather than advocate a Czech nation-state, favored a federal solution under the auspices of the Austrian monarchy.14 The connection between expression of nationalist sentiment and sympathy with fellow Slavs persisted well after the revolutions of the mid-century. Twenty years later, when the foundation stone for the National Theater in Prague was sunk, the ceremony was attended by Slavic delegates—including Russians, Poles, Ukrainians, Serbs, and Slovaks—and the event took on a strongly pan-Slav character. After the foundation stone was laid, Karel Sladkovský, the leader of the Young Czech political party, gave an oration, calling on the assembled to “[r]ejoice! Let the long restricted Czech heart rejoice! Let Slavic hearts rejoice in Brotherhood. . . . We are members of the same Slavic nation to whom a great and glorious future is beckoning through the cooperation of us all.”15 More specifically, though, as a Moravian Janáðek had also been encouraged to look eastward for his national identity by the Cyrilo-Methodius movement, which combined religious devotion to the sainted brothers who brought a Slavonic liturgy to Moravia in the ninth century with a strongly nationalist sentiment, albeit one that differentiated between Moravian and Bohemian goals. Janáðek was directly exposed to this movement by his music teacher during his boyhood at the Brno Augustinian monastery, Pavel K÷ížkovský, the director of the 1869 festivities in Brno celebrating the millennial anniversary of Cyril and Methodius’s arrival in the city. As Janáðek wrote to his uncle, “I’m looking forward to the sacred ground where once great Svatopluk and the Slavonic apostles Ciryl and Metod had their post. . . . I am not worthy to tread in their footsteps.”16 K÷ížkovský was a staunch Czech sympathizer who taught in Czech at the officially German-language monastery where Janáðek grew up. Janáðek’s respect for K÷ížkovský is preserved in an organ chorale fantasy from 1875 based on a cantata K÷ížkovský wrote in honor of Cyril and Methodius and by Janáðek’s substantial writings about K÷ížkovský. As Tyrrell has pointed out, Janáðek wrote more about K÷ížkovský than about any other composer, with the exceptions of Smetana and Dvo÷ák.17

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Russian Works and the Beginning of the War The list of Janáðek’s works composed during World War I begins with two works not published or performed until after the war, the Violin Sonata and Taras Bulba. Both works are linked to Russia. Taras Bulba, an orchestral rhapsody, is based on a Gogol story about bloody conflicts between Cossacks and Poles, set in the fifteenth century. The Violin Sonata, while not explicitly programmatic, does contain a theme later identified by Janáðek as representing Russian armies. However, it is certainly not the case that the war was the initial stimulus for Janáðek’s interest in composing pieces connected to Russian culture. In fact, a number of such pieces were composed or begun between 1907 and 1915. The only dramatic work that falls into this category involves his sketches for an opera drawn from Anna Karenina, from January 1907. Janáðek took his text from his own copy of the Tolstoy novel and set it in Russian.18 The other instances are all instrumental works. Janáðek composed a piano trio after Tolstoy’s Kreutzer Sonata the year after the Anna Karenina sketches, probably in December 1908. Although now lost, the trio was a three-movement work that was performed at a belated eightieth birthday celebration for Tolstoy in April 1909. Like the later quartet based on the same novella, the trio quoted from Beethoven’s “Kreutzer” Sonata, which was performed at the same concert. Although there was no text for the trio, Janáðek did own a Russian edition of the novella and heavily annotated it.19 Next in line was the Pohádka for cello and piano, with various versions composed between 1910 and 1913 (a final revision was made in 1923). This work was based on Zhukovsky’s The Tale of Tsar Berendyey. A short program for the work exists in Janáðek’s hand, and one was printed in the program leaflet for a 1912 performance. Janáðek continued to compose works based on Russian literary sources throughout his career (his last work, still under revision at his death in 1928, was the Dostoevsky opera From the House of the Dead), but only those from the war years appear to have any specific political content. This content was shaped by a problematic overlap between pan-Slavism and Czech nationalism that placed Janáðek and his fellow Czechs in a difficult position. As the war approached, none of the major Czech political parties (the Young Czechs, the Agrarians, the Social Democrats, the Czech National Socialists, and the Czech People’s Party) publicly advocated an independent Czech state. Instead, the vast majority of Czech politicians preferred to seek greater autonomy but remain within a reorganized Austria-Hungary.20 However, once war broke out, few Czechs enthusiastically supported Habsburg military efforts. Russia was now officially an enemy of the Habsburgs, and many Czech soldiers were deeply unhappy to find themselves standing beside their Austrian overlords and fighting against their fellow Slavs. Count Franz Anton Thun-Hohenstein, the Bohemian governor, reported that when Czech troops left Prague for the front in September 1914, they showed up drunk, wearing badges in national colors. They departed waving a red flag inscribed with the words “We are marching

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against the Russians and we don’t know why,” while civilians shouted “don’t shoot your Slav brothers.”21 In August and September 1914, Russian leaflets—some authentic and some forged—appeared at and behind the front, encouraging the Slavs of the Habsburg empire to welcome the Russians as brothers. These manifestos made it as far as Prague, where the imperial authorities responded by making distribution of Russian leaflets punishable by death.22 Austrian worries about the reliability of Czech troops were well-founded. There were instances of Czech units surrendering to the Russians as early as the fall of 1914, and most of a Czech infantry battalion deserted and went over to the Russians in April 1915, followed by two more battalions a month later.23 In this atmosphere, any public expression of sympathy with Russian causes was politically dangerous. The Young Czech party leader Karel Kramá÷—the only Czech politician to openly advocate a union with Russia (arguing that a Czech nation would be too small to be independent and would be best served by joining other Slav nations under a Romanov ruler)—was arrested, tried for treason from May 1915 until November 1916, and sentenced to death.24 In Brno, Janáðek’s Russian Circle was banned in March 1915, one member was imprisoned, and Janáðek was officially registered by the Viennese police as “politisch verdächtig [politically suspicious].” Although Janáðek did little to allay the suspicions of the police, his wife, Zdenka Janáðková, burned many of the Russian Circle’s files and covered their daughter’s gravestone (which had a Russian inscription) with ivy.25 On the other hand, the war made tangible the immediate prospect of liberation by Russian forces, and many Czechs, especially in the eastern part of the Czech lands, welcomed and anticipated the appearance of Russian troops. As Janáðková wrote in her memoirs, “The Russians were winning, they got nearer, it was said that in Ostrava you could hear the Russian cannons. We looked forward to our salvation approaching.”26 Russia advanced into Western Europe in two directions, moving into East Prussia in the north and toward Galicia and the Carpathian mountains in the south. Neither effort was successful. In August 1914, German troops defeated the Russian Second Army near the Masurian lakes in East Prussia, naming the victory after the village of Tannenberg, where Polish and Lithuanian forces had defeated the Teutonic knights in 1410. In the first two weeks of September, the Germans pushed the remains of the Russian First Army back across the Russian border. Meanwhile, to the south, the Russian advance against Austro-Hungary made it no further than Gorlice, where German and Austrian forces broke through Russian lines in May 1915. After the Gorlice-Tarnow offensive, it became clear to the Czechs that Slavic salvation would approach no closer.

The Violin Sonata and Taras Bulba It was during this critical period at the beginning of the war that Janáðek’s Russophilism manifested itself in the Violin Sonata and Taras Bulba. It is difficult to

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assess the connections between these works and specific political events, because most of Janáðek’s comments about them were made well after the fact and because both works underwent substantial revision before publication. Nonetheless, Janáðek clearly viewed both works as intimately related to the war. In a 1922 letter to the musicologist Otakar Nebuška, Janáðek asserted, “I wrote the Violin Sonata in 1914 at the beginning of the war when we were expecting the Russians in Moravia.”27 Both works show Janáðek using musical devices to glorify Russian fighters rather than evoking local color through simulated folk music, as was typical of his works inspired by Russian literature before and after the war. At first hearing, the most obvious expression of Russian national color in the Violin Sonata would appear to be the beginning of the eventual third movement. (The third movement of the final version of the Violin Sonata [1922] is derived from an Allegro originally intended to be the fourth, and last, movement).28 The movement opens with a trill in the left hand of the piano, over which the right hand plays a simple melody (example 3.1). This melody is a classic example of Janáðek’s “fake-folk” style, clearly intended to suggest folk music, although it has no actual folk source. The tune is eight bars long, consisting of two identical four-bar phrases. The rhythmic values are confined to eighth notes and quarter notes, and there are only four different pitches, all drawn from a pentatonic collection. These elements would be enough to mark the melody as a folk stylization in any context, but the melody seems especially reminiscent of other explicitly folk-like moments in Janáðek’s works, particularly of moments from works with Russian connections. One such precedent is the opening of the last movement of the Pohádka for cello and piano (example 3.2). Again, it is an eight-bar phrase in two-four. The melody has two four-bar phrases, identical save for the last note of the phrase. The melodies have significant differences—the Pohádka tune uses six of the seven pitches of a natural minor scale (later adding a Lydian inflection) and has much more rhythmic variety. Still, it is also recognizably a folk echo, to the extent that it was mistaken for an actual Russian folk melody in a review of the 1910 premiere.29 Janáðek was very displeased by the suggestion that he had lifted preexisting material, but he gave no indication that he did not intend it to suggest folk material or to evoke a Russian setting. Alena N¥mcová has suggested that the Violin Sonata melody is related to the love duet at the end of The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon, a roughly contemporaneous passage with a similar melodic contour.30 The melody of the eventual third movement, though, is much closer in character to two themes from a much later—but more Russian—work, Káťa Kabanová. The first theme from Káťa is the “sleigh bell theme,” first heard in the Overture (example 3.3) and associated with Tichon’s departure from the Kabanov home. Like the Violin Sonata theme, this theme is in a quick two-four, makes prominent use of repeated notes, and uses pitches drawn from the natural minor scale. The use of sleigh bells as accompaniment, providing timbre and rhythm in place of pitch,



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b & b b b b b 42 ‡

Allegretto D



bb 2 & b b bb 4 ‡ FŸ ~~ ? b b b 2 >Ç bbb 4

œ

bb & b b bb

‡

Œ ®œ œ œ n œ b œ b œ œ F> œ œ œ œœ œ œ

‡ œ

^r Ÿ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ~~~~~ œ Œ

^r ^r œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ

®œ œ œ nœ bœ bœ œ >

œœ œœœ b œ œ & b bbbb ^r ^ Ÿ ~~~~ œr œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? bb b b œ œ œ œ œ œ bb

œ

^r œ œ œœ

‡ œ

Œ ®œ œ œ n œ b œ b œ œ > œ œ œœœ

^ ^r ^ Ÿ ~~~ œr œ œr œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ‡

œ

37

œ

Œ ®œ œ œ nœ bœ bœ œ > œœ œœœ

^ ^r ^ Ÿ ~~~~ œr œ œr œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Example 3.1. Violin Sonata, mvt. 3, opening.

Ÿ~~~~~~~~~~ - œœ. œ œ œ. œ. œ œ .. œ ? b b b b 42 bb F marcato Ÿ~~~~~~~~~~ œ œ œ. œ. œ Ç œ ? b b b b œ .. 41 bb Allegro D  

œ œ. œ. Ç 42

œ-

œœ 41

Example 3.2. Pohádka, mvt. 4, opening (cello).

is analogous to the energetic, but static, trill in the Violin Sonata.31 There is an even more striking parallel, though, to the Violin Sonata melody later in the opera. At the end of the second act, when Kudrjáš warns Boris and Káťa that it is time to end their tryst and return home, he sings a little tune that reproduces not only the melodic countour but also the exact pitches (an octave lower) of the Violin Sonata tune (example 3.4). Given that the examples from Pohádka and from Káťa Kabanová seem to be obvious musical symbols of Janáðek’s imaginary Russia, it is tempting to assume that the fake-folk melody from the Violin Sonata serves a similar function. However, while this kind of folk stylization can be used to indicate a Russian setting, it can also suggest other places, depending on the dramatic context or program

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oboe • • • • b œ • œ • œ • œ • b œ • b œ • œ • œ • b œ • œ • œ • • œ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ Ç 2 &4

bœ bœ bœ œ Ç

Example 3.3. Kát’a Kabanová, Overture, [3] (oboes).

bœ b œ œ b Rœ œR R œR 3 &8 R R Kudrjáš

“Všec - ko

do - mø,

do - mø

bœ b œ œ b œR œR R œR R R všec - ko

do - mø,

do - mø,

2 b œ 2 œ b Rœ Rœ b œ 2 œ b œ . 6 16 R R R R J

a

já

do - mø

ne - pøj-du!”

Example 3.4. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, [31].

of the work in which it appears. There are other occurrences of similar folk stylizations in works not linked to Russia. In addition to the love duet cited earlier by N¥mcová (set in Prague), there are distant relations to the “Russian” themes at the opening of movement four of the Sinfonietta (a work inspired by Brno) and in the second act of The Makropulos Case, in the scene between Marty and Hauk (set in Prague and evoking Spain). More important, however—and regardless of whether Janáðek intended the eventual third movement of the Violin Sonata as a musical token of Russia—the theme in question probably was not intended as a response to Russia’s military advances. The original, less obviously “folksy” version of the theme appears to have been added to the sonata in fall of 1916, after the Russian defeat at Gorlice, and the third movement as we now know it, with the faster tempo and staccato eighth notes, probably dates from 1920, during the composition of Káťa.32 If these dates are correct, then the third movement of the Violin Sonata can join Káťa as an example of Janáðek’s postwar return to fake-folk exoticism. We do, though, have the composer’s own authority for a different musical connection between the Violin Sonata and Russia. According to the pianist Karel Solð, who rehearsed the sonata before its third performance (in 1923, at the Salzburg International Society for Contemporary Music festival), Janáðek identified the last appearance of a “chorale-like” passage in the last movement as representing the Russian armies entering Hungary and asked for the accompanying high piano tremolo to be played in a very agitated fashion.33 The location of this passage is slightly ambiguous. There is a lengthy passage toward the end of the movement over a piano tremolo, during which the tremolo does not dip below the treble clef (mm. 60–81). This is presumably the “high piano tremolo” indicated by Janáðek. Both of the main thematic elements from the movement occur over this tremolo, first the opening motive (example 3.5, m. 60) and later the more lyrical second theme (first heard in m. 27, appearing over the tremolo in m. 69, as shown in example 3.6). It is conceivable that Janáðek was referring to the beginning of this passage (example 3.5). The violin is high on the G string, allowing for an appropriately forceful expression, and the theme, in portato

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# # # # c sul G œ& # œ- œ- n œ- Ç . ‰ ® # œ œ œœœ ƒ Maestoso “ Ç. œ # # # # c Ç . Ç . œœ œ Ç . Ç . # œ œ # & ƒ

Ç. Ç. œ nœ Ç. Ç. œ œ ## & # ## c œ œ

œ- œ- œ n œ-



39

œ- ‹ œ- œ - œ- œ- œ- œ- œ-

Ç . n œœ œ # œœ ÇÇ n ÇÇ .. b b œœ Ç. Ç. Ç. bœ œ œœ œ Ç Ç. Ç. œ nœ œ œ ‹œ œ Ç Ç nÇ. nÇ. œ bœ

Example 3.5. Violin Sonata, mvt. 4, mm. 60–64.

Example 3.6. Violin Sonata, mvt. 4, mm. 69–74.

quarter notes, could be described as chorale-like. The theme is even interrupted by a stabbing outburst from the violin that one commentator has likened to the distant sound of the Russian cannons.34 The more plausible explanation, though, if Solð was speaking precisely (and quoted accurately), is that Janáðek meant the return of the second theme (example 3.6). The diatonic melody, built around fourths, feels more like a chorale than does the previous theme, and this truly is the last appearance of this theme (Solð specified a final occurrence), while the first theme comes back one last time in the coda. This iteration of the second theme is the emotional crux of the movement, and it is easy to imagine that Janáðek wanted to associate its musical impact with an extra-musical event. Wherever the exact location of the passage in question, though, it is clear that when Janáðek wished to musically represent the Russian armies (assuming, of course, that the Janáðek of 1923 was a reliable witness to the thoughts of the Janáðek of nearly a decade earlier, a dangerous assumption indeed), he reached for the general musical topics of “chorale” and “agitation” rather than for any traces of national expression.

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Like the Violin Sonata, the orchestral rhapsody Taras Bulba seems to have been inspired by the early years of the war and underwent substantial revisions during the war. Also as in the case of the Violin Sonata, the few statements from the composer about the programmatic and political implications of Taras Bulba come from well after the war. According to dates written in his copy of Gogol’s novel, Janáðek read Taras Bulba in March 1905. As with the Tolstoy works cited earlier, Janáðek owned a copy of the novel in the original Russian. He probably began to plan the orchestral work after the publication of the orchestral ballad The Fiddler’s Child and completed the first version of Taras Bulba by January 22, 1915.35 This places the first version at the peak of Janáðek’s hopes for Russian military advances and shortly before the March crackdown on pro-Russian activities in Brno and the defeat of the Russian armies in May. This early version was never performed, as wartime conditions made the production of any large-scale orchestral work prohibitively difficult and certainly precluded the appearance of such an obviously Russophile work. Janáðek returned to the work in early 1918 and completed the final version by the end of March of that year. Taras Bulba also presents interpretative problems. As Tyrrell has pointed out, Gogol’s story was a peculiar choice for Janáðek, both because the ringing endorsement of the Orthodox Church should not have appealed to the Catholic-trained agnostic composer and because a story in which different groups of Slavs murder each other makes for a poor demonstration of pan-Slavic solidarity.36 Janáðek, though, seems to have latched on to Taras Bulba’s final prophecy as the key to the work and to have seen it as a testament to the indomitability of the Slavic spirit. Janáðek referred to the work as a “Slavonic Rhapsody” at least until 1918. In a letter to Gabriela Horvátová dated March 1918, Janáðek called the piece both a “Slavonic Rhapsody” and his “musical testament.”37 Later, in a 1924 letter in which Janáðek provided information for program notes for the Prague premiere, he wrote that he composed Taras Bulba “because the fires, the tortures that could destroy the force of the Russian people are not to be found on earth.”38 Despite the Polish settings of the three movements of Taras Bulba, the orchestral rhapsody is largely free of local color. There are two moments where folkdance topics intrude. One in is the second movement (m. 126), where the violas play an open-fifth drone in 38, col legno, under a violin melody with dotted rhythms and accents on the last eighths of the second and third bars of the fourbar phrase. A triangle adds further timbral color. Jaroslav Vogel, who discussed the program of the piece with Janáðek after a Prague performance, described this passage as a “wild mazur of victory,” danced by the Poles after they have taken Taras’s son Ostap prisoner.39 The other is in the last movement (m. 52), a rustic passage in eight-bar phrases; harmonies restricted to tonic, subdominant, and dominant; a rudimentary accompaniment of downbeat pizzicati; and, again, color from the percussion, in this case the snare drum. Vogel identified this as “a wild krakowiak,” celebrating the capture of Taras himself.40 Significantly, the two passages that most strongly invoke folk topics appear to be associated with the

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Poles, the villains of the story, not with the heroic Cossacks. This would seem to place Taras Bulba in the company of Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar and Dvo÷ák’s Dmitrij, works in which folk topics are linked to foreign elements (in all cases Polish) in otherwise nationalistic and pan-Slav works. There is also a notable absence of the kind of “Russian” folk stylization found in Pohádka and in Káťa Kabanová. As with the Violin Sonata, the only specific passage cited by Janáðek as having a political link is a lyrical climax rather than a moment of national color. In the 1923 article cited earlier, Janáðek wrote of Taras Bulba that “[i]n 1918 its hymnlike motif began to ring out.”41 The passage indicated (and written out by hand for the article) by Janáðek comes in the coda of the last movement (m. 196) and is part of the grand conclusion to the work, presumably corresponding to Taras’s dying vision or, as Vogel put it, the “majestic apotheosis of Russia.”42 The entire coda is saturated with evocative timbral and harmonic devices. Harp and organ suggest Slavic bards and Christian churches, and the coda is filled with repeated “Moravian” cadences (a dominant thirteenth chord on a subdominant resolving to the major tonic, as in mm. 168–69 and shown in example 3.7), emphasized by a leaping anticipation of the thirteenth chord in the organ (an effect even more majestic if the organ is doubled in the trumpets, an alteration made by Janáðek’s student B÷etislav Bakala and still standard in many Czech performances).43 Again, as was the case with the Violin Sonata, Janáðek’s hope that Moravia would be liberated by his fellow Slavs is expressed by music displaying a general sense of nobility and triumph, not by music that evokes national character. Although Janáðek returned to Taras Bulba and completed the final version in 1918, his feelings about Russia had significantly altered in the meantime. Not only had the Russian armies failed to defeat the Habsburgs, but Janáðek was also appalled by the 1917 Bolshevik revolution. The Russia of Janáðek’s imagination would always be the Imperial Russia of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and never the Soviet Union. The combination of Janáðek’s disenchantment with political events in Russia and the flush of patriotism occasioned by the new Czecho-Slovak state caused him to blur the lines between pan-Slav enthusiasm and Czech patriotism. In a 1923 article published by the Czechoslovak Military Scientific Institute, Janáðek described his compositions as “cultural weapons” that were “bright but blunt” and cited two Russophile works, Pohádka and the Violin Sonata, linking them to the first (1915) incarnation of Taras Bulba, in which he “rejoiced at the idea of hailing our regiments.”44 The same article suggests that Taras Bulba was dedicated “[t]o our troops.” Although this dedication does not appear in any of the printed editions, it was alluded to in the program notes accompanying the first Prague performance in 1924.45 In each of these instances, Janáðek was freely conflating his admiration for the Slavonic heroism of Taras Bulba with the now more politically acceptable veneration of the Czech troops. It was not until after the war, when the Czech lands were no longer waiting for political autonomy and when Janáðek could not find a link between the nineteenth century of his literary passions and the Soviet government of modern

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Example 3.7. “Moravian” cadence, Taras Bulba, mvt. 3, mm. 166–70 (organ).

Russia, that he returned to the more old-fashioned sort of Russian musical exoticism found in the third movement of the Violin Sonata, in Káťa Kabanová, and in From the House of the Dead.

Female Choruses and Rudolf II After the Russian defeat at Gorlice, Janáðek seems to have lost interest in Russian subjects, and with the exception of drafting a scene from Tolstoy’s play The Living Corpse in September 1916, he would not start a new “Russian” work until after the war. For Janáðek, the end of 1915 and most of 1916 were devoted to the Prague premiere of Jenůfa and the completion of The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon. In addition to these efforts, he also arranged some folk ballads for voice and piano and composed five choruses for female voices. These choruses are small works, especially in comparison to Jenůfa and The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon. They were not published until 1922, and the complete set was not performed until 1923. Only the first song was performed during the war.46 Still, Janáðek’s choices of texts and his musical responses do provide some clues to his political leanings at the time, and the choruses constitute an interesting transition between Janáðek’s enthusiastic Russophilism at the beginning of the war and his triumphant patriotism at its end. The choice of medium for the choruses was largely dictated by practical concerns. Ferdinand Vach’s Moravian Teachers’ Choir, a male chorus that had performed a number of Janáðek’s works in the decade before the war, had disbanded during the war, since many of its members had been conscripted. Vach formed a Moravian Women Teachers’ Choir to take its place, and Janáðek’s 1916 choruses were intended to help create a repertoire for Vach and to reward him for his performances of Janáðek’s earlier choral works. Four of the five choruses set poems by František S. Procházka, and this, too, may have been a gesture of gratitude. Procházka was one of the four (!) poets who had provided additional texts for The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon, and Janáðek may have chosen Procházka’s

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verses to thank him for that service. The selection of individual texts, though, seems likely to have been a matter of personal conviction. All four Procházka poems are set around the time of Rudolf II, who was crowned king of Bohemia in 1575. The Rudolfine era, the “Magic Prague” of alchemists, astronomers, and Arcimboldo, so beloved of French Surrealists between the wars and of tourists to the present day, played a distinctly different role in the rhetoric of the National Rebirth. For late-nineteenth-century nationalists, “Magic Prague” was not primarily a time of great patronage of the arts and sciences but part of a time of Habsburg rule, whose political and religious oppression culminated in the disastrous Battle of the White Mountain in 1620, at which the Czech Protestant Union was defeated by imperial forces. This view of Czech history is concisely expressed in the final tableaux of Bed÷ich Smetana’s opera Libuše. According to legend, Libuše founded Prague and was the matriarch of the P÷emyslid dynasty, which ruled Bohemia from the ninth century until the beginning of the fourteenth century. Libuše was also a seeress, and Smetana’s opera ends with her making six prophesies, moving through triumphs of Czech history. The fourth of these visions depicts Hussite warriors, led to victory by Jan Žižka at the Battle of Vítkov Hill in 1420; the fifth presents Ji÷í z Pod¥brad, the last Czech king of Bohemia, who died in 1469. Before the final apparition (of Vyšehrad, the same Prague castle depicted in the first tone poem of Smetana’s Má vlast), Libuše refuses to reveal what will befall the Czechs after the fifteenth century, announcing: “What else? Mists conceal the future to my eye, and many things are hidden to my fading vision. Horrible secrets—curses, perhaps!” Libuše suggests that mists have engulfed everything after the late fifteenth century and that those years have been marked by suffering and misfortune. By choosing Procházka’s poems in 1916, Janáðek implies that the war years, too, were hidden behind Libuše’s mists, a continuation of centuries of Habsburg rule and Czech dependence. Procházka’s collection Songs of Hradčany was published in 1904, and its poems take a dim view of the Rudolfine era. All of the poems Janáðek chose reflect this attitude. “Kašpar Rucký” concerns a rogue alchemist and philanderer who torments the emperor even after the scoundrel’s execution. Janáðek set this poem as an independent work and chose three more of Procházka’s poems for a set of three choruses, also entitled Songs of Hradčany. The first of the Songs of Hradčany, “Zlatá uliðka [The Golden Lane],” is set in the famous street of the alchemists but immediately debunks the myths: There was never any gold here, in the shadow of the double towers; only the remnants of bitter sorrows lie within these solid walls.47

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The central poetic conceit is a contrast between the houses of the Golden Lane—small and brightly colored, like children’s toys, but poor—and the castle that towers above them. Janáðek’s musical sympathies are clearly with the world outside the castle. The stanza above, in which Procházka points out that the riches of the castle never extended to those immediately beyond it, represents a point of both poetic and musical structural articulation. It is the first place in the poem where the image of the castle is introduced as a counterpoint to the houses below, and it is the first place where the musical texture is significantly altered (m. 21). The entire choir is marked mezzo forte (the strongest dynamic mark thus far in the chorus), and the word “nikde” (nowhere) is emphasized by being placed on two quarter notes, sung homorhythmically by three of the four voice parts. Nikde does not actually appear in Procházka’s poem but was added by Janáðek, intensifying the negatives nebylo (there wasn’t) and nikdy (never) that immediately follow. The first two lines of this stanza are set to a crescendo before a subito pianissimo dolcissimo, a ritardando, and a move to G-flat major for “the remnants of bitter sorrows lie within these solid walls.” The key of G-flat major, a relaxation of tempo, and the marking pianissimo dolcissimo return for the final stanza of the poem, in which Procházka asserts that it is the lofty towers that are poorer than the humble houses (m. 57). The change of character in this gentle conclusion is further emphasized by a change 4 back to 6 ), an enharmonic mode shift from F-sharp minor of meter (from 16 16 to G-flat major, and the simple parallel thirds in the sopranos. These dramatic musical shifts emphasize Janáðek’s cynicism about the glories of Rudolf’s court. Like Procházka, Janáðek presents Rudolf II as a Habsburg oppressor rather than a symbol of Prague’s past glories. The next poem, “Plaðící fontána [The Weeping Fountain],” describes a fountain made of bell metal, which rings while its water flows.48 For Procházka this sound is a sigh, caused by tears pouring down on it. The end of the poem identifies the one who is grieving: A fairy-tale princess once came by here, with her royal train, and made merry by the fountain; with her death, all beauty died too. She died, without wanting to; her songs fell silent. It is for her that the quiet tears flow— for the dream that died.

The “fairy-tale” princess of this poem must be Anna, the queen for whom the summer palace “Belvedere” was built by Ferdinand I. It is in front of this palace that the bell-fountain stands. Anna was a particularly potent symbol, for she was of the Jagellonian dynasty, sister of Louis, the last Polish king of Bohemia. The

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union between Anna, remnant of a Slavic (albeit non-Czech) royal family, and Ferdinand, first of the Habsburgs to rule Bohemia, was easy to read as a cipher for Austrian control over Bohemia. The final poem in Janáðek’s Songs of Hradčany, “Belveder [Belvedere],” makes this link explicit. The song has a part for harp, Anna’s instrument, as identified in the poem: The gently wistful strains of a harp sound softly in the garden; sweetly musing, she plucks the strings— a daughter of the Jagellonians.

This harp music is obscured, though, by the groans of rebels punished beneath the castle, and Ferdinand is replaced by Rudolf—not Rudolf in his prime, though, but the old, mad Rudolf. The final stanzas could almost be a continuation of Libuše’s warning: Storms may blow, tempests may rage. life’s horrors may assail us, But you will remain for ever a marvelous poem in stone! Love gave you glory, carved beauty in your stones, while all around the Czech earth was crushed by ruthless oppressors! If only love could prevail, uniting all under her gaze, what would you then become, my poor country, what wonders might we see!

If in “The Golden Lane” the driving contrast was the physical juxtaposition of castle and houses, in “Belvedere” it is between the “magical idyll” of Anna playing her harp while dogs gambol on the garden’s grass and the reality of her sad fate and the cruelty of the castle’s subsequent history. Again, there is a point of simultaneous poetic and musical articulation. When Procházka’s narrator asserts that “this poem is deceptive” and directly invokes the dead queen, Janáðek breaks into an unaccompanied recitative, forte, for solo soprano (m. 72). The stanza quoted earlier about storms and tempests is set in a vigorous fortissimo, beginning with homorhythmic octaves and unisons before a sforzando on a dissonant sonority built around a minor ninth for vichry (storms) (mm. 140–41). The second half of the stanza, “But you will remain for ever a marvelous poem in stone,” combines a chorale-like setting for chorus and harp with the solo soprano in a freer rhythm, soaring up to a high C-flat.

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Procházka’s verses were popular during the first decades of the twentieth century, largely because of the obvious patriotic and nationalistic implications of his historical references. Janáðek could hardly have responded to these poetic provocations in a more transparently sympathetic way, but once again, as was the case with the Russophile compositions from the beginning of the war, when the political stakes were highest, he avoided folk stylizations or other obvious manifestations of musical nationalism in favor of more basic means of musical emphasis and contrast. Just as he could return to more obvious evocations of Russian folk stylizations after the war in Káťa Kabanová, so, too, could the Rudolfine era be more comfortably assimilated into Prague history in The Makropulos Case. In that opera, from 1926, Emperor Rudolf may be a “swine” who unjustly imprisoned Emilia Marty’s father, but Janáðek, as a citizen of the Czech First Republic, could afford to be more magnanimous toward Rudolf, gracing his memory with noble brass and drum fanfares (see chapter 7).

The End of the War and Triumphalism In general terms, Janáðek’s response to the beginning of the war was pan-Slavic anticipation of union with Russia, with a retreat to the stock historical rhetoric of the National Rebirth after the Russian military setbacks in 1915. By 1917, though, the prospect of national independence was close enough to move out of Libuše’s mists and for Janáðek to begin celebrating the fulfillment of her final vision. Counterintuitively, in order to do so he had to move back another century in Czech history from Rudolf’s Golden Prague, to the fifteenth century. The one great military triumph in Czech history was the 1420 Battle of Vítkov Hill, in which the Protestant warriors of the new Hussite confession defeated a motley international army loyal to the emperor Sigismund. This battle was the subject of Libuše’s fourth vision, the only one connected to a concrete musical object. The tableau is accompanied by music based on an actual Hussite war hymn, an appropriately martial melody that is heard again during the opera’s final apotheosis. The same hymn appears in the last two tone poems in Smetana’s Má vlast, “Tábor” and “Blaník,” as well as in nationalist orchestral works by Dvo÷ák and Suk. Janáðek finished his revisions to The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon in March 1917 and immediately began a second opera featuring the same title character. This time, instead of being transported through space, Mr. Brouðek was sent backward in time to witness the Hussite victory in person. As they march into battle, the Hussite men sing the very hymn familiar from Smetana, Dvo÷ák, and Suk. Janáðek must have intended The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century as a grand patriotic gesture in the tradition of Libuše, anticipating a new Czech state as Libuše had anticipated the National Theater. However, bizarrely, Janáðek seems not to have anticipated that Svatopluk ïech’s satirical novel would

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be ill suited to support a rousing nationalistic opera. Both the Battle of Vítkov Hill and the peculiar case of Mr. Brouðek will be discussed at greater length in chapter 4. Immediately after the war, Janáðek became even more overtly (and successfully) nationalistic. Barely two weeks after Czecho-Slovak independence was declared on October 28, 1918, Janáðek composed “ïeská legie [The Czech Legion],” a chorus for men’s voices that set a stirring (if sentimental and historically inaccurate) poem by Antonín Horák. The Czech Legion, mostly composed of Czech and Slovak prisoners of war, fought with the Russian army until being transferred to the Western front in 1918. Horák’s poem explicitly framed the end of the war as the end of the time of troubles in the Czech lands that stretched back to the Battle of White Mountain: Hey, get ready for the fight, O brothers, to avenge . . . century-old wrongs for shackled conscience, for the proud land of the Czechs that came under foreign yoke . . . for your downtrodden language . . . today you will fulfill the prayer that’s been whispered for three centuries.

At the mention of the Czech flag, Janáðek includes a near quote of the new Czech national anthem, “Kde domov møj?”49 “The Czech Legion” was Janáðek’s most topical and popular nationalistic work, but his patriotic fervor continued through 1919. In 1918 he returned to his first opera, Šárka, composed thirty years earlier, finishing a revised version by January 1919. The Šárka story is connected to the Libuše legend (Šárka was a warrior maiden who fought in the “Maidens’ War” after Libuše’s death) and is also a standard element in the canon of Czech nineteenth-century nationalist history. Although Janáðek’s opera was unknown at the time (the 1888 original version was never produced, and the revised version was not performed until 1925), Czechs were very familiar with the Šárka story. Probably best known as one of Alois Jirásek’s 1894 Old Bohemian Legends, Šárka was also the subject of another tone poem in Smetana’s Má vlast cycle as well as of a successful 1897 opera by Zden¥k Fibich. Later in 1919, Janáðek composed an orchestral tone poem titled Ballad of Blaník, once again reusing a subject from Má vlast—this time about knights slumbering beneath a mountain, waiting to come to the aid of the Czech nation. The fact that Janáðek should have been caught up in patriotism in the first years of Czecho-Slovak independence is unremarkable, but, in retrospect, it would appear that Janáðek’s patriotism, however deeply felt, was not a particularly useful artistic stimulus. None of the overtly patriotic works from the first flush of Czech independence has worn particularly well, and the greater works that lay ahead deal with less parochial matters.

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This survey of a brief portion of Janáðek’s career is a reminder that the composer’s relationships with regional, national, and ethnic identities shifted over time in response to professional opportunities and political events. In broad terms, he seems to have begun to musically differentiate between various types of Slavonic music around the turn of the twentieth century, making some attempt to emulate Russian church music in his 1896 chorus Hospodine! and imitating Russian and Serbian dance music in orchestral pieces written in 1900 for the Brno Slavonic Beseda. Around this time, he was also deeply involved with Moravian culture, not just through collecting and arranging folk music but also through overtly Moravian compositions. The most obvious example is Jenůfa, but there are also the Four Moravian Male-Voice Choruses, two of which are in dialect. After the 1903 rejection of Jenůfa by the Prague National Theater, though, Janáðek seems to have begun to distance himself from Moravian subjects, perhaps because he felt the “Moravian character” of Jenůfa had contributed to its failure to be accepted in Prague. Aside from his choral works, which continued to have Moravian features, Janáðek began to favor either Bohemian or Russian subjects. After the war, though, much had changed. Russia was now the Soviet Union and no longer an active inspiration for Janáðek. As part of an independent Czech state, he no longer had reason to juxtapose Habsburg oppression with Czech heroism. He was also reaching audiences beyond the Czech lands, especially in Germany but also in Austria, Italy, England, and America. There are still Slavonic elements from the postwar works, especially in the settings of his operas, but they are manifestations of different relationships with Slavonic culture than those that pertained before and during the war. It is far too simple to label Janáðek as a patriot, a Russophile, or a pan-Slav without placing those designations in a specific biographical context.50

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Leoš Janáðek: Works, 1914–19 1914 Violin Sonata, VII/751 (begun in 1914, first version 1915, final version 1922) 1915 Taras Bulba, VI/15 (first version by January 22, final version 1918) Orchestral Rhapsody, after Nikolai Gogol 1916 Písně detvanské, zbojnické balady [Songs of Detva, brigand ballads], V/11 (January 16–19) Folksong arrangements for voice and piano Vlčí stopa [The Wolf’s Trail], IV/39 (January 25) Chorus for female voices and piano (Jaroslav Vrchlický [Emil Frída]) Hradčanské písničky [Songs of Hradðany], IV/40 (February 1–3) Three choruses for soprano, female voices, flute, and harp (František S. Procházka) 1. “Zlatá uliðka [Golden Lane]” 2. “Plaðící fontána [The Weeping Fountain]” 3. “Belveder [Belvedere]” Kašpar Rucký, IV/41 (by February 12) Chorus for female voices (František S. Procházka) Živá mrtvola [The Living Corpse], IX/6 (begun September 13) Draft of one scene of a planned opera, after Lev Tolstoy 1917 Výlet pana Broučka do XV. století [The Excursion of Mr. Brouðek to the Fifteenth Century], I/7 Opera (František S. Procházka, after Svatopluk ïech)

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1918 Slezské písně [Silesian songs from Helena Salichová’s collection], V/13 (January 15–25) Folksong arrangements for voice and piano “ïeská legie [The Czech Legion],” IV/42 (November 15–18) Chorus for male voices (Antonín Horák) 1919 Šárka, I/1 (second version by January 10, first version 1888, final revisions 1925) Opera, after Julius Zeyer Ballada blanická [The Ballad of Blaník], VI/16 (Sept.–Oct.?) Orchestral tone poem

Chapter Four

Beyond National Opera Janáðek and Czech Opera Chapters 2 and 3 attempted to apply critical pressure to two central assumptions of Janáðek reception: that the inflections of Czech speech were a significant influence on his compositional practices and that the founding of an independent Czechoslovak state in 1918 marked a turning point in his compositional career. Similarly, this chapter will deal with another facet of Janáðek’s passionate but problematic relationship with Czech culture and with the ways the contours of his career were shaped by the materialization of a Czech nation. In this case, the relationship to be problematized is that between Janáðek’s operas and earlier Czech operas. While accounts of Janáðek’s life and works inevitably foreground his national and regional identities—whether manifested through his belligerent allegiance to the Czech language in his youth, his fondness for Moravian costume, his collaboration with nationalistic gymnastics organizations, or his researches into speech melody and folksong—his connection to Czech opera traditions tends to remain subsidiary. As a man who came of age in the second half of the nineteenth century, Janáðek’s cultural politics were shaped by the Czech National Rebirth, and, not surprisingly (as discussed in chapter 3), national and regional identities play prominent roles in his biography. As a composer, though, he blossomed after the successful culmination of the National Rebirth project in an independent Czech state, and his best-known works, especially the mature operas, are not obviously connected to prewar cultural ideologies. Perhaps because of this, Janáðek’s connections to nineteenth-century Czech operatic traditions have not received the same attention as his fascination with speech melodies and folk culture. That is, while it is generally assumed that Janáðek’s musical language was inextricably tied to language and folksong until the end of his life, it is also assumed that the subjects of his postwar operas transcend local concerns. This view of Janáðek’s postwar operas as existing in some sense outside of a tradition of Czech opera that extended from the 1862 opening of the Prague Provisional Theater to the foundation of a Czech state in 1918 is neatly encapsulated in John Tyrrell’s preface to his Czech Opera. Tyrrell points out that the opening of the Provisional Theater allowed “a continuous tradition of writing and performing opera in Czech to flourish” and that the growth and maturation of this tradition coincided roughly with the development of the National Rebirth movement.1 Tyrrell suggests that his study could have stopped at

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1918, implying that the history of Czech opera as a self-contained phenomenon ended with the creation of a Czech state. Instead, though, Tyrrell carried on through Janáðek’s death in 1928, pointing out that Janáðek, “much more than his predecessors, was able to break through the language barrier into the international repertory.”2 By breaking through the language barrier, though, Janáðek was also breaking with tradition. Tyrrell also points out that after Jenůfa, Janáðek’s “choice of subject matter became so wide-ranging and eclectic that his Czechness apparently receded into the background: it is possible to come to emotional terms with a late Janáðek opera with no knowledge at all of Czech opera.”3 If, as Tyrrell suggests, the story of Czech opera is that of “opera in Czech from Smetana to Janáðek,”4 then it is also a story of Janáðek leaving Smetana behind and becoming international through abandoning parochial concerns. In particular, the idea that Jenůfa, despite its regional setting, marked a turning point at which Janáðek left Czech traditions behind and addressed universal emotional concerns has a long history. During the composer’s lifetime, Max Brod declared, “Jenůfa is no Czech national opera. It has nothing to do with national historical dreams, as does Smetana’s Dalibor. . . . Jenůfa is human opera that takes place amongst Moravian peasants.”5 Similarly, Rosa Newmarch wrote in her pioneering 1942 study The Music of Czechoslovakia that with Jenůfa, Janáðek “broke down the long-cherished Smetana tradition. . . . [I]t is universally intelligible, since the manifestations of the broad emotions, love, hate, and merriment are much the same in all races.”6 This chapter will argue that, even in the postwar operas, traces of earlier Czech operatic traditions and conventions remain and that identifying and acknowledging these traces can lead to richer and more nuanced readings of these operas. The chapter begins by placing Janáðek within the context of Czech prewar musical politics and locating his operas with respect to nineteenth-century Czech operatic traditions. Then, two case studies will more closely examine Janáðek’s relationships with those operatic traditions, in both cases suggesting that references to earlier operas enhance and complicate the operas in question. The first case study, of The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, will argue that the opera, intended by Janáðek as a patriotic work at the dawn of the First Republic, was rendered unsuitable for that purpose by a mismatch between Janáðek’s political intentions and his musical methods. In this opera, Janáðek only too effectively used the musical codes of nineteenthcentury Czech opera to emphasize the ways his protagonist not only failed to embody the ideals of his heroic Hussite hosts but also was uncomfortably typical of the demographics of modern Prague. The second case study will move to a later and more popular opera, The Cunning Little Vixen, and suggest that, even after Janáðek had ostensibly left national opera behind, the models of Smetana and Dvo÷ák still lurked in the Vixen’s forest, in ways that shape the opera’s emotional import.

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Janáðek and Musical Politics before the War The history and historiography of Czech musical nationalism revolved around the two best-known composers of the National Rebirth era, Bed÷ich Smetana and Antonín Dvo÷ák, whose supporters were polarized along both political and musical lines. Smetana had been a controversial and divisive figure since the late 1860s. Although his first two operas, Braniboři v Čechách (The Brandenburgers in Bohemia, 1865) and Prodaná nevěsta (The Bartered Bride, 1866), were enormously successful and he was appointed principal conductor of the Prague National Theater in 1866, Smetana’s third opera, Dalibor (1868), was the subject of vigorous public opposition. The nominal charge was that the Wagnerian elements in Dalibor constituted a Germanification of Czech music, a near-sacrilegious gesture in an opera about a legendary Czech hero. The underlying schism was that Smetana’s opponents, especially Frantšek Pivoda, an influential voice teacher (the singing school he opened in 1869 provided many of the soloists for the Provisional Theater), were aligned with the Old Czech party, a conservative party that favored cooperation with the Bohemian aristocracy and passive resistance to the empire through refusal to participate in the Reichsrat. The Smetana camp, on the other hand, identified with the Young Czechs, a national liberal party that favored the economic interests of the urban middle class over those of the Bohemian aristocracy and large landowners. This political division was easily, if crudely, mapped onto musical controversies. Smetana’s supporters saw his putatively Wagnerian orientation, as manifested both in his operatic language and his predilection for program music, as displaying musically progressive tendencies that were consonant with their politics. Pivoda, however, who favored a national opera based on folksong and Singspiel, accused Smetana of contaminating Czech music with Teutonic elements. He suggested that the hero of Smetana’s third opera be renamed “Dalibor Wagner” and criticized Smetana’s revisions to The Bartered Bride by writing that “The Bartered Bride is no longer a beautiful country girl but a painted hussy returning from the city where she has been in order to become educated and refined.”7 Smetana’s most powerful antagonist was František Rieger, one of the leaders of the Old Czech party and a member of the administrative consortium that ran the Provisional Theater. Rieger, desperate for a composer to promote as a counterweight to Smetana, eventually settled on the young Dvo÷ák, just rising to international prominence in the 1870s, as his champion. Just as Smetana’s opponents conflated his Wagnerian orientation and Young Czech sympathies, so, too, did Dvo÷ák’s supporters see Dvo÷ák’s close association with Brahms and his concentration on absolute music as consonant with the Old Czech political program. Conversely, the Smetana camp saw Dvo÷ák’s connections with Brahms and Eduard Hanslick sympathizers as analogous to Old Czech cooperation with Habsburg institutions. Later, in 1882, Dvo÷ák’s opera Dimitrij was criticized by

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the pro-Smetana faction both for its subject matter, seemingly supporting the pan-Slavism advocated by Rieger, and for its musical qualities, with Dvo÷ák’s turn to Grand Opera held up as a foreign influence. As Zden¥k Nejedlý wrote in 1901, “Smetana’s slogan was modernity and Czechness, so he sided enthusiastically with the progressive Weimar school, with Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. . . . Smetana based Czech opera on modern soil, Dvo÷ák on the soil of old French and Italian operas.”8 Despite the transparency with which sloppy caricatures of both composers were deployed as proxies in struggles over control of musical and journalistic institutions or manipulated to serve personal rivalries, the use of Dvo÷ák and Smetana as names to conjure with in Prague music criticism lingered until the end of World War I. Smetana’s eventual emergence as the musical standardbearer for the National Rebirth was a result not only of the enormous success of overtly nationalistic works like The Bartered Bride, Libuše, and Má vlast but also of the advocacy of Nejedlý and Otakar Hostinský, two of the most influential critics of music and aesthetics of the time; the dominance of the Young Czech party from 1890 to 1906; and the ascent of the former Young Czech (and Smetana cultist) Tomáš Masaryk to the presidency of the First Republic.9 Of the two composers, Dvo÷ák was by far the stronger influence on Janáðek. Janáðek met Dvo÷ák during his brief studies in Prague and became an enthusiastic advocate for the older man’s compositions. During his time leading the Brno Beseda (the leading concert society in Brno), Janáðek frequently programmed and conducted Dvo÷ák’s works and made Dvo÷ák an honorary member of the Beseda. Dvo÷ák came to Brno to conduct his second Slavonic Rhapsody and third symphony in 1880.10 Janáðek published analyses of all four of Dvo÷ák’s tone poems after Karel Jaromír Erben in Hlídka in 1897 and 1898 and conducted the premiere of Holoubek (The Wood Dove) in 1898.11 Dvo÷ák’s direct musical influence seems limited to a few of Janáðek’s very early works, like the Suite (1877) and the Idylla (1878) for strings, both of which show signs of Janáðek’s enthusiasm for the Dvo÷ák Serenade for strings, which he had just conducted at the Beseda in 1877. Although Janáðek had abandoned any attempt to imitate the external characteristics of Dvo÷ák’s style by the end of the nineteenth century, it is tempting to think that Dvo÷ák’s late works may have influenced Janáðek in more abstract ways. The compression of a dramatic program into a brief musical statement in The Wood Dove, for instance, is certainly a suggestive precedent for the notoriously terse Janáðek. The tone of Janáðek’s posthumous tributes to Dvo÷ák ranges from respectful to reverential.12 Despite these many connections between Janáðek and Dvo÷ák, Janáðek was not viewed as a Dvo÷ák disciple in the same way the younger composers who attended Dvo÷ák’s master class at the Prague Conservatory were, such as Josef Suk, Oskar Nedbal, and Vít¥zslav Novák. Janáðek was too minor and provincial a figure to have been a pawn in the Smetana-Dvo÷ák controversies of the late nineteenth century or in the struggles over Smetana’s legacy in the early twentieth

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century, all of which were centered in Prague and revolved around the works of Zden¥k Fibich, Josef Bohuslav Foerster, Otakar Ostrðil, and Novák. Janáðek received little critical attention in Prague until he was suddenly thrust into prominence by the 1916 National Theater production of Jenůfa and became implicated in the still-simmering Smetana-Dvo÷ák battles. To some extent, the reception of Jenůfa, in particular one hostile article by Zden¥k Nejedlý, was conditioned by a perception that Janáðek had been part of a pro-Dvo÷ák/anti-Smetana faction. As late as 1953, Max Brod was still blaming Nejedlý and his “clique of local music historians and critics” for persecuting Janáðek and delaying his eventual success,13 but this argument was largely recognized as a tendentious attempt to reopen an outdated controversy.14 In any case, this was largely an isolated incident in Janáðek’s career. By the end of World War I a few years later, ideological debates in Prague musical circles had shifted from arguments about the priority of different compositional approaches within a Czech context to those about the relationship between modern Czech composition and various strands of international modernism. By this time, Janáðek could be established as an elder statesman of Czech modernism without specifying his relationship to earlier Czech composers. Conveniently, this ideological shift seems to coincide with a change in Janáðek’s dramatic interests, with the pre–World War I operas all set in the Czech lands and nearly all concerned in some way with national identity and those after the war spreading out to Russia and appearing to leave local concerns behind.

Mr. Brouðek and Czech Historical Opera In 1861, Count Jan Harrach, a Czech patriot and folksong enthusiast, announced a competition for new Czech operas, in the hope that the winning composition would inaugurate the Provisional Theater, which would open in 1862. Harrach invited entrants in two categories: historical operas, with plots drawn from “the history of the Czech crownlands,” and comic operas set in the midst of Czech folk life.15 Although no prize was awarded until 1866, when first prize was given to Smetana’s The Brandenburgers in Bohemia (albeit not until after it had already successfully premiered at the Provisional Theater), Harrach’s two categories— especially as exemplified by Smetana’s first two operas, The Brandenburgers in Bohemia and The Bartered Bride—provide a useful template for Czech opera subjects for the rest of the nineteenth century. Historical operas tended to either, like The Brandenburgers in Bohemia, treat a historical moment in which native Czechs could be juxtaposed with foreign intruders or overlords in a way that could easily be mapped onto contemporary political conditions or, like Smetana’s Libuše, to be drawn from the foundation legends of the semi-mythical Czech past. Many operas from the first category center on the Hussite rebellion, such as Karel Šebor’s Nevěsta husitská (The

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Hussite Bride, 1868) or Karel Bendl’s Dítě Tábora (The Child of Tabor, 1892).16 Czech operas connected to the Libuše myth go back to František Škroup’s Libušin sňatek (Libuše’s Marriage, composed 1835), with the most notable example being Zden¥k Fibich’s Sárka (1897).17 Šárka, one of the female warriors in the so-called Maiden’s War that followed Libuše’s death, was also the titular protagonist of Janáðek’s first opera (1887, but not performed until 1925), to a libretto by Julius Zeyer originally intended for Dvo÷ák. Janáðek returned to Czech history as World War I came to an end with yet another Hussite opera, The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, half of a wonderful but deeply strange double bill. While this opera shows Janáðek choosing one of the most hallowed subjects in the Czech national canon, his attempt to greet the new Czech state with an appropriately patriotic opera was fatally undermined by the satirical nature of his libretto, by the ways the demographic realities of the Czech lands at the time failed to exemplify the nationalist rhetoric valorized in the libretto, and by the ways Janáðek’s only too effective use of musical codes underlined those very discrepancies. There is no need to search for subtle reasons for the opera’s eventual failure—everything from the patchwork libretto of the first excursion to the impractically high tenor parts and the costs of sets and singers militated against its success—but some of Janáðek’s musical choices did little to advance its cause. The Excursions of Mr. Brouček is a decidedly odd work. The excursions in question take the title character through both space and time. Mr. Brouðek is first sent to the moon, where he shocks the ethereal local Lunarians with his crass eating habits, and then back to the fifteenth century, where he proves himself a coward in battle. Even in the context of Janáðek’s better-known operas, whose protagonists include singing animals, immortal sopranos, and infanticides, this one stands out as peculiar. Brouček has also been the subject of some unfortunately memorable invective. The baritone Václav Novák, for instance, who created the part of the innkeeper Würfl, claimed the part would ruin his voice and fumed that he was not going to “throw [away] all that [he] had learned with such difficulty . . . for the sake of someone who has only to sit down and write notes easily with his pen, who is probably mad and does not care in the least whether his notes are singable or not.”18 Even Max Brod, Janáðek’s translator and biographer, described the opera as “a grotesque that chokes on its own excesses.”19 Nonetheless, when Janáðek took his seat in the Prague National Theater for the April 23, 1920, opening of The Excursions of Mr. Brouček, he had every reason to believe he was about to complete his elevation from a provincial Moravian chorus master to an opera composer of international stature. Although the 1916 Prague premiere of Jenůfa had been much delayed and fraught with controversy, Jenůfa’s eventual success had created a demand for Janáðek’s work. Even before Brouček opened, three publishers had fought for the rights to the new opera, with Universal Edition winning out over Prague’s Hudební matice and Berlin’s Drei Masken-Verlag.20 The Brouček premiere came not only at a propitious point

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in Janáðek’s career but also at a critical juncture in the history of the Czech lands. With the collapse of the Habsburg empire at the end of World War I, an independent Czechoslovak Republic had existed for a year and a half. Janáðek was now not only a Czech composer but also a Czech citizen. For the second of Mr. Brouðek’s excursions, Janáðek chose a suitably patriotic subject, the Battle of Vítkov Hill, in which Hussite forces defeated a crusader army and defended Prague, in the hopes of celebrating the new Czech state by evoking the one great military triumph in Czech history. Despite Janáðek’s apparently well-founded optimism, Brouček was not a success. Janáðek left Prague after the premiere, returning to Brno without seeing the second performance or waiting for the (indifferent) reviews. He might not have been so hasty had he realized how scarce opportunities would be to see the opera. Brouček only lasted a year in the National Theater repertoire and was not given a new production until 1948. The only other production during Janáðek’s lifetime was in Brno in 1926, but even in his hometown he heard little of the second excursion, which was almost entirely omitted.21 Janáðek had hoped the fifteenth-century setting of Brouðek’s second excursion would stir audiences on the brink of political independence. In a letter written during the composition of that excursion, Janáðek referred to the fifteenth century as “the most sacred period for every Czech.”22 While soliciting a libretto from František S. Procházka he wrote, “A new time is coming, it’s just around the corner, and [it would be wonderful] to place it before a pure mirror at Vítkov.”23 Brouðek, though, would not see a flattering reflection of himself. In the same letter to Procházka, Janáðek declared that “our small-mindedness is embodied in Brouðek”24 and later wrote in a Lidové noviny feuilleton that “we see many Brouðeks in our nation. . . . I would like such a person to be disgusting to us.”25 Janáðek also compared Brouðek to the indolent protagonist of Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov, suggesting that “we see as many Brouðeks amongst our people as there are Oblomovs amongst the Russians.”26 The simplest explanation for Brouðek’s woes is that a satire was not a timely gesture. In addition, though, Janáðek may have held a mirror up to his time more effectively than he realized. The Brouðek affair betrays conflicts between Czech national rhetoric and demographic realities, conflicts exacerbated by Janáðek’s uses of musical devices inherited from nineteenth-century Czech operas.

Hussites The Battle of Vítkov Hill took place on July 14, 1420. The hill, which provided access to Prague from the east, was invaded by a crusader army of mixed nationality—including Germans, Austrians, Hungarians, and royalist Czechs—led by King Sigismund (the same Sigismund responsible for Jan Hus’s execution five

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years earlier).27 Sigismund’s army was repelled by a Hussite army under the command of the one-eyed Taborite general Jan Žižka. After this victory, Žižka’s forces continued on to capture the Prague strongholds at the Vyšehrad garrison and the Hradðany castle. These Hussite victories eventually led to the installation of a Czech king, Ji÷í z Pod¥brad, in 1458 and to a period of Czech autonomy that lasted until Bohemia became part of the Habsburg empire in 1526. The nineteenth-century National Rebirth movement would look back on the Hussite era as a source of national pride and glorify everything connected with the triumph at Vítkov Hill. One of the reasons the battle was such a powerful and enduring symbol was that it could be easily reinterpreted in different ideological contexts. Before the nineteenth century, it was seen as a religious conflict between Catholics and Protestant Hussites. For nineteenth-century nationalists attempting to construct a politically viable community of Czech speakers, the battle was a revolt of Czechs for the right to worship and, by extension, to participate in civic life, in the vernacular. Toward the end of the Habsburg era, patriots framed it as a national struggle, with loyal Czechs defending their native Prague against German and Austrian interlopers. The fact that Žižka defended Vítkov with a peasant army was useful to Marxist historiographers, who saw a proletarian rebellion against the aristocracy and urban elites.28 A 1904 drawing of Žižka’s army by Mikoláš Aleš contains a typical profusion of symbols. The religious dimension is represented in the drawing by bread and wine. The Hussites (although not Hus himself) insisted on both species of communion for all. Žižka is led by a priest carrying bread in a monstrance and is followed by a man with a banner depicting a chalice. For good measure, Aleš throws in another chalice, on a shield in the lower right-hand corner. Despite these references to Hussite dogma, it is the military man, Žižka, mounted on a white charger and presented as completely blind, with a bandage over his eyes, who occupies the middle of the composition. The peasants who follow him carry farm implements, including flails, as weapons, emphasizing the army’s rural origins. Janáðek’s Brouðek encounters many of these elements on his trip to Vítkov. Aleš also included a musical element in his drawing. Both the words and music for the Hussite battle hymn “Ye Who Are God’s Warriors” (‘Kdož jste boží bojovníci’) are inscribed in the lower half of the picture. This hymn is a potent aural symbol for Hussite glory and has been included or alluded to in a long series of patriotic or nationalistic works. When the Prague National Theater opened in 1883, the first music heard was Bed÷ich Smetana’s opera Libuše. As mentioned in chapter 3, the opera concludes with a series of tableaux, each depicting a great moment in Czech history as foretold by the prophetess Libuše. The fourth of these visions is of the noble Hussites, led by Žižka. Significantly, Smetana’s librettist, Josef Wenzig, like Aleš, chose Žižka rather than Hus to represent the Hussite era, thereby emphasizing military prowess over religious affiliation. As Libuše exclaims that the peasant armies will mow down

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enemies of the people as easily as they harvest wheat, the same Hussite war song depicted in Aleš’s drawing rings out from the orchestra pit. This hymn also provides the main thematic material for the last two tone poems from Smetana’s Má vlast, “Tábor” and “Blaník.” The potency of this musical symbol was lost neither on the Nazis, who banned performances of those tone poems in occupied Czechoslovakia, nor on the makers of the Oscar-winning film Kolya (1996), who used this same music to accompany a montage of footage from the 1989 Velvet Revolution. Following Smetana’s lead, Antonín Dvo÷ák used the battle chant in his Hussite Overture, also written for the inaugural season of the National Theater (when Dvo÷ák died, Janáðek was in Warsaw considering the directorship of the Warsaw Conservatory. He attended the Warsaw Philharmonic concert that evening, to which the Hussite Overture had been added to commemorate Dvo÷ák’s death).29 Dvo÷ák’s son-in-law and favorite pupil, Josef Suk, also used the song, albeit in a slightly less recognizable version, as the main theme of his symphonic poem Praga (1904). Even after the establishment of the Czechoslovak Republic, “Ye Who Are God’s Warriors” remained an emblem of resistance both in and around the Czech lands. Karl Amadeus Hartmann’s 1939 Concerto funebre paraphrases the hymn in its introductory movement, and the song was also deployed by two composers interred in the Terezín concentration camp who died at Auschwitz. Janáðek’s student Pavel Haas used it in his 1939 Suite for Oboe and Piano, and Viktor Ullmann quoted its beginning near the conclusion of his seventh piano sonata, written in Terezín in 1944. A more recent example of a politically motivated use of the hymn comes from Karel Husa’s Music for Prague, written to commemorate the “Prague Spring” of 1968. Inevitably, Janáðek also used “Ye Who Are God’s Warriors” in Brouček. In the second act, Brouðek hears the hymn from a distance, sung offstage by the armed men marching to Vítkov. The fact that Brouðek fails to add either his voice to their song or his body to their numbers is just one of the many ways he fails to measure up to the standards of his Hussite hosts. Despite this, Janáðek’s evocation of the Hussite era in Brouček was clearly intended as a patriotic gesture. The first published edition of Brouček carried the dedication “to the liberator of the Czech nation Dr. T.G. Masaryk,” an inscription suppressed in the later Communist-era editions of the score.30 The fact that Janáðek should have indulged in these patriotic gestures is unsurprising, given the political circumstances. In addition, Janáðek probably had more personal motives for attempting to link Brouček to current political events, most likely hoping Mr. Brouðek would help establish him in Prague. In 1918, after the appearance of Jenůfa in Prague (but before Brouček’s premiere), he wrote: “I simply must go to ‘golden’ Prague. I feel like part of the clock’s mechanism. . . . If I had to stay in Brno I should become as useless as the part which has been taken out.”31 Janáðek’s desire to have his works heard outside Brno is understandable for reasons of professional advancement. In the context

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of his success with distinctively Moravian works such as Rákoš Rákoczy, The Beginning of a Romance, and Jenůfa, though, his insistence on a Prague premiere for his next opera, Fate—despite the Brno National Theater’s pleas to be permitted to produce it—and his choice of urban Prague settings for the modern-day and terrestrial portions of Brouček may also be read as an attempt to establish himself as a Czech composer operating from the center rather than one providing bulletins from the margins. Janáðek never succeeded in making this transition. He did not feel welcome in Prague during his stay for the Brouček premiere, writing to Kamila that “I was in Prague for a fortnight, but believe me it was like a foreign town; noticed by no-one anywhere.”32 Further, in 1921, at a time when an artist of his stature might have been expected to finally relocate to the capital city, he instead purchased an estate in his birthplace, Hukvaldy. Nonetheless, he continued to insist on his stature as a national figure, complaining in 1926 that “I am a Czech composer and not only a Moravian one as they nowadays like to pretend in Prague.”33

Brouðek’s Reflection If Janáðek hoped to establish himself in Prague as a Czech national composer by choosing stories set in Prague and parading icons of the Hussite era on stage, he could hardly have chosen a less worthy protagonist than Mat¥j Brouðek. Brouðek’s trip to the fifteenth century is based on Svatopluk ïech’s novel The New Epoch-Making Excursion of Mr. Brouček, This Time to the Fifteenth Century, published in 1889. ïech’s story is a satire, whose comedy is propelled by Brouðek’s cowardly shirking of his duties as a Hussite warrior. Janáðek’s librettist, František S. Procházka, was well aware that the work was a burlesque, describing the libretto as a “karikatura” in a letter to the composer. 34 Procházka’s use of the word “caricature” was probably suggested by a lengthy paean to the sun from ïech’s novel, which concludes with the thought that the sun has set on the glorious Hussite era but that it might rise again and be welcomed by a future poet with ringing words instead of ïech’s “petty caricatures.”35 Procházka included a condensed version of ïech’s ode at the beginning of the excursion to the fifteenth century, sung in the opera by an apparition of ïech bathed in a green light, even adding a question to the sun: “[W]hy do you light my words with irony, rather than with ardent odes?” Beyond the mere unsuitability of such an ironic text for a patriotic screed, Janáðek’s intentions were further undermined, both by the highly specific ways in which Brouðek failed to embody Hussite ideals and by Czech society’s failure to become less Brouðek-ridden in the time since ïech’s novel. Mat¥j Brouðek is a negative image of the Hussite warriors who defended Vítkov. Brouðek is a coward among heroes, a Catholic among Protestants, and an urban landowner in a peasant army. In addition to failing tests of courage, religion, and class, Janáðek’s Brouðek rather carefully rejects the specific emblems of the Hussite era. Not only does Brouðek resist conscription, asking what Sigismund has

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done to him that should cause Brouðek to fight against him, but he refuses to wield a flail, the implement that symbolized the rural origins of Žižka’s army in Aleš’s drawing. This reminder that Brouðek is no peasant farmer follows closely on a theological discussion in which Brouðek not only reveals his Catholicism but also insults his hosts by suggesting that only sheep would celebrate Mass without vestments. This comment by the tipsy Brouðek not only shows him to be ignorant of Taborite practice but is also particularly galling given that one of the humiliations inflicted upon Jan Hus before he was burned at the stake was being dressed in vestments, which were then removed while Hus was ceremonially cursed.36 Brouðek also fails the test of linguistic nationalism. His modern, Germaninflected Czech is barely comprehensible in fifteenth-century Prague, and he is mistaken for an Imperial spy. Brouðek talks himself out of this dilemma by replacing chronological displacement with geographical dislocation. Instead of trying to convince his interlocutors that he comes from the future, he claims to have been traveling in the land of the Turks and to have forgotten his mother tongue.37 The explanation is accepted, but when Brouðek becomes embroiled in religious controversy, he is accused of being a “foul Mohammedan.”38 Here Brouðek is perceived not as a traveler in foreign lands but as a foreigner. In both cases, he is viewed as even more of an outsider than first suspected: not merely German but Turkish, not just Catholic but Muslim. At the end of the opera, after Žižka’s victorious forces have returned, it is revealed that Brouðek had attempted to go over to the other side, kneeling in front of a German knight and crying out (in a mixture of broken German and Czech) “Majne hern, majne hern! Jsem váš! Ne Pražan, ne Hus! Knáde!” (“My Lord, my Lord! I’m one of yours! Not from Prague! Not a Hussite! Mercy!”). Here Brouðek renounces both his language and the Hussites’ religion by attempting to speak German and denying Hus. This time he even denies Prague, explicitly tying together language, religion, and nationality. Brouðek’s linguistic and religious failings were all too typical, not just of his time in 1888 but also of Janáðek’s in 1917. The Czech lands had not become a Czech-speaking area in the fifteenth century, despite the Hussite victories. Although there was substantial consolidation of urban Czech society, by and large most German-speaking communities stayed German after 1420, and most ethnically mixed communities remained that way.39 Half a millennium later, Janáðek’s Czechoslovakia remained a linguistically and ethnically heterogeneous nation. In 1921, Czechoslovakia was still nearly a quarter German speakers (23%) and, even counting the Slovaks as Czechs, just over 65 percent Czech.40 The percentage of German speakers was even higher in Bohemia, where they constituted 33 percent of the population.41 Any definition of the Czech nation in linguistic terms would implicitly disenfranchise a huge portion of Janáðek’s nation. A view of the Czech nation as made up largely of Czech speakers could reasonably be entertained in Prague, where the proportion of German speakers had plummeted from 64 percent in 1847 to 15 percent in 1880 and to 7 percent in 1910,42 but while Brouðek may have departed for his excursion from “Golden Slavic Prague”

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(as the city had been known since the 1880s), this pretense of linguistic purity was harder to sustain in outlying areas.43 These census figures should be approached with caution. Citizens were allowed to choose their own ethnic and linguistic identity, and, in a city where “thousands of people spoke both languages badly,” the declining German population reflects a change in the social status of the two languages as well as a movement of ethnic populations.44 In the mid-nineteenth century, German was the respectable linguistic identification for a bilingual Praguer, while by the end of the century Czech would have been the politically prudent response from the same citizen. The liberal sprinkling of German elements in Brouðek’s speech may have been an uncomfortable reminder that the Czech nation remained a multilingual state. This would continue to be the case throughout Janáðek’s lifetime. Even by 1930, the Czechoslovak population had risen only slightly, to 67 percent.45 A linguistically homogenous state would have to wait for the forced expulsion of German speakers after World War II, when Jan Masaryk, then foreign minister of Czechoslovakia, could tell The New York Times “we are finished with the Germans in Czechoslovakia. . . . [T]here is no possible way for us to live under the same umbrella again.”46 This expulsion was supported both by President Beneš, who declared “let our motto be: to definitively de-Germanize our homeland, culturally, economically, politically,” and by Klement Gottwald, leader of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, who framed the question as one of national revolution in which power was being transferred from an “oppressive nation . . . of occupiers” (the Germans) to a “formerly oppressed nation” (the Czechs and Slovaks).47 A definition of a Czech nation bounded by language, while unrealistic, was at least a plausible goal. Brouðek’s theological failings, though, reveal an even deeper inconsistency in nationalist discourse. As one might expect from ïech’s novel, Catholicism fared poorly in nineteenth-century Czech political discourse. The Counterreformation was seen as a foreign imposition and the contemporary church as an agent of the Habsburgs. Despite repeated attempts, no Catholic political party was established in Bohemia.48 Nonetheless, the Czech lands remained solidly Catholic. Brouðek’s Catholicism was just as typical of 1888 Prague as was his slightly Teutonic Czech. In 1910, 96 percent of Bohemia and 95 percent of Moravia were Roman Catholic.49 Even when a Czech National Hussite church was established in 1919, fewer than half a million of the newly minted Czechoslovaks joined (out of a population of over 13 million).50 This figure did not rise significantly in the next two years. In 1921, more than 75 percent of Czechoslovakia was still Roman Catholic (adding Uniates and Old Catholics pushes the figure over 80%), with the number of Czech Nationals (3.86%) roughly equal to that of Lutherans (3.93%) and significantly less than that of the atheists (5.32%).51 Reverence for the Hussite period has also obscured the significant role Catholic clergy played in the nineteenth-century National Rebirth. Although clerical support for patriotic institutions declined toward the middle of the century, it remained substantial.52 Janáðek, although by the end of his life a nonbeliever (famously responding to a review of the Glagolitic Mass “[n]ot an old man! Not a believer”),53 was

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educated as a Catholic choirboy and never broke from the church. He remarked: “Why should I leave the [Catholic] Church? The Church hasn’t done anything to me.”54 Janáðek hoped Brouðek would disgust operagoers, but those very people would have shared many characteristics with the Czech Oblomov.

Bagpipes and Turks If Brouðek’s reflection in “Vítkov’s pure mirror” was uncomfortably familiar to Janáðek’s potential audiences, the music he brought with him might well have added confusion to disgust. At various times, music and musical associations undermine the intentions of the libretto; at others, they fatally reinforce its devastating portrayal of the protagonist. When Brouðek first encounters the Hussite army, he hears them singing a battle hymn from offstage as they are led by a bagpiper toward the Týn cathedral. Janáðek, probably under the influence of either ïen¥k Zíbrt or Zden¥k Nejedlý, associated bagpipes with the Hussite period.55 He wrote to Zíbrt in 1918 that he “needed [bagpipes] as a musical, orchestral indication of that period” and that he valued them “for their softness and for their melancholy tone; they bring with them the refined tone of the organ to the modern orchestra but are nevertheless more spiritual.”56 Bagpipes do not, though, appear in any of the wellknown musical tributes to the Hussite period listed previously. Instead, they are associated with same kinds of bucolic dramas in which drinking songs are found. Janáðek’s inclusion of pipes to accompany the march to the Týn cathedral, while musically effective, sends a mixed message. Janáðek is still working within the nationalist framework established by Smetana, but he has transposed one of its symbols. In terms of Smetana’s cycle of tone poems Má vlast, the bagpipes belong at the rural wedding celebration heard beside the Vltava, but Janáðek has moved them to Tábor. Two types of Czech national identity, the pastoral and the legendary, are conflated as bagpipes lead the Hussites, as if Jan Žižka were marching hand in hand with Ma÷enka, Smetana’s bartered bride. As the Hussites (and their bagpiper) appear from the distance, Brouðek is interrogated about his suspiciously unintelligible Czech and accused of being a spy for Emperor Sigismund. This is the point at which he concocts his story about returning from Turkey, a detail not found in ïech’s novel. Janáðek specifically requested such a reference, writing to Procházka after receiving the Act I libretto, “I would still need another sort of line which would perhaps refer to Brouðek’s Mahometanism.”57 Apparently, Janáðek was inspired by the reference to Mohammedanism in the vestments argument to introduce a Muslim country earlier in the story. Having been given a literary excuse for musical exoticism, Janáðek seized it with authority. Immediately after Brouðek is accused of espionage, the bagpipes are heard from the distance.58 The chorus of armed men is then heard from offstage, singing

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Example 4.1. The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, Act I (bagpipe and chorus of armed men).

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a chorale whose second phrase is derived from the bagpipe music (example 4.1). This little tune, then, could hardly be more steeped in Czechness, having been both linked to the iconic bagpipe and used for a Hussite chorale. When Brouðek tries to explain himself, the bagpipe music moves into the orchestra, and the underlying harmony shifts from B major to a diminished triad on B. The melody itself is enharmonically renotated to use flats instead of sharps, and the fifth note is raised a half-step, shrinking the descent of a perfect fifth into a tritone (example 4.2). With these changes, the tune is both stripped of its symbolic associations (when wrested from the bagpipes) and deprived of its harmonic and melodic integrity. Instead of a familiar diatonic fragment (already heard seven times without alteration) using perfect intervals and pure triads, it is now a mere motive, subject to various instrumental and harmonic manipulations. The suspicious tritone continues to figure in Brouðek’s alibi. When Brouðek justifies his modern Czech by claiming to have been far off, in Turkish lands, the words “far away” are accompanied by the bagpipe tune (from the violins), this time not literally in the distance but removed from B major to E-flat major, a jarring harmonic lurch. Although the melody is heard in its original form, the bass pedal is the fifth rather than the root and is further destabilized by a persistent trill. The melody breaks off in the third bar, no more capable of completing itself than Brouðek is of finishing his thought. When the melody halts on a C, the accompanying G is dropped to G-flat, creating an exposed tritone, which is reiterated twice. Brouðek finally lights upon an explanation, and, at the mention of Turkish lands, a familiar motive enters (example 4.3). The music now played by the bassoons was first heard in the overture to the first excursion (also in the bassoon) and has been associated with Brouðek throughout the two operas (example 4.4).59 Now, though, the second note has been raised a half-step, changing the mode from the expected gapped natural minor to Lydian. The Lydian tritone is exposed and repeated, in a textbook demonstration of musical exoticism. As Brouðek’s explanation is accepted, the music returns to simple tonic-dominant alternations in Eflat major, interrupted by forte tritone cackles from flutes surrounding the words “from Mohammedan lands.” When Brouðek’s name is cleared, both chorale and bagpipe return, and the act builds to its noble conclusion. Here Janáðek only too effectively deploys musical devices to deny Brouðek his national identity. Any hope of presenting Brouðek as either sympathetic or distinctively Czech is dashed by musically coding him not just as an exotic figure but also as a Turk, the most stereotypically sinister of operatic villains.60 The final irony of this situation is that Janáðek’s Brouček was done in by exactly the same relation between periphery and center that had buoyed Janáðek’s career to that point. Brno audiences were happy to read the exotic dances and mores of Moravian Slovakia as manifestations of Moravian identity. Prague audiences saw those same songs and rituals as part of a broader Czech culture, with the distance to the Slovakian border merely indicating the scope of the nascent

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Con moto

(brasep÷ibližuje)

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Example 4.3. The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon, Act I (Mr. Brouðek’s motive).

state. This reverence for the rural, though, prevents the landlord Brouðek from being a proper Czech hero. Mr. Brouðek, unlike the farmers and shepherds of uncertain provenance found in the timeless pastoral spaces of Dvo÷ák’s and Smetana’s operas, is a city slicker with an address, an occupation, and a historical location. Even were he not a coward, these attributes would disqualify him from wielding a flail with Žižka.61

Village Operas While Smetana’s The Brandenburgers in Bohemia and Libuše were standard-bearers for a subtradition of Czech historical opera, The Bartered Bride provided models for musical and dramatic conventions that ran through a number of Czech comic operas and that eventually floated free from the specifically comic tradition. These conventions include an emphasis on group expression and communal activities—especially singing, dancing, and drinking—and the use of specific musical timbres and instrumental combinations. All these elements are present in The Bartered Bride, that most Czech of Czech operas, and all became established as markers of cultural and generic identity.



beyond national opera

2 &8

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67

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Example 4.4. The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, Act I (Mr. Brouðek’s motive interrupts the bagpipe tune).

After the Overture to The Bartered Bride, the curtain opens to reveal the opera’s quaint village setting, and the orchestra provides a sonic illustration of the stage set. Shortly after the end of the Overture, the horns, violas, and cellos pound out an open-fifth drone. This striking gesture marks off all that follows as a distinct musical space. This simple sonority is rich in musical associations. In the most general sense, the metaphor of an open interval is highly appropriate. Open

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intervals are open spaces, which composers can fill both with people and with music. The harmonic stasis suggests timelessness, implying an idyllic life that exists outside of urban history. The open strings also suggest the crude sawing of a village band. The music that follows, led by a squealing clarinet, heightens this impression. This music was originally composed for an 1849 piano piece called “Joyful Wedding Dance.” The orchestral music that starts with the clarinet solo is a transcription of the dance’s middle section. The music, already colorful and redolent of a country celebration when played on a piano, is all the more evocative in its orchestral garb. Although not specified in the libretto, directors frequently place musicians onstage at this point. When musicians do appear onstage, they flatter the common conceit that the Czechs are a nation of musicians. Charles Burney famously referred to Bohemians as “the most musical people of Germany, or, perhaps, of all [of] Europe” and allegedly called Bohemia “the conservatory of Europe.” Regardless of whether the Czech lands really contributed more than their share of instrumentalists to the empire’s ensembles, the association of musicianship and Czechness was firmly established by this time.62 For instance, in Smetana’s Dalibor, a sort of Czech Fidelio, the imprisoned hero begs for a violin. His jailer, who (of course) used to be a violinist, obligingly fetches an instrument, indulgently explaining “[w]hat Czech doesn’t like music?” Dalibor becomes a virtuoso in a matter of days. Finally, the drones suggest the wheezing of bagpipes. While real bagpipes would only need a single kick start rather than this repeated bleating, there is a better simulation later in the introduction, when horn and clarinet noodling over held string notes mimic both chanters and drones. Although found in many cultures, bagpipes became a popular emblem of Czechness in the nineteenth century, largely because of the popularity of Josef Kajetán Tyl’s 1847 play Strakonický dudák (The Bagpiper of Strakonice), based on a well-known folktale.63 Bagpipers and stylized imitations of bagpipes also feature in many later Czech operas and concert works, going back at least to the appearance onstage of a piper in Dvo÷ák’s first Czech opera, Král a uhlíř (King and Charcoal Burner, original version 1871, revised 1874). This piping also reinforces the pastoral atmosphere. While the shepherds in the fields may not wield bagpipes in the Anglo-American Christmas tradition, they do in many European traditions, and simulated bagpipes figure prominently in such Czech Christmas evergreens as Jan Jakob Ryba’s Czech Christmas Mass and in some of the best-known carols (like “Pøjdem spolu do Betléma,” with a refrain of “dujdaj, dujdaj, dujdaj, dá!” that imitates the sound of bagpipes).64 The next distinct musical section is the opening chorus. Again, this section is marked off with an open-fifth drone, this time in a syncopated polka rhythm, and once more this open space is filled with a distinctly Czech element. Although the origins of the polka are obscure, it was thought at the time to be a native Czech dance, spontaneously invented by a lively rural servant named Anna Chadimová,

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and the European polka craze of the 1840s was a great source of national pride for Czechs.65 Smetana eventually did for the polka what Chopin did for the mazurka, creating a long series of piano stylizations that transformed the dance into art music. Thanks largely to Smetana’s efforts, a polka rhythm became an instant signal of Czechness. Smetana used polkas instead of scherzos for both his string quartets (possibly following the example of Fibich’s 1874 A-major quartet), and polka stylizations appear prominently in other of his instrumental works, including the tone poems “Vltava” and “Šárka” from Má vlast. Another distinctive feature of the village opera tradition is used to begin the second act. This is the renowned “Beer Chorus,” in which the village’s men sing “[b]eer is truly a celestial gift.” The simple two-part texture at the beginning is a reasonable facsimile of harmonizing by a well-rehearsed group of tipplers, although the music quickly becomes more complex. More important, the subject of the chorus is even more potent as symbol than as substance. The Czech Republic is still justly hailed as a source of some of the world’s best beer. The entire category of pilsner beers derives from the Pilsener Urquell of PlzeÞ, and the mighty St. Louis Budweiser is (literally) a pale imitation of the noble Budvar (now Czechvar) of ïeské Bud¥jovice, from which it takes its name (if not its taste). Budweiser may call itself “the King of Beers” now, but Budvar was known as “the Beer of Kings” back in the sixteenth century when it began to supply beer to the Bohemian royal court. The Czech specialty in beer goes back to the empire’s early agricultural politics. King Václav IV forbade the export of hops from Bohemia in the fourteenth century, ensuring a local monopoly of the prized Saaz hops.66 The Czech attachment was acknowledged by no less a figure than Pope Pius II, who wrote in 1453 to the newly crowned boy king Ladislas that he must “master Czech and—beer-drinking.”67 Many of the best-known Czech folksongs praise beer, including “Kde je sládek, tam je mládek,” which contains the immortal line “kde se pivo pije, tam se dob÷e žije” (“where beer is drunk, life is good”). Pride in beer consumption has persisted in more recent times, as demonstrated by public speculation about whether the loss of the wine-drinking Slovaks in the 1993 split of the Czech and Slovak republics would vault the Czechs past the Belgians into first place in global per capita guzzling. Smetana, whose father was a master brewer, was well aware of beer’s importance to Czech culture. This is not the only beer chorus in his operas. Another instance can be found in the opening chorus of The Two Widows, where happy village harvesters sing: To jsou dobry, zlaty ðasy ty zlaté obžínky! Máme pivo, maso máme. These are good, golden times golden harvest festival! We’ve got beer, we’ve got meat.

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These same elements—music making, dancing, beer drinking, and bagpipe stylizations—appear in later “village operas” as well. One example is Dvo÷ák’s 1898 Čert a Káča (The Devil and Kate). Dvo÷ák not only follows Smetana’s lead in many respects but also emphasizes the “Czechness” of the village opera elements by juxtaposing them with non-Czech (foreign or diabolical) music and characters. Just as in The Bartered Bride, the first music heard after the Overture is an isolated open fifth. Again, a pastoral space is set apart with this simple sonority. Although played by the double basses, the pitches are those of the two lowest strings of the cello. The associations with bagpipes and village musicians are even stronger than those found in Smetana’s model. As the curtain opens, an actual bagpiper steps to the fore, and a festive dance, with the musicians visible onstage, is revealed. As in The Bartered Bride, a distinctive instrumental sound sets the scene, and again the villagers are first heard as a collective. Music making onstage continues with the appearance of the protagonist of Čert a Káča, the shepherd Jirka. When Jirka announces that he must leave and return to work, he pays a few musicians to go with him and asks them to play “his song.” The reduced orchestra, including the violin, clarinet, and trumpet seen onstage, suggests a village band. When Jirka returns to the dance, it is to reveal that he has been fired because his overseer caught him with the musicians. This musical emblem of Czechness has caused him to run afoul of his masters, extensions of the aristocratic (non-Czech) regime. His strophic song turns out not only to be a song he likes to sing but an actual part of himself—”his song” in two ways. He narrates the story of his encounter to the same music presented as performed music on his first appearance. The identity of these elements as emblems of rural Czech life is foregrounded later in the act, when the titular devil appears in Jirka’s village and attempts to infiltrate the dance. The devil is dressed as a hunter, a plausibly Czech outfit. He then insinuates himself into the community (and into Káða’s good graces) by ordering a beer. The audience has already been reminded of the Czechness of beer, since our hero, Jirka, is slightly tipsy when he first enters. Having plied Káða with booze, the devil pays the musicians to play a polka. How better to assume the role of a Czech hunter than by attempting a Czech dance? As it happens, the polka turns out to be a classic example of the sinister alla turca style, alerting the audience (if not Káða) that this is no ordinary Czech hunter. Despite this musical giveaway, the devil seems absolutely clear that drinking and dancing are the local mores to which he must conform. By the close of the nineteenth century, this kind of musical folksiness was old-fashioned, but a vogue for ethnographically detailed presentations of rural life helped to preserve elements of the village opera even long after Smetana’s early style was the musical vernacular. In John Tyrrell’s words, “[L]ively, if unauthentic, folk scenes were still a powerful mix in the hands of a deft technician, and . . . sentimental Czech nationalism was still very much alive.”68 By this point, though, the characteristics of the village opera were well enough established to mark rural life, even outside the comic opera tradition.

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An example of a historical opera that leans on the conventions of village opera is Karel Kova÷ovic’s Psohlavci (The Dogheads, 1896–97). Kova÷ovic, who was conductor of the Prague National Theater for twenty years, is a notorious figure in Czech musical history, for it was he who refused to stage Janáðek’s Jenůfa in Prague, thereby stymieing Janáðek’s career by a decade. At the end of the nineteenth century, Kova÷ovic was an important figure in Czech musical life, singled out by Tomáš Masaryk in 1895 as an example of the continued spirit of Smetana in the new generation of composers.69 The Dogheads, although largely forgotten today, was one of the most popular operas of its time. While The Dogheads is roughly contemporaneous with Čert a Káča, Kova÷ovic was nearly two decades younger than Dvo÷ák, and his work reflects the musical and political attitudes of a younger generation. Once more, bagpipes come quickly to the fore, this time in an even more pronounced fashion, as one of the leading characters is a bagpiper. When he first enters, there is no indication in the libretto that he is playing his pipes (although he does have them with him), but the orchestral music that punctuates his lines is an unmistakable bagpipe stylization. Pulsing eighth notes on a tonic pedal, slurred sixteenths adding a drone on the fifth or sixth scale degrees, and plentiful grace notes quickly give the game away. Even so, lest the audience miss the hint, the piper explicitly verbally identifies himself, announcing “Dudák z÷ídka hlavu klade” (“the piper seldom lays down his head”). Dancing is also presented as an essential characteristic of Czech life and is juxtaposed with “foreign” music. In Act I, the peasants sing, dance, and play wooing games at a voračky (Mardi Gras) festival. Meanwhile, in the imperial chateau, this opera’s Death Star, the scene is set with a French song, sung (in French) to the accompaniment of what must have been intended as neo-Baroque harpsichord music. Of course, The Excursions of Mr. Brouček is an even later example of an opera from outside the village opera tradition that perpetuates the gestures of that genre. In addition to the cameo for a bagpiper cited earlier, one of the running jokes of ïech’s novel is that Brouðek’s home base is his local pub and that he drinks rather more than he ought to, a gag carried over into both operatic excursions. The first excursion opens on the steps of the Vikárka Inn, Brouðek’s Prague watering hole. Brouðek first appears calling for the innkeeper Würfl, too drunk to stand upright, and assumes that his presence on the moon is but a beery hallucination. There is also a chorus that praises beer at the beginning of Brouðek’s first excursion.70 Even when he dozes on the moon, Brouðek orders more beer in his sleep. In both excursions, Brouðek’s eating and drinking habits separate him from his hosts. The Lunarians neither eat nor drink and are appalled by the carnivorous Brouðek. In the second excursion, Brouðek boasts of his beer-drinking exploits, but he chokes on Hussite mead and is mocked as a “hero of the hops” and a man “whose only god has been your stomach and altar a full barrel!” Beer is also implicated in Brouðek’s forceful expulsion from the past and return to the present, when, after his failure in battle, he is immolated in a keg. In fact, sixteen

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prisoners were burned in barrels by the victorious Hussites after the Battle of Vítkov Hill.71 Instead of being roasted in the fifteenth century, Brouðek wakes to find himself merely damp in the nineteenth, emerging from a keg in Würfl’s courtyard. Unlike Smetana’s Jeník, Brouðek is excluded from a community (Hussites and, by extension, Czechs) while drinking, and he lacks exactly those qualities (strength and courage) that Smetana’s beer should have bestowed upon him. In the first excursion, he drinks and dances like one of Jirka’s fellow shepherds, but by the second he is an urban outsider, unworthy to join a peasant army. In Brouček, Janáðek makes reference to Czech operatic traditions, but in ways that create dramatic problems. The contrast between the two journeys highlights one such problem. On the moon, however comic Brouðek may be, we are clearly intended to sympathize with him rather than with the ludicrous moon dwellers (who are caricatures of a group of Czech poets). Brouðek, while crude and tipsy, is a Prague Joe Six-Pack, a regular guy who is justified in snoozing during a pretentious lunar poetry slam. This very same man, though, is intended to be an object of scorn in the second excursion.

The Vixen’s Village The fact that Janáðek was still clinging, however problematically, to shreds of the village opera tradition as the Habsburg empire crumbled is less striking than the fact that he did so in an even deeper and more meaningful fashion with The Cunning Little Vixen, composed from 1921 to 1923. The Cunning Little Vixen was relatively slow to enter the international repertoire, with few performances outside the Czech Republic until after World War II. Václav Talich conducted a production starring Marie Tauberová at the Prague National Theater in 1937, but until Walter Felsenstein produced The Cunning Little Vixen at the Berlin Komische Oper in 1956, the vixen did not wander far beyond Moravia. Even after the war, The Cunning Little Vixen did receive some high-profile international performances—the Felsenstein version traveled to Paris in 1957, and there were productions at the Vienna Volksoper in 1956, La Scala in 1958, and Sadler’s Wells in 1961. A 1965 Prague National Theater production toured in Vienna and in a number of theaters in the Netherlands in 1967 and in Edinburgh in 1970—but the opera did not gain a comfortable place in the canon until the 1970s. By now, however, it is a particularly beloved opera, both in the Czech lands, where it often plays as a Sunday matinee aimed at children, and in the English-speaking opera world, as evidenced by the 1981 Frank Corsaro production at the New York City Opera with sets and costumes by Maurice Sendak, a Sendak-illustrated English translation of Rudolf T¥snohlídek’s story, Simon Rattle’s 1990 recording of a Royal Opera House production in English, and a BBC animated film of (a heavily cut version of) the opera. Somewhat like The Bartered Bride, The Cunning Little Vixen is a charming rural fantasy. Janáðek’s forest setting, though, is unmistakably Moravian, identified by the

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dialect spoken by its inhabitants, references in the libretto to Brno, and the Lydian fourths of its folk stylizations. It is probably the work that most fully expresses the composer’s fascination with the natural world. In addition to the heroine, a vixen, and her family, the stage is populated by frogs, grasshoppers, dragonflies, a badger, and a variety of birds. The opera was inspired by a series of newspaper cartoons by Stanislav Lolek following the adventures of a vixen, both with the other creatures of the forest and also with a forester, who briefly captures her. Although composed more than half a century after The Bartered Bride, The Cunning Little Vixen provides a fascinating example of Janáðek’s manipulation of nineteenth-century nationalist symbols in the service of very different aesthetic ends. On first examination, Vixen does seem to come from the same world as the operas of Smetana and Dvo÷ák. The human characters have the same leisure activities as other good Czechs such as Dvo÷ák’s Jirka, drinking and singing strophic songs. There are pub scenes in Acts II and III, and we can probably assume that the Forester has just left that same pub when the opera begins, after fortifying himself with a few beers that leave him drowsy and the mosquito that stings him tipsy. Nonetheless, there are significant differences between the Vixen’s world and those of Jeník and Jirka. The main distinction is that Janáðek’s villagers are not immune to the ravages of time. The human protagonists in Vixen are older men. The final pub scene is a painfully nostalgic litany of losses and limitations: the Innkeeper is off in Brno, the absent Preacher is lonely in his new post, the Schoolmaster has missed his chance with the woman he loved, and the Forester has lost the Vixen to a poacher. Age is stressed throughout the scene. The Schoolmaster is “suché jako lóð” (“dry like a stick”), and the Innkeeper and the Forester’s wife are both referred to as “the old one” (“starý/stará”). Finally, the Forester describes his dog’s condition—pains in the legs, only lies around—concluding “je staré . . . jako my” (“he’s old . . . like me”). In the Forester’s closing monologue, he looks back wistfully on his wedding day. The final act shows all these characters to be older than when first encountered, but even at the beginning of the opera, the nostalgic mode predominates. The Forester reminisces about his wedding day in his first speech, just as he does in his last. The emphasis on love as a thing of the past continues in the second act. This is most explicit when the Forester responds to the Priest’s injunction not to give his body to a woman with the wry reply “not these days,” but it is also evident in the drunken monologues of the Priest and Schoolmaster after they stagger out of the pub. These descriptions of people for whom it is too late for love (or even for playing with their dogs) could hardly provide a stronger contrast with Dvo÷ák’s and Smetana’s village operas, all of which revolve around love and courtship. Indeed, one could almost imagine that the humans of the Vixen’s forest are older incarnations of the characters encountered in those earlier operas. The boys Jenik played with in his Moravian border town, if teenagers in the 1860s, would be old men in the 1920s, around Janáðek’s age. Just as Janáðek grew up with

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The Bartered Bride while living through the birth of the Czech nation, so, too, did he allow his characters to age with him. In fact, it is the animals and insects of The Cunning Little Vixen that are the true heirs of Smetana’s villagers. Just as Smetana and Dvo÷ák localized exhibitions of Czechness in group activities such as choruses and dances, Janáðek emphasizes the distinction between humans and critters by displaying the latter in communal pastimes now shut off to their human counterparts. The first act of Janáðek’s opera is filled with dances, but they are for the opera’s insects, not its humans. After a short orchestral introduction, the flies begin a dance, followed by another dance for the blue dragonfly. Later in the scene, the grasshopper strikes up a waltz with the cricket, and then they play a polka for the tipsy mosquito. The choice of dances here is significant. As early as 1905, Janáðek grumpily observed that waltzes and polkas were not folk dances, even if they were the only dances many folk dancers knew.72 The dancing insects are clearly intended to evoke an urban vision of folk life rather than an authentic folk element. The parallels with the village dances in the opening acts of the operas discussed earlier are clear, with the onstage fiddling from grasshopper and cricket providing a counterpart to the stage band seen in The Devil and Kate. The insect ballets are all the more striking for the lack of dancing humans. The dearth of dances for the human singers is rubbed in by the polka music that can be heard from the main room of the pub while the Forester, Schoolmaster, and Priest play cards in a private room. We are reminded that there is dancing and revelry here, as well as in the forest, but not for our aged human protagonists. Significantly, it is also only the animals that sing choruses. As Peter Conrad has noted, “Janáðek’s animals . . . are native musicians.”73 One example of their musicianship is the fox cubs’ song from Act III. Thematically, the mere presence of the fox cubs emphasizes the fertility of the Vixen. While the breeding time for the human characters is long past, and they can, in any case, produce only small broods, the Vixen has had more children than she can remember and foresees no end to her litters. The fox cubs dance while they sing, combining two communal activities, and they express themselves in unison (save the occasional third or fifth), even when their chorus is no longer a performed song. This is reminiscent of the opening of The Devil and Kate, in which the villagers converse with each other in unison chorus. The border between performed song and operatic song is demarcated harmonically, as is the border between human and animal realms. The fox cubs’ song follows a scene for the Forester and a poacher. The music preceding the fox cubs’ entrance uses only the pitches of a whole tone collection, with the entire collection displayed at least every two bars. After this lengthy passage of harmonic instability, the crashing open fifths of the fox cubs’ ballet are a startling contrast, as are the insistent eighth notes. The first eight bars of the fox cub ballet come from a diatonic collection and imply B-flat Mixolydian. Having

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established the shift from the harmonically (and morally) questionable poacher to the innocent and natural fox cubs, Janáðek then marks the cubs as folksy and Moravian by raising E-flat to E-natural for the cubs’ song, with the Lydian fourth hammered out in the tune every other bar. When the cubs come across the dead hare the Forester has left as a trap, the alteration of G to G-flat creates a whole tone collection, simultaneously indicating the presence of a human trap and the end of the fox cubs’ song. The fox family is distinguished from the humans by a variety of means. Dramatically, they are shown to be superior to their human pursuers through the ease with which they sniff out (literally) a poorly laid trap. Sonically, the music for the fox cubs, with its dance rhythms and strophic organization, diatonic pitch content, and Lydian inflections, is a cheerful corrective to the jagged rhythms and harmonic uncertainty of the poacher’s gloating. The cubs dance and sing together, both activities closed off to the human protagonists, who never dance and sing only by themselves. The wedding festivities that end Act II provide another example. As was the case with the fox cub scene, unison choral singing is combined with dancing. Again, a strongly Lydian tune is placed in a folksy setting. Once more, it is the forest creatures, not the humans, who celebrate in the manner of the nineteenth-century operatic villagers. As Michael Beckerman has written, the Vixen’s wedding celebration is a descendant of the traditional rustic dances exploited by Smetana and Dvo÷ák, in which Janáðek has “simply turned the peasants into small animals, a necessary transition . . . since peasants don’t usually dance in forests (since they would tend to trip and fall).”74 The use of choral song, dance, and markers of Czechness to associate the animals and insects with the peasants of nineteenth-century village operas buttresses one of the opera’s main themes: the contrast between the cycle of natural renewal and human aging. The climax of The Cunning Little Vixen comes in the final scene, when the aged Forester falls asleep in the woods and is granted a vision of all the animals from the first act. When he wakes, he realizes that these creatures are actually their distant descendants. Smetana’s peasants are similarly timeless figures. For the true Czech patriot, there is some corner of Bohemia where peasants are forever dancing the same dances and singing the same songs seen and heard in The Bartered Bride. In Smetana’s world, the village is the static pastoral site. In Janáðek’s, the humans age, while the pastoral markers are applied to the surrounding woods. The Excursions of Mr. Brouček, while more obviously connected to the visual and musical symbols of nineteenth-century Czech opera than The Cunning Little Vixen, is made less effective by those very connections, as they cruelly emphasize the satirical elements of the libretto. The Cunning Little Vixen, on the other hand, while apparently sui generis, actually gently transforms the generic markers of the village opera in order to represent one of the most prized elements in Janáðek’s personal philosophy: the eternal regeneration of nature.

Chapter Five

Beyond Western European Opera What Janáðek Knew about Opera If, in the case of Janáðek’s interaction with Czech opera, the guiding interpretive assumption has been that he detached himself from national traditions after the war, the analagous assumption about his relationship with Western European opera is that he cannot have meaningfully engaged with music in styles that greatly differed from his own. The ways Janáðek’s interest in verismo opera have been the occasion of a delicate interpretive dance, in which the dramatic characteristics of verismo are carefully separated from its musical language, were alluded to in chapter 1. In general, it seems as if positing too strong a connection between Janáðek and Puccini or Charpentier or, worse yet, a bond with Verdi or Gounod is too threatening to his status as an “old avant-gardist.” This chapter will use the tradition of the operatic love duet to suggest that Janáðek learned much more from these composers than has been yet acknowledged. Any examination of Janáðek’s relationships with operatic traditions must reckon in some way with his unusual and inconsistent engagement with operas by other composers. While it would certainly be a mistake to assume that Janáðek, as a resident of relatively provincial Brno, would have been unfamiliar with the international operatic repertoire, it is nonetheless true both that there is no evidence that he knew some of the warhorses of the operatic canon and that a fair number of the operas he did see (including many Czech operas) are now obscure or forgotten. In general, Janáðek could have known operas either by seeing them performed or by studying piano-vocal scores. The evidence that he encountered an opera could come from his own reviews, could come from mentions of operas in his correspondence or in accounts from his acquaintances, or could be deduced from the presence of scores, programs, and libretti in his library. Of course, merely determining that Janáðek saw an opera or owned a score of it is no proof that he knew a work well or was influenced by it. John Tyrrell’s biography of Janáðek contains a thorough survey of Janáðek’s knowledge of opera, including tables listing every opera he is known to have encountered. Tyrrell divides his survey into three sections. The first takes Janáðek up to 1888, when he orchestrated the first version of Šárka.1 During this time, Janáðek’s primary exposure to opera was at the Czech Provisional Theater in Brno, which opened in 1884 (a German opera house had opened in 1882, but Janáðek boycotted it, just as he boycotted the German-operated trams in Brno). Janáðek’s need to fill the pages of his journal, Hudební listy, brought him to the

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opera house on many occasions, resulting in reviews of thirty-three operas and operettas before the journal’s demise in 1888. Janáðek’s refusal to patronize the German opera house meant the repertoire he encountered was mostly Czech, French, and Italian. Of the Czech repertoire, Janáðek wrote about almost all of Smetana’s operas (often quite critically), but he appears not to have known any Dvo÷ák beyond The Cunning Peasant. Janáðek seems to have been fond of Verdi, attending Il Trovatore three times in Prague in 1883 and also seeing Un ballo in maschera, Ernani, and La traviata. He liked Gounod’s Faust (once appearing as Faust at a costume ball) and wrote about Bizet’s Carmen and Halévy’s La Juive. Although he saw no German opera in Brno, he did see Weber’s Der Freischütz while a student in Vienna (probably the first opera he ever saw, and it did not make much of an impression on him) and published a four-part analytical article about the Tristan Prelude in 1885. In general, Janáðek was very dismissive of operettas, finding them both beneath his dignity musically and tainted by virtue of representing Viennese tastes. Tyrrell’s second section covers the years between 1890, when Janáðek began reviewing operas again, this time for Moravské listy, and the beginning of World War I.2 Although Janáðek did continue to review opera peformances and pianovocal scores in the early 1890s, by the time he finished Jenůfa and retired from the Brno Teachers’ Training Institute in 1903, he was attending operas for his own pleasure and edification, not out of professional duty. With more time to travel, he went more often to Prague, especially to the National Theater, where he could choose from a much broader repertoire than he could in Brno. Janáðek continued to attend Smetana’s operas, largely when obliged to review them, although he did see The Devil’s Wall in 1907 and Libuše in 1909—both novelties for him—and Dalibor at least five times between 1890 and 1912. Janáðek also stayed current with more recent Czech opera, seeing new operas by Dvo÷ák, Fibich, and Kova÷ovic; and he filled in gaps in the French and Italian repertoire, including operas by Bizet, Charpentier, Donizetti, Gounod, Mascagni, Offenbach, Puccini, and Verdi. Janáðek also saw some Wagner, attending Der fliegende Holländer (twice), Lohengrin, and Parsifal between 1906 and 1914. Russian opera appears in the list for the first time, represented by Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin and The Queen of Spades (but none, somewhat surprisingly, by Musorgsky). Especially significant were Janáðek’s trips to new operas of particular interest to him, including Charpentier’s Louise, Strauss’s Salome and Elektra, and Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. Most important, Tyrrell identifies four operas that seem to have made an especially strong impression on Janáðek and to have been his main influences from outside the Czech repertoire: Cavalleria rusticana and The Queen of Spades, both of which helped shape Jenůfa; Louise, which had a pronounced impact on Osud (Fate); and Madama Butterfly, which influenced Káťa Kabanová (albeit at the distance of over a decade).3 In his final section, Tyrrell argues that Janáðek was no longer interested in searching out novelties the way he had been before the war.4 Indeed, with the

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notable exception of Debussy’s Pélleas et Mélisande, which Janáðek saw at the Brno National Theater in 1921, there is nothing from the postwar years as adventurous as Salome or Elektra. As Tyrrell points out, it is particularly striking that Janáðek did not go to Prague to see Wozzeck in 1926.5 Janáðek did continue to see operas that were new to him, most notably Massenet’s Manon, Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov, Wagner’s Tannhäuser, Tristan (finally!), and at least Die Walküre from a wartime Ring Cycle in Prague. Tyrrell also reminds us that the Brno Czech Theater, under the direction of František Neumann, was in particularly good shape during these years and that Janáðek certainly attended more performances than those for which we have documentation.6 In summary, then, this chapter’s discussion of Janáðek’s engagement with non-Czech operatic traditions is inevitably colored both by Janáðek’s incomplete knowledge of those traditions and by uncertainty about the extent of that knowledge. On the one hand, Janáðek attended and reviewed many operas he disliked, and he is unlikely to have been strongly influenced by them, although they may have helped shape his sense of what consituted standard operatic operating procedure. However, it is also true that he must have seen and studied more operas than are contained in Tyrrell’s charts. It is possible to make some broad generalizations. As far as Czech opera goes, Janáðek was familiar with essentially the entire nineteenth-century repertoire and with a few twentieth-century operas by Josef Bohuslav Foerster, Jaroslav K÷iðka, František Neumann, and Otakar Ostrðil. Despite his strong orientation, especially as a young man, toward Dvo÷ák in the Smetana-Dvo÷ák controversies (discussed in chapter 4), he knew Smetana’s operas well and became more favorably disposed toward them later in his life. Looking beyond the Czech repertoire, Janáðek was far more familiar with (and fond of) French and Italian opera, especially Gounod and Verdi, than of German opera, although he did have a significant interest in Wagner. Two of the operas that influenced him most strongly, Cavalleria rusticana and Louise, are verismo, or naturalist, operas. With the exceptions of Salome and Elektra, neither of which seems to have had an audible influence on his own operas, Janáðek does not seem to have known any operas from the canonical modernist composers. Instead, Puccini is the composer of twentieth-century operas with whom he seems to have had the strongest affinity. He seems to have been most strongly influenced by the operas he heard between 1890 and 1914 (Tyrrell’s second stage), and he composed the mature, postwar operas with his sense of how opera worked fairly set.

Protesting Passion: Bohemians in Prague and Paris By 1892, love duets had become such an inevitable feature of the operatic experience that George Bernard Shaw could, in his inimitably corrosive fashion, suggest a formula for their construction as part of a mock opera treatise. In an essay

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entitled “A Bad Opera,” Shaw specified everything from stage directions to harmonic progressions for a prototypical love duet: When the heroine is alone on the stage, a rapid, agitated movement, expressive of her anticipation of the arrival of her lover, and culminating in a vigorous instrumental and vocal outburst as he rushes on the stage and proceeds without an instant’s loss of time to embrace her ardently, never fails to leave the public breathless. The harmonic treatment of this situation is so simple that nobody can fail to master it in a few lessons. The lady must first sing the gentleman’s name on the notes belonging to the chord of the dominant seventh in some highly unexpected key; the gentleman then vociferates the lady’s name a peg higher on the notes of a more extreme discord; and, finally, the twain explode simultaneously upon a brilliant six-four chord, leading, either directly through the dominant chord, or after some pretty interruption of the cadence, to a flowing melody in which the gentleman either protests his passion or repeatedly calls attention to the fact that at last they meet again. 7

The urbane Shaw (1856–1950), although a near contemporary of Janáðek’s, may seem an unlikely guide through the works of the provincial Moravian, most of which were written long after Shaw’s days as Corno di Bassetto (the “fantastic personality” Shaw adopted as a music critic for The Star [London] in 1888–89) had ended.8 In fact, though, allusions to conventionally operatic situations, like the love duet, are a critical component of Janáðek’s dramatic genius. While Janáðek never follows Shaw’s outline in all of its particulars, any more than did Wagner, Gounod, or Bizet—the composers Shaw lampooned—a number of Shaw’s prescripts do appear in the works of all four composers. Although Janáðek is not known as a composer of ensembles or of set pieces of any description, noticeable traces of the grand nineteenth-century love duet tradition can be found in his operas. His exploitation of the love duet convention is just one example of his frequent recourse to familiar musical and dramatic gambits and of his vital relationship with operatic tradition. Perhaps the most obvious Janáðek love duet concludes his quirky and underappreciated space travel opera Výlet pana Broučka do měsíce (The Excursion of Mr. Brouðek to the Moon, composed 1908–16). Brouček ends with a calm duet, in which Mazal, a painter, successfully ingratiates himself with Málinka, his sweetheart. The fact that the opera ends with Mazal and Málinka’s reconciliation is no surprise, as it had begun with a quarrel between the same two characters. The music for this final scene, though, is strikingly different from nearly everything that preceded it. After a bustling opera nearly as drenched with waltz rhythms as is Rosenkavalier, the conclusion is slow and, at times, almost static. The harmonic and melodic language is self-consciously naive, built from prolonged major chords and diatonic scale fragments (example 5.1). This little duet could be used to support Miloš Št¥droÞ’s contention that Janáðek’s verist tendencies were stimulated by his collections and arrangements

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of folksongs.9 The doubling of a vocal melody at a lower octave is also a feature of some of Janáðek’s folksong arrangements, such as the song “Na horách, na dol’ách” from the Songs of Detva, composed in early 1916, in which the singer is doubled almost continuously by the piano in the tenor range. 10 The first phrase of Málinka and Mazal’s duet also has some characteristics of a folk echo. The entire texture of the last Moderato is pentatonic until the leading tone is introduced in the last bars, and the harmonic motion is limited, with prolonged Amajor harmony enlivened only by a brief slide to F-sharp minor. Janáðek later used almost exactly the same tune for the chorus of forest voices in The Cunning Little Vixen, as a prelude to a wedding in the peasant style, a similarity discussed in more detail later. This passage, however, has more conventionally been read as an Italianate moment. Erik Chisholm wrote that “the opera ends with the lovers singing, in true Italian fashion, a high sustained unison passage,”11 and Št¥droÞ cited it as an example of Janáðek’s debt to the verismo tradition.12 In addition to these general characteristics, there also appear to be hints of the duet that ends the first act of Puccini’s La Bohème. Since there is no proof that Janáðek knew that opera, any attempt to link the two must rest on circumstantial evidence. However, there do seem to be strong parallels between the two duets, and it is certainly possible that Janáðek had encountered La Bohème.13 In both operas, the duets are preceded by men’s voices, heard from offstage. In Bohème, the other Bohemians are heard cajoling Rodolfo to join them at Café Momus just before “O soave fanciulla,” while in Brouček a group of artists noisily exits an inn, leaving Mazal and Málinka to their courting. The series of slow chords from the strings, with the top line rising and the bass descending, that introduces the Janáðek duet also echoes the end of Puccini’s Act I finale. The sustained chords that accompany Rodolfo and Mimi’s first kiss have a similar contour to those found in Brouček, with the top voice rising chromatically from E to A and the bass dropping from A to D. In both operas, the concluding avowal of love from soprano and tenor in octaves is preceded by a hint of its melody from the orchestra. In Bohème, the mutual cry of “Amor!” is set to the same melody just played by the flute and harp, while Málinka and Mazal sing their duet in a quasi-canonic ensemble with the English horn. The reference to Bohème is also appropriate in general dramatic terms. Puccini’s indigent Bohemians provide an obvious operatic analog for the tipsy artists of Würfl’s inn. The more specific dramatic intent is, however, harder to fathom. The artists of the Vikárka are heard shouting the same cry of “Sláva” sung by the moon artists as mist obscures the lunar scene. If the effete moon artists are in some way equivalent to their terrestrial counterparts and these, in turn are to remind us of Puccini’s jovial and sympathetic Bohemians, what is the larger message? It is difficult, in any case, to know how to take The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon. The opera is a social satire, not a love story, even if, as Max Brod has noted, it is often difficult to tell what is being satirized.14 The duet in Brouček is a charming anticlimax, not a passionate Puccinian culmination. Are

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these healthy, lusty Pragers really intended to remind us of Mimi’s tragic fate? This passage tellingly illustrates both the difficulty of producing Brouček and the losses of not doing so. There is no way to stage the opera in which Mazal and Málinka become the central characters and no way in which either Brouðek or his lunar tormentors can be seen as wholly sympathetic characters. Nonetheless, this is a lovely duet that perfectly captures a sentimental moment. It lacks only an opera in which that sentiment is appropriate.

Faust, Wotan, and Friends Before attempting to identify such an opera, I will briefly enumerate other examples of this sort of sly reference to other operas in Janáðek’s later works, where they are deployed in more theatrically appropriate ways. One example comes from Jenůfa, Act II, scene i. Jenøfa takes a warm drink from her stepmother, says goodnight, and then drains what turns out to be a sleeping potion, leaving her unconscious during the tragic action that follows. Shortly before Jenøfa sings, the orchestra turns to F-sharp major, and the English horn, solo French horn, and harp play a simple melody, dolce espressivo (example 5.2a). This tender, lullabylike tune is a near clone of one from Gounod’s Faust, Act III. Gounod’s melody, similarly scored for French horn accompanied by harp and, like the Janáðek in a gently swinging compound meter, also rises through a major arpeggio before ascending a further whole step (example 5.2b). The musical parallels would be of little interest were it not for the dramatic context. In the Gounod, Méphistophélès is casting a spell over Faust and Marguerite. In both cases, the lullabies are music of nocturnal enchantment. There is a reward for recognizing the Gounod reference, for it slyly implies that the Kostelniðka is manipulating Jenøfa, just as Méphistophélès is making Faust and Marguerite his puppets, and that Jenøfa is just as misguided in her feelings of comfort and security as Faust and Marguerite are about their love. There are a number of smaller examples from later operas. One such instance is the moment when the immortality formula is burned in The Makropulos Case. As flames engulf the document, the orchestra plays a staccato, leaping ostinato that sounds like a transformation of the darting arpeggios from the piccolo and harp that accompany Loge’s fire when he is summoned by Wotan at the end of Die Walküre. Wagner’s Magic Fire is tonal and in duple meter, while Janáðek’s is built from fourths and triplets, but a faint family resemblance is audible. The appearance of fire in a post-Wagnerian opera is sure to elicit at least a nod to Loge (examples can be found both in Bohème and in Kova÷ovic’s The Dogheads), but in this case the reference is particularly apt—both because the Magic Fire is consuming a magic document and because it reinforces the poignancy of Emilia Marty’s plight. Brünnhilde’s ring of fire will protect her, while Marty’s blaze leaves her vulnerable to age and humanity. There may also be a hint of Magic

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Sleep in the last scene of The Cunning Little Vixen, as the Forester sits, puts down his weapon, and comments that one could easily fall asleep were it not for the flies. This thought is expressed against a backdrop of parallel major triads, alternately related by minor seconds and minor thirds. Although in Wagner it is the top line that chromatically descends as Wotan kisses Brünnhilde and in Janáðek it is the bass, the analogy between the passages seems plausible. In Vixen, the combination of the Wagner reference with the high tessitura and tremolos neatly expresses both the buzzing of the flies and the drowsiness of the Forester. This is a brief passage and easily overlooked, but the dramatic resonances are strong. The Forester has just reached the top of a hill, while Wotan tracks down Brünnhilde on a mountain summit. Brünnhilde will be rescued by Siegfried, while the Forester will be granted a vision of the ever-renewed life of the forest. Surely Brünnhilde’s mountain is taller than the Forester’s hill, but Janáðek’s gesture is just as moving, if on a more human scale. These modest instances show Janáðek’s willingness to borrow emotional associations from brief moments in other operas. They do not, though, necessarily indicate any more significant debt to other composers. A shared horn melody does not reveal any deep affinity between Janáðek and Gounod, any more than the organ-grinder in Il Tabarro, who has apparently strayed in from Petrushka, does between Puccini and Stravinsky. As John Tyrrell has written about Janáðek’s relationship with Puccini and Strauss, “[T]he parallels . . . tend to be of individual details rather than of general character.”15 There is, however, one Janáðek opera whose relationship with a Puccini work is more substantial. This opera is Káťa Kabanová, and the work it shadows is Madama Butterfly. While the terse musical language and Russian setting of Janáðek’s Káťa hardly evoke Puccini’s very different brands of musical syntax and exoticism, a number of similarities can be seen between the two operas.

Káťa as Butterfly When Káťa first appears onstage, the orchestra heralds her entrance with a repeated phrase whose rhythm and contour strongly resemble those of Butterfly’s entrance music. Each phrase starts with a four-note descending figure that begins and ends with a long note, with a dotted figure in the middle. In both instances, the melodic fragments are transposed upward with each iteration. There are even similarities between the two orchestral textures, particularly in the string tremolos and harp arpeggios. As Tyrrell has pointed out, it is hard to imagine that these similarities are coincidental.16 Other, perhaps less significant timbral similarities exist between the two operas. Both, exceptionally, require the use of a viola d’amore. In Butterfly, the viola d’amore merely adds exotic color to the famous Act II humming chorus. Like the hummers, the viola d’amore is offstage. Janáðek, on the other hand,

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deploys the instrument much more audibly and extensively. Janáðek first used violas d’amore in an early version of Fate but converted their parts to lines for ordinary violas sometime before the 1906 revision. His next use of the viola d’amore was in Káťa, perhaps prompted by a Prague production of Butterfly, and he later used the instrument again in The Makropulos Case, the Sinfonietta, the unfinished Dunaj Symphony, and in the first version of the Listy důvěrné (Intimate Letters) string quartet. Regardless of whether Janáðek actually heard a viola d’amore in the productions he heard of operas whose scores specify the rare instrument (Les Huguenots, Louise, Butterfly, and Der Kuhreigen), his notation and placement of his viola d’amore parts suggest that he was at least familiar with the printed examples of Meyerbeer, Charpentier, and Puccini.17 The aforementioned humming chorus also affords a point of similarity. Káťa also contains an offstage wordless chorus: the voice of the Volga in the final scene. These musical relationships may have been prompted by coincidences of casting. Each opera is named after a soprano who has a mezzo confidant, and each has a substantial scene for these two singers. In Butterfly, Act II opens with the sensible Suzuki attempting to calm the irrationally faithful Cio-Cio-San, while the second scene of Káťa’s Act I finds the pragmatic Varvara perplexed by her housemate’s effusions. In both operas, the male romantic leads are outsiders. Although all the characters in Káťa are Russian, only the well-educated Boris wears Western dress.18 The sight of Boris’s suit among the tunics and high boots of the other characters is nearly as striking as that of B. F. Pinkerton’s American naval uniform amid a sea of kimonos. Most striking, each opera concludes with the suicide of the title character. A distinct paper trail also links Janáðek to Puccini’s opera. Janáðek owned a score of Die kleine Frau Schmetterling, which is still extant in his library,19 albeit with few signs of use (apparently he found the duet for Butterfly and Kate “weak”). This could well be the score to which Janáðek referred in his 1911 reminiscence of Dvo÷ák: “Puccini’s Baterflaj lies on the piano desk. How [Dvo÷ák] hated that one note, which in its piquancy carries the surrounding dramatic expression for several bars!”20 The reference to Dvo÷ák is obscure, since the older composer died almost a month before the premiere of the revised version and nearly four years before Butterfly was performed in Prague, but Janáðek’s recollection does attest to the strength of his own feelings about Puccini’s opera. Two programs for productions of Butterfly are also in the Janáðek archive, one for a 1908 performance at the Prague Vinohrady Theater21 and one from a 1920 Brno production22 he attended shortly after he had begun to compose Káťa.23 This was at least his second visit to this production. In December 1919 he wrote to Kamila Stösslová: “I’ve just come from the theater. They gave Batrflay, one of the most beautiful and saddest of operas. I had you constantly before my eyes. Batrflay is also small, with black hair. . . . I’m so disturbed by the opera. . . . Even now many places move me deeply.”24 When the vocal score of Káťa was published, he sent a copy to Kamila, remarking, “I always placed your image on Káťa Kabanová when I was writing the

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opera.”25 Even allowing for Janáðek’s tendency to associate Kamila with nearly any female presence in his works, clearly Butterfly and Káťa were linked in his mind through their mutual bonds with Kamila. By the time Janáðek completed Káťa, he assumed that Butterfly was a well-known spurned lover. In a 1922 feuilleton, he described a conversation between two women at a train station, apparently waiting for a man. Of the sadder one he asked, “Did she stay there, whether he came or not? Butterfly?—Whom was she waiting for?”26 (Rudolf Firkušný’s memory of Janáðek’s love for Butterfly was mentioned in chapter 1.)

The First Love Duet and Second Inversions The type of musical similarity represented by the echo of Butterfly’s entrance music is just one of the ways Janáðek exploits operatic tradition. Even more significant are his selection of subjects and situations for which operatic precedents exist and his allusions to operatic conventions at dramatically apposite moments. There are many such moments in Káťa, including the suicide previously mentioned, a storm, a mad scene, and two love duets. In each of these cases, familiar operatic situations elicit musical responses that reveal Janáðek’s knowledge of the great operas of the French, Italian, and German traditions and, in particular, his love of Butterfly and Tristan. While the description of these passages as “love duets” may seem to overstate the analogy with more famous precedents, the designation is hardly new, occurring at least as early as Max Brod’s 1924 biography.27 The first love duet occurs in Act II, when Káťa and Boris sneak away for their initial tryst. This scene is rich with operatic associations at many levels. The dramatic situation, which finds Káťa and Boris in an illicit nocturnal embrace while another character keeps watch, is reminiscent of the second act of Tristan. Both operas stress the erotic possibilities of the night, and the coming morning brings both assignations to a close. Both operas combine voices from on- and offstage. In Janáðek’s double duet, Kudrjáš and Varvara remain onstage as Boris and Káťa’s passionate outbursts float in from the wings, while Brangäne’s warnings are the offstage component in Tristan. Musically, Kudrjáš’s cheery song about the morning star could hardly less resemble Brangäne’s languid fretting, but each reminds their respective charges that both night and love must end. If the dramatic situation suggests Tristan, the music is more redolent of Butterfly. As Boris declares his love for Káťa, the orchestra introduces a yearning figure, upon which much of the rest of the scene is built. While the intervallic content of this figure shifts constantly, its contour strongly recalls the orchestral music that accompanies Butterfly’s outburst “Adesso voi!” from the climax of her Act I duet. When first heard, both figures start on an offbeat, and both start with a leap of a third, followed by a rise of a fourth to the next downbeat, before descending again. On its second appearance the Janáðek figure rises to an

beyond western european opera

&

##

&

##

Andante mosso ma sostenendo D con intenso sentimento

j ‰ œj œj œ Ç

c Ó

Butterfly.

A - des-so

c Œ ‰

? ## c w w p # & # Ç # ÇÇ & # ÇÇww

men

w ? # # www w w

‰

-

j œœœ œ

œœ œœ

œœ œœ

vo

ÇÇ ÇÇ w w

œ œ œ œ J J J J

to.

ÇÇ ÇÇ

E

-

Ç

Ó

ÇÇÇ Ç

‰

jj ‰ œ œ œJ Ç

i

œ

mi pia - ce

j œœ ÇÇ ÇÇ œœ ÇÇ ÇÇ

sie - te per

œœ œ wœ w

-

‰ œœœ œ www w w w

œœ œœœ œœ œ

dal

œœ œœ

j j >œ Œ ‰ œœ œœœ œœœ œœ œ. . cresc. ww ww w w

me

l'oc - chio del fir

w w

œ œ œ J J

ste

œ œ œ œ. J J

Ç

entusiasmandosi

Ç œ. J œR

pri - mo

œœ œœ

Example 5.3a. Puccini, Madama Butterfly, Act I.

œœ œœ J

ÇÇ ÇwÇ w

mo - men

www w w w



-

-

87

œ J

œœœ. œ J

ma -

j j j r œ œ œ. œ ÇÇ ÇÇ

to

che vi ho

ve

appoggiatura, which resolves downward by step, just as in Puccini’s example. Both Puccini and Janáðek give the respective passages to the upper strings, doubled by woodwinds and horns. Even the articulations (legato) and dynamics (a hairpin crescendo to the top of the figure) are similar. Later in Janáðek’s duet, in the prelude to the couple’s first kiss, this rising figure is heard again, this time over a tremolo G-flat major chord in the second inversion. This, in addition to recalling Shaw’s “brilliant six-four chord,” is the same voicing used for Puccini’s accompaniment (examples 5.3a, 5.3b). There is reason to think Janáðek was consciously exploiting the ambiguous stability of this voicing. In a discarded draft for this duet, Janáðek set the libretto passage described above to music in a different key, with different orchestration and a different melodic contour to the orchestral accompaniment.28 Once more, though, the words in question are sung over a six-four chord, bristling with string tremolos. This suggests that chord voicing preceded other musical elements in Janáðek’s conception of the passage. The tremolo six-four sonority remains in the final draft, although Janáðek was still experimenting with different orchestral figures. Finally, in the autograph manuscript of the final version, the bass note is found only in the lowest of three divided viola parts. In the conductor’s score

Example 5.3b. Kát’a Kabanová, Act II, five after [16].

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used at Káťa’s premiere, though, the bass line has been further thickened with the addition of the bass clarinet and double basses to emphasize the chord voicing.29 This is far from the first time this sonority has been heard in a love duet. Second-inversion chords are frequently found in operatic love duets, generally used either to begin the duets or to provide structural articulations within them. Quiet six-four chords, often in shimmering tremolos, create a harmonic tension and a sense of suspension that can later be released in ecstatic climaxes. The most famous example is probably from Tristan, occurring as the monumental second-act love duet nears its home stretch (example 5.4a). Tristan’s vow “So stürben wir, um ungetrennt” is accompanied by a barely audible tremolo A-flat major triad from the cellos, divided in four parts, over an E-flat in the basses. Each time the four-bar phrase is repeated, it is transposed up a minor third, but each iteration begins with the same distinctive sonority of a major chord with the fifth in the bass. This device is one of many Tristanisms to have become an operatic cliché. It crops up again in the final scene of Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette (1867). As Roméo drains his vial of poison, Juliette awakes and asks “Where am I?” At this moment, the orchestra drops to pianissimo for an E-flat major triad over a B-flat pedal that remains fixed for the next eight bars (example 5.4b). Again, violin tremolos enliven the texture. The beginning of this phrase has been heard twice earlier in the scene, as Roméo enters the tomb (“Un tombeau! non, non!”) and as he searches for Juliette (“Viens, funèbre clarté!”), each time with the same voicing and texture. Despite Verdi’s low opinion of Gounod’s operas, he could hardly help taking notice of such successful works. The first-act duet from Otello (1884–86) is introduced by a cello quartet, an unusual sonority that must have been inspired by the cellos divided à 4 in Gounod’s Act IV duet—a sonority that returns in the B-flat major section of the Act V duet (“ô ma femme!”)—and that would later be taken up by Puccini in Tosca. At the close of the duet, the moving passage in which Otello begs for a kiss begins, once more with tremolo strings sustaining a six-four chord (example 5.4c).30 Janáðek certainly knew all these operas. He reviewed Roméo et Juliette for Moravské listy in 1891, comparing it favorably to Faust. He singled out for praise Roméo’s expression of love for Juliette and called the parts for both title characters “great roles.”31 Although no evidence links Janáðek to any particular production of Otello, he mentions it in reviews of Rigoletto (from 1890)32 and of Dalibor (from 1891).33 Although the musical politics of the Czech lands in the 1880s forced Janáðek into a public anti-Wagnerian stance,34 he was nonetheless acquainted with Wagner’s operas, especially Tristan. As mentioned previously, Janáðek published an analysis of the Tristan prelude in Hudební listy in 1885,35 and in 1907 he included it in an article entitled “Modern Harmonic Music.”36 Although he never published another study of Tristan, he did make notes about the opera, including musical examples, again around 1917.37 Janáðek’s Tristan score is by far the most

Example 5.4a. Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, Act II.

Example 5.4b. Gounod, Roméo et Juliette, Act V.

Example 5.4c. Verdi, Otello, Act I.

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heavily marked up of the scores still extant in his library.38 Notes on the score indicate that he studied it in 1884, 1915, and June 1921, adding the annotation (apparently after playing through it in 1921) “and found the same preferences and shortfalls.”39 The first pass must have been preparatory to the 1885 Hudební listy article, with the last bout taking place during the final revisions to Káťa. Janáðek need not necessarily have lifted this particular chord-voicing trick from Wagner, Gounod, Verdi, or Puccini. There are many other examples, including at least one from the Czech tradition, which is oddly short on love duets. The glorious love duet that concludes Act II of Smetana’s Dalibor (an opera Janáðek saw at least six times) is a veritable trove of second-inversion chords and dominant pedals. Milada’s plea to Dalibor to forgive her culminates in a high A over a double forte tremolo D major six-four chord, and the ensuing A-flat major duet is introduced by another six-four chord. These last examples, however, which resolve swiftly and conventionally through the dominant to the eventual tonic, seem less apt prototypes than those listed previously. The important point is not that Janáðek is alluding to a specific work but that he was drawing from the compositional tool kit available to any musician working within this operatic tradition.

The Second Love Duet, and More Tricks of the Trade Janáðek’s subtle manipulation of these conventions is even more striking in the brief Act III duet from Káťa. Here, Boris finds Káťa wandering along the banks of the Volga at dusk before her fatal plunge. This again is a familiar dramatic situation. Lovers, separated by circumstance, find each other for a final time, only to be separated again by death. These scenes generally begin with surprise and excitement at encountering the loved one; Roméo discovers that Juliette is alive, Radamès finds Aïda in Vulcan’s temple, Alfredo returns to Violetta, and Mimi returns to Rodolfo. After the joyous reunion, alas, the tragic end. Janáðek’s duet follows a similar plan. Káťa calls out for Boris. At first he hears her but does not see her, then, at last, they are reunited. After an extended embrace, Boris explains that he has been banished by his uncle, and they take their leave of each other. Boris’s departure, healthy if cowardly, may not have the tragic resonance of Roméo’s death, but the dramatic trajectory—recognition, reunion, resignation—is familiar. So, too, is his musical response (example 5.5). This is a very short passage, especially when set against the sprawling precedents of Wagner and Puccini, but we must remember that Janáðek was in many ways a miniaturist. Instead of a symphony, he composed a sinfonietta; in the place of a piano concerto, a concertino. Even the mature operas, all divided into three acts of about thirty minutes each, are quite compact. This brief duet, then, is just one more example of Janáðek compressing a familiar gesture into his own, highly efficient, temporal world.

Example 5.5. Kát’a Kabanová, Act III, [27].

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Example 5.5.—(concluded)

Even these mere seventeen bars are actually an expansion of a still briefer passage that precedes them. The measure of legato quarter notes heard four times at the end of the duet is transposed down a step from Káťa’s plea “Doneste mu žalostný møj stesk!” ([27]-3) heard earlier. Similarly, the orchestral figure heard in the two bars preceding those quarter notes is a transposed version of a single bar heard earlier (“Vy v¥try bujné!”). Continuing to move backward through the duet, the six bars of pulsing quarter-note triplets before the Lento correspond to a single bar in the preceding passage, while two bars of eighths and dotted quarters in the duet are matched by a bar of quarter notes. This repetition of a passage just heard fulfills two functions. On the one hand, it is a conventionally sentimental device. Hearing the music with which Káťa had pleaded with the winds to carry her cry to Boris reminds us that the winds have done their work and that her request has been granted. The use of music already heard with one singer as the basis for a following duet is another trick Janáðek could have picked up from Tristan, where the passage from “So stürben wir, um ungetrennt” to “der Liebe nur zu leben!” is heard twice, first sung by Tristan alone and then shared with Isolde. Janáðek’s duet, like that of Act II, begins with a six-four chord, albeit one heard only briefly. As in the excerpt from Otello cited earlier, Janáðek drives the bass line down from this six-four chord through the interval of a major third. At the bottom of each of these descents, there is a forte culmination from the orchestra, with a legato melody that crests on an appoggiatura. Janáðek next contracts the orchestra’s initial two-bar phrase to one bar, then reduces it to the final two notes, which are repeated in an insistent crescendo. Again, this trick can probably be traced back to Tristan, if on a much smaller scale. Later in that same Act II duet, Wagner detaches the trailing bar of a twomeasure phrase and then accelerates the quarter notes into triplets (at the conclusion of Act II, scene ii). An even better example of the same device can be found in Charpentier’s Louise, another of Janáðek’s favorite operas. Just as in the Janáðek example, a two-note figure from the orchestral accompaniment is detached and reiterated (example 5.6). Meanwhile, in Janáðek’s vocal parts, the top notes of Káťa’s and Boris’s passionate declarations outline an ascending chromatic scale, starting in bar 6 of example 5.5. This gimmick is common enough to deserve its own technical

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& ΠV

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Example 5.6. Charpentier, Louise, Act I.

3

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œ œ Uœ . œ c Ç J J J R 3

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nÇ #Ç b n ÇÇÇ # ÇÇÇ

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(gently)

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Example 5.7. Puccini, La Bohème, Act I.

ma non

‰

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Ó

>œ r j J •œ œ ‰ Œ

(surprised)

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(kisses Mimi)

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3

Mi-mì!

3 œ œj

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term. I propose “the half-step creep.” Perhaps this is also what Shaw meant by “a peg higher.” There is a typical half-step creep in La Bohème (example 5.7). At the climax of the creep, Boris calls out Káťa’s name, another inevitable feature of the Romantic love duet. Here, finally, we have Shaw’s “vociferation of the lady’s name.” It is probably no coincidence that Boris calls out his lover’s name in a descending minor sixth, the same interval Tristan chooses when he first sees Isolde at the beginning of their ill-fated reunion. That passage also includes another example of a little half-step creep, as Tristan calls out Isolde’s name on a long high A-flat, she answers him with a high A, and “the twain explode simultaneously” on a B-flat. The pulsing triplets that underlie the half-step creep in Káťa also find analogues in other famous love duets, with perhaps the most obvious the repeated rhythmic figure found in the corresponding place in the Gounod Act V love duet. After a brief outburst from the orchestra, Káťa and Boris finally sing together, in octaves. The sound of a soprano and tenor, yoked in parallel octaves, is familiar from countless beloved operas, but it is especially striking in a musical context where characters almost never sing simultaneously. Singing in octaves is, of course, one of the stock musical devices used to represent the unanimity of characters’ thoughts and feelings. These devices are so common, and usage so varied, that it would probably be foolish to attempt a precise typology. Nonetheless, there does seem to be a hierarchy in late-nineteenth-century operatic discourse. Musical dialogue, without overlapping or sharing musical material, is used within a duet when characters have yet to reach an agreement or are at cross-purposes. Repetition of a melody just sung by another character suggests agreement, while singing in thirds and sixths indicates a greater degree of musical and emotional concord. Octaves (or unisons) are reserved for moments of profound love. This hierarchy can be seen in a number of contexts. Thirds and sixths are appropriate for scenes of manly cooperation, for example. Jago and Otello, Don Carlo and Rodrigo all sing homorhythmically in consonant intervals, with only touches of unison at phrase endings. The famous duet for Nadir and Zurga from Bizet’s Pearl Fishers is dominated by imperfect consonances, but when the same music is heard for the last time, as Leïla and Nadir happily escape while Zurga dies, the lovers sing in octaves. These musical devices can also be used to indicate distinctions between relationships or changes within one. The two soprano-baritone duets from Act I of I pagliacci provide an example of the former. Nedda is first romanced by the hunchbacked Tonio, whom she cruelly mocks. The two fail to find romantic or musical common ground. They hardly ever sing simultaneously and never homorhythmically. In the next number, Nedda’s duet with Silvio, Silvio’s successful suit is matched by increasing musical concord. As he pleads with Nedda to come with him, he ends her phrases—first with the same pitch with which she has concluded, and then imitating a two-note figure, before a brief passage in

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octaves. In the beautiful D-flat major conclusion to the duet, the two sing first in canon, then join in octaves. Their love is sealed with a kiss, an avowal, and a symbolic musical gesture. In Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette, the deepening love between the title characters is reinforced with changes in their musical expression. The young lovers begin with chaste imitation, closing with simple parallel sixths, upon first meeting (“Ange adorable,” Act I). The passages in thirds and sixths grow longer in the second- and third-act love duets, with a particularly long stretch signaling their newly found physical intimacy, while only in the tragic fifth act duet does Gounod allow the two to sing in octaves for any length of time. The two die, of course, in octaves. Even the use of the tenor voice for the romantic lead was hardly inevitable by the 1920s. Janáðek’s decision to assign Boris’s part to a tenor allies him with the conservative remnants of the verismo tradition: composers like Puccini, Mascagni, and Giordano rather than Debussy, Strauss, or Berg, all of whom preferred baritones for their male protagonists. Janáðek, though, adhered fairly consistently to traditional vocal assignments, with higher voices for younger, more erotically vital characters. In Káťa, all of the young men who figure in the romantic entanglements (Boris, Tichon, and Kudrjáš) are tenors, while the older Dikoj is a bass and Kuligin, a minor (and composite) figure, is a baritone. Similarly, in The Makropulos Case, all three of Emilia Marty’s (past and present) suitors (Gregor, Janek, and Hauk-Šendorff) are tenors, while Janek’s father is a baritone and the lawyer, Dr. Kolenatý, is a bass-baritone.

Janáðek as Librettist Even more significant, though, than Janáðek’s choice of harmonic and melodic gestures in the duet is the fact that he crafted a libretto that provides an appropriate dramatic context for these gestures. Káťa Kabanová is based on Alexander Ostrovsky’s play The Storm, written in 1859. The first thing to note is that Janáðek chose a literary source written when the composer was a mere lad of five. This, in and of itself, is not particularly surprising. As Carl Dahlhaus has pointed out, exploitation of older dramatic works for libretti is the norm rather than the exception in the history of twentieth-century opera.40 Still, Janáðek was particularly drawn to dramas constructed around strong, passionate human interactions. The irony, satire, and experimentation of early-twentieth-century theater seem to have held little attraction for him (as will be discussed in chapter 6). The change of title is also significant. Ostrovsky’s play is named after a natural event, a thunderstorm, that allows the playwright to oppose different elements in Russian village society. Janáðek’s opera, however, is named after its central character, the young girl Káťa, and is primarily concerned with her personal tragedy. From a theatrical standpoint, Janáðek has

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removed almost everything of intellectual interest. The conflicts between city and village, science and religion, and merchants and professionals are all gone. What little of Ostrovsky’s devastating portrayal of suffocating village life that remains is incidental to the course of the opera’s action. In the passage under discussion, Janáðek went to considerable trouble to fashion a text suitable for a love duet. Part of the effectiveness of his duet is attributable to changes made earlier in the opera. His redaction of the Act II love scene eliminates the practicalities found in Ostrovsky. In the play, Varvara chides Kudrjáš for his caution, asks him to come earlier the next night, then interrupts Boris and Káťa’s farewells, reminding them that they will meet again tomorrow. In the next act, Boris enumerates the days Tichon has been gone, reminding the audience that the tryst seen onstage was merely the first of a lengthy series. Janáðek compresses all of Varvara’s scolding to a single “going to say goodbye now?” and eliminates Boris’s lines from the next scene, leaving only Káťa’s hysterical confession to indicate that the lovers have met more than once. These are small changes, but the focus on the single meeting witnessed by the audience makes for a more conventionally operatic dramatic trajectory. As in Tristan and Butterfly, the lovers have one public night of love and are then separated until a tragic final meeting. This last encounter between Káťa and Boris is much more prosaic in Ostrovsky. There, Boris’s first words to Káťa are “So we have wept together, as God ordained.” Janáðek abbreviates this fatalistic sentiment to “God has led us astray” and extends the dialogue that precedes it by having Boris cry out Káťa’s name and join her in the echt Shavian exclamation “I am seeing you again.” Both changes are Janáðek’s invention. These few words may not seem like major changes, but they stand out in the context of Janáðek’s other changes to Ostrovsky’s work, which overwhelmingly consist of removing material rather than adding it. These same few words also receive an unusual musical stress. Janáðek continued to refine this passage up until his final version. In the penultimate draft of the duet, the lovers sing “I am seeing you again” in turn. Only in the final draft do their exclamations coincide, a circumstance inevitable for singers but implausible for actors. Ostrovsky: K: Answer me! B: My God! It’s her voice! Where is she?

K: So I’ve seen you! B: So we have wept together, as God ordained.41

Janáðek: K: Answer me! Oh, answer! B: That is her voice! K: Answer me! Oh, answer! B: Káťa! K and B: I am seeing you again! B: God has led us astray!

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The resulting text, although banal when spoken, is moving when sung. In fact, the use of familiar musical devices does much to mask the awkwardness of the dramatic situation. After all, Boris’s meek desertion of Káťa to her watery grave is hardly a grand gesture to stand beside Roméo’s and Radamès’s deaths in their respective crypts, to say nothing of the ends of their paramours. Boris, unlike Aïda, is definitely not the sneak-into-the-tomb type. Despite this, during this passage we hear only “love duet,” the sum of the emotional associations of similar moments in Bohème, Butterfly, or Louise, and forget about the individual characters. For those few seconds Boris is simply the Romantic Tenor, not a weak-willed coward. We forget that he is to forsake Káťa, just as during the first-act finale to Butterfly we forget Pinkerton’s unattractive imperialist moral failings. So, too, is Káťa ennobled by her musical expression. As Dahlhaus has observed, despite the provincial milieu of the opera, Janáðek elevates Káťa “dramaturgically and musically to the stylistic heights of tragedy,”42 a sentiment echoed by Tibor Kneif, who wrote of Boris and Káťa’s “tragic entanglement.”43

Is Boris a Bore? This is perhaps the sense in which Janáðek is most clearly operatic. Herbert Lindenberger has written that Janáðek, along with Strauss, Schoenberg, and Berg, used complex musical languages “to create the illusion of correspondingly complex characters.”44 This is a flattering assertion (and flattering company for Janáðek). At least as important, though, is Janáðek’s ability, in spite of that complex musical language, to produce musically convincingly evocations of simple emotional states. As W. H. Auden put it, “[T]he quality common to all the great operatic roles . . . is that each of them is a passionate and willful state of being. In real life they would all be bores.”45 Káťa and Boris are indeed passionate bores—and great operatic roles. Perhaps one explanation for the failure of The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon is that its protagonists are not bores. Despite the Puccinian pretensions of the little duet cited at the beginning of this chapter, Mazal and Málinka, both minor characters, fail to achieve the “willful state of being” that would justify the musical implications. Although Janáðek was an abridger and compiler, rather than a writer, of libretti, it cannot be coincidence that only those operas whose libretti he assembled without outside interference have held the stage. Brouček’s libretto, a hodgepodge bearing the fingerprints of no fewer than eight authors, fails to restrict itself to those passionate states to which Janáðek responded so tellingly. If Janáðek belongs in the company of the verists, as has been frequently alleged, it is more because he gravitated toward the same dramatic situations they favored, and for which they had established musical codes, than because of any realism or naturalism in the depiction of those situations.

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Love in the Forest Káťa Kabanová is perhaps an extreme case within Janáðek’s operatic output. The dramatic similarities with Tristan and Butterfly seem to have inspired him to be even more operatic than usual. The two love duets, culminating in parallel octaves, are almost anachronistic gestures—gestures that would not be repeated in his later operas. Still, even when such explicit nods to operatic tradition are missing, the shadows of operatic convention can often be palpably felt. In Janáðek’s next opera, The Cunning Little Vixen, for instance, it is tempting to read Bystrouška and Lišák as the opera’s romantic leads, like Boris and Káťa, mere stand-ins for the usual Rodolfo and Mimi. Are not Acts II and III once more a thumbnail sketch of the prototypical Romantic opera, in which our hero and heroine meet, survive initial misunderstandings to fall in love, only to be separated by the soprano’s tragic death? Janáðek must have had some thoughts of this sort himself, for he originally conceived of Lišák as a tenor.46 Although Janáðek discarded this idea in favor of casting Lišák as a soprano (Octavian instead of Rodolfo?), many productions have emphasized Lišák’s masculinity by casting him as a tenor, including the 1956 Berlin Komische Oper production, the 1961 Sadler’s Wells performances, a number of Czech productions, and the 2003 BBC animated film.47 Although, as Janáðek wrote (rather testily) in 1927, “The Vixen can only eat rabbits, not romances and arias,”48 in Act II, scene ii, one can sense the possibility of set pieces for Bystrouška and Lišák—a possibility consistently thwarted. The moment when Lišák leaves Bystrouška in search of a tasty rabbit would be a perfect place for an aria. The heroine is left alone onstage to muse about her beauty, exactly the kind of reflective text and convenient situation Puccini would surely grasp for a lyrical showstopper. At first, Janáðek seems to be exploiting the opportunity. The “aria” is preceded by a lengthy stretch of music drawn from a single whole tone collection (vocal score, p. 100, three before [61] to [64]). When the “aria” begins (vocal score, p. 102, [64]), the plunge into a warm D-flat major seems to augur a lyrical moment. Indeed, the first few bars use no harmony more exotic than tonic or dominant, and Bystrouška’s vocal lines are longer and more lyrical than usual. Instead of the bursts of disjunct eighth notes that are the rule in most of her music, this music uses longer note values in a slower tempo. Each legato phrase rises to a half note (or longer) near the top of the staff before dropping for the end of the phrase, allowing for portamento in either direction. Janáðek even indicates the phrasing with “hairpin” swells. Both the legato slurs and the hairpins stand out as unusual gestures in Bystrouška’s part. Before the soprano can gather much steam, though, the orchestra introduces a new figure that contradicts all that has come before (vocal score, p. 103, five after [65]). It is faster, staccato, and static. Bystrouška attempts to regain the passion of her earlier music, but she can only reach an E-flat, and the orchestra is not to be deterred from its course. Shortly thereafter Lišák returns, and the reverie ends.

Meno mosso

&c Ó

Lišák.

nœ

bœ

j Œ ‰ œ b œÇ b œ b œ œ bœ œ & c bœ Chceš

f

mi?

œ œ œ ? b ÇÇ . ‰ . & ‰ b Ç.

? c b b ÇÇÇ .. ‰ . Í

3

‡

&

& ‰b b ÇÇ ....

&

Ó

Œ

Bystrouška(pokorn¥).

j Œ ‰ œ b Çœ œ b œ b œ b Ç .. b œ œ bœ .. b Ç œ & J

& Ó

œ. bœ bœ

j œ b œÇ b œ b œ

w

bÇ

j Chcu! Œ ‰b œœ b Çœ b œb œ w œ bœ œ bœ

œ

‰& œ b b œœ b œœœ œœœ Ç ..

mi?

f œœ œœ b œœ b œœ œ œ b œ œ œ b œœ ‡

‰

‰ b Ç .. b Ç ..

(vklouznesLišákemdodoup¥te)

œ bœ œ œ œ b œ œ b œ b œœ œ

Ç ..

w

‡

3 3 3 3 œ œ b œ œ b œ . œjœ b œœ .œj # œ # œ œ œ œ œ ..# œjœ n œœ .. œj œ b œ œ .b œ œ .œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ ‰ ‰ ‰ ‰ F p

ad lib.

Ç

ÇÇ

œ bœ bœ nœ bœ nœ ‚ #œ #œ b œ ‰ ‰ ‰ ‰ & ‰bœ ‰ œ

‡œ

Ç

b b ÇÇ

œ œœ œ œœ .. 3

accel.

‡

‡

j j Œ ‰ œœ Çœ b œ b œ Œ ‰ œœ Çœ b œ b œ œ œ Jœ b œ b œ œ Jbœbœ Chceš

œœœ

œœ œ

œ bœ bœ & b œ œ œ b b œœœ b b ÇÇÇ ÇÇÇ b b ÇÇ

&

œ

Chcu! j j j b Ç œ Œ ‰b œ œ b œ b œ Œ ‰ b œœb Çœ b œ b œ Œ ‰ # œœ n b Çœ b œ b œ œ bœ œ œ bœ œ bœ œ œ bœ Jb œ bœ bœ ‰

b b œœœ b œœ œ

Ç ..

œ

bœ

Ó

‡

œ

j # œœ

‡

Example 5.8. The Cunning Little Vixen, Act II, scene ii, [77].

Ç

ÇÇ

# œ # œœ œ œœ ..

3

#œ

‡

Ç

j # œœ



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Uj n œœ b b b œœ b b œœ .

# Ç .... œ œ .. œ & # ÇÇ .. œ œ b Jœ 3 ‰

3

‰

& # # ÇÇ .... Ç ..

&

œœ

Uj nb #b œœœœ .

&

3

b # œœœ.

u

& & bœ

bœ bœ

b b n œœœ . u

#Ç œ # # ÇÇÇ # œ # œ # œ # ÇÇÇ ...... œœ œœ .. ‹ # œœ œ #œ #œ œ #œ œ J J #œ

j #œ œ bœ

n ÇÇ

bœ

F # ÇÇÇ ......

j b œ # # ÇÇÇÇ

# ÇÇ n œ b ÇÇ œ # œ œ œ #œ #œ J #œ #œ #œ œ

‰

bœ bœ nœ

bœ bœ bœ

Più mosso

f bœ nœ nœ

bœ bœ œ

UMeno mosso b œ b œ œ Šœ bœ œ C Ó

Šœ bœ bœ

3

6 ‰ C n b œÇ b œ b œ

bœ œ œ

Ó

F Ç Ç # Çœ # œ œ Ç Ç # ÇÇ 3

3

Example 5.8.—(concluded)

Here, then, would be the place for a love duet, and once more there are signs that one might be in the offing. Bystrouška’s music again climbs above the staff, and the orchestral texture becomes fuller and more saturated with thickly scored major chords. The tension rises, as Bystrouška decides whether to accept Lišák as her mate, and the music fills with bass pedals. At the crucial moment when Lišák asks if Bystrouška will have him, the stage seems set for a proper duet (example 5.8). The tempo slows, and the following ten bars prolong a single harmony: an E-flat major chord, mostly in second inversion and often in tremolo. This is exactly the harmony, voicing, and key with which the Act II love duet in Káťa begins. As Bystrouška accepts the proposal, on a long high G with hairpins, we are treated to a return of the blue dragonfly’s dance. This peculiarly anticlimactic moment is the result of a change made shortly before the premiere,49 but even had the dance not been added, the nascent duet still would have sputtered into the scene with the owl, affording neither dramatic nor harmonic resolution. As it happens, the expected A-flat major

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never eventuates, as D-flat turns out to be long-term harmonic goal of both the act and the opera. Despite being in the “wrong” key (D-flat) and mode (Lydian), the chorus and ballet that close Act II do create some of the musical effect of a verismo love duet. The first two choral passages, the offstage vocalise, and the opening of the following ballet are scored for only the sopranos and tenors from the chorus, in octaves throughout. To a certain extent, this reflects Janáðek’s preference for high voices (mostly women and children) for the animals and insects, the better to contrast with the (mostly male) humans. There is also, though, an echo of the writing for soprano and tenor, yoked in octaves, in which the verismo love duet inevitably culminates. The effect is especially striking for audiences familiar with Janáðek’s previous operas, for this first offstage chorus is a virtual rewrite of the duet that concludes The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon, discussed previously. In that duet the lovers sing in octaves, not from offstage, true, but from the back of the stage, behind the action. The first two bars they sing are nearly identical to the forest creatures’ vocalise. Both passages start on the fifth degree, move to the tonic, up to the supertonic, and back down to the tonic before descending again to the dominant. The two passages are even scored in a similar manner. In Brouček, the melody in question is first played by the English horn before being answered quasi-canonically by the singers. In Vixen, the melody is played first by the violins before the chorus answers with the same melody, at half the speed. Finally, both passages allow the lyrical duet melody to be interrupted by music of a different character. Málinka and Mazal must compete with the laughter of the artists reveling in Würfl’s pub, while the animal chorus is a backdrop to the hasty wedding of Lišák and Bystrouška. While hardly containing an explicit love duet of the sort found in Káťa, Bystrouška still responds to an analysis of the operatic forms at which Janáðek hints. This kind of analysis by gesture is probably most appropriate for an opera like Káťa, which can be parsed as a whole sequence of scenes and gestures familiar from the nineteenth-century operatic tradition. The final scene, for instance, could be read as a mad scene in the bel canto tradition, followed by a love duet and a Liebestod. These same forms, though, can be found, even if in less obvious manifestations, in all of Janáðek’s mature operas. Understanding Janáðek’s operas in this way may also help explain their popularity outside the Czech lands. In the West, audiences should logically be put off by the Czech libretti and Slavic subjects, yet they nonetheless respond to the operas’ emotional content.

Chapter Six

Beyond the Operatic Stage Z mrtvého domu as Anti-Opera? Janáðek’s putative status as a modernist ahead of his time is generally defended on the grounds of musical style. The question of this relationship to contemporary theatrical and literary trends, though, has received considerably less attention. If any of his operas were to be considered as challenging dramatic tradition, presumably his final opera, Z mrtvého domu (From the House of the Dead), would be the most obvious candidate. A deeply strange work, both dramatically and musically, From the House of the Dead has many anomalous features. This chapter will use one episode from that opera to explain some of those anomalies and to place Janáðek within the context of Czech culture beyond opera. At a 1966 New York dinner with Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, W. H. Auden reportedly described From the House of the Dead as an “anti-opera, with no characters and no tunes.”1 This description, while none too flattering, is understandable. The opera is essentially plotless, drawing episodes from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s autobiographical novel Memoirs from the House of the Dead without regard for narrative continuity. Janáðek’s libretto is only partially in Czech, with substantial bits of Russian and Ukrainian slang left over from Dostoevsky’s original, some of whose meanings are still obscure. The cast is nearly all male, with only a minor pants role and three lines for a female prostitute for timbral variety (and this twenty-three years before Billy Budd). From the House of the Dead has no proper operatic lead. The nominal protagonist, Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, does not figure especially prominently for long stretches of the opera and is not set apart musically with a distinctive voice type or with solo passages of particular length or beauty. In fact, the longest narrations are given to otherwise minor figures. Šiškov, whose monster monologue takes up most of Act III, has no solo work in the previous acts. Further, the music includes no opportunities for sensuous vocal display, like the love duets in Káťa Kabanová or the glorious final scene of The Makropulos Case. Auden, who presumably knew the work from the 1965 Sadler’s Wells production, had a point. Nonetheless, From the House of the Dead does not lack passionate adherents. Hans Holländer has written that “one could even maintain that in no other work for the stage is Janáðek’s realism permeated by such lyrical effusion and fervour,”2 while John Tyrrell has described it as “a fitting and glorious culmination of [Janáðek’s] life’s work.”3 Milan Kundera went even further, writing that “From the House of the Dead emerges alongside Berg’s Wozzeck as the truest, the greatest opera of our dark century.”4

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Auden’s flip (and probably tipsy) comment does, in fact, isolate two key elements in the workings of the opera: characters and tunes. At one level, the lack of traditional characterization is to some extent compensated for by purely musical considerations. Tyrrell’s assertion, concerning The Cunning Little Vixen, that “coherence, if sometimes blurred at a verbal level, is certainly present in the opera at a musical one”5 is at least as apt for From the House of the Dead. At another level, it is exactly in Janáðek’s handling of characters and tunes that, even in this highly unusual opera, he shows his adherence to traditional operatic and theatrical models. This chapter examines a central passage in the opera and argues that the opera is neither incoherent nor anomalous. The passage in question comprises the two prison theatricals presented toward the end of Act II, “Kedril and Don Juan” and “The Fair Miller’s Wife.” This scene is critical for three reasons. First, Janáðek changes Dostoevsky’s scenario to help thematically unify the opera. Second, even in this brief interlude, we see a clear example of Janáðek’s adherence to operatic conventions. Third, these plays also form part of a larger tradition of musical and literary treatments of the Don Juan story. Comparison of Janáðek’s Don Juan with contemporary versions shows the alleged musical modernist to be very much a dramatic conservative. After a comparison of the theatricals as found in Janáðek and in Dostoevsky, each of these reasons is examined in turn, demonstrating that far from being an anti-opera, From the House of the Dead is quite operatic, in ways that are evident even in a brief excerpt.

The Plays-within-an-Opera Part I, chapter 11, of Memoirs from the House of the Dead, entitled “Theatricals,” is set during the Christmas season.6 Dostoevsky begins by describing the preparations for the theatricals, stressing the tacit understandings between the guards and prisoners that allowed sufficient time for construction and rehearsal and the excitement among the performers. The narrator finds out the program ahead of time and discusses the provenance of the themes chosen. The complex sociology of seating arrangements in the improvised theater also merits a few paragraphs before the theatricals themselves are described. Dostoevsky gives a detailed account of the first three presentations: “Philatka and Miroshka,” “Kedril the Glutton,” and an untitled pantomime about a miller’s wife. Two or three more plays are summarized quickly, and the final pantomime (with ballet) is briefly limned. Dostoevsky’s narrator assumes that “Kedril the Glutton” must be a product of regional “popular theatre” of uncertain origin, circulated in manuscript copies through the provinces. The name Kedril may be a form of Cyril, although no reason for the alteration is suggested. According to the Soviet Dostoevsky complete edition, the play can be traced to a Russian comic fragment about Don Juan and Don Pedro, with the name Pedro transformed over time, first to Pedrillo and

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then to Kedril.7 In the play, Kedril’s master is dragged off to hell by devils while Kedril snarfs his master’s dinner. As Dostoevsky notes, this is similar to the Don Juan story, with Kedril playing the part of Leporello. In the story of the miller’s wife, the wife, left alone by the miller, stashes a series of suitors in increasingly inappropriate hiding places. Her husband returns, discovers the deception, and thrashes everyone concerned. This is a Ukrainian folk tale, best known in a variant from Nikolai Gogol’s Village Evenings Near Dikanka and Mirgorod. In Gogol’s story “Christmas Eve,” the witch Solokha is being courted by the devil, only to be interrupted by three other paramours, each of whom, in turn, hides in a sack. The Gogol story is the basis for Tchaikovsky’s Kuznets Vakula (Vakula the Smith, 1874), revised as Cherevichki (The Fancy Slippers, 1885), and for Rimsky-Korsakov’s Noch’ pered rozhdestvom (Christmas Eve, 1894–95).8 Janáðek makes significant alterations to these stories. There is no mention of the Christmas season, which in Dostoevsky is the excuse for allowing the holiday productions. The time of year in the opera is not specified, although Act II is a year later than Act I (the indication that Act II should be in summer, only half a year after Act I, originates in Max Brod’s German translation). Janáðek omits the first play Dostoevsky describes (“Philatka and Miroshka”) and has the theatricals announced from the stage, without preparation, by the prisoner playing Kedril. Kedril specifically advertises an opera (“Opera bude, opera Kedril. Opera bude, opera Kedril”), although Dostoevsky’s “Kedril” is a stage play. This raises the interesting question of whether the sung text in “Kedril and Don Juan” is meant to be literal song. There are no clear indications, of the sort that mark Kudrjáš’s waiting song in Káťa Kabanová (or even those that mark Skuratov’s feverish snatches of song as literal), and much of the vocal writing, such as Don Juan’s entrance line (“Dnes bude møj poslední den!”), is declamatory, in a fashion that sooner evokes the clumsy recitation of spoken dialogue than any kind of sustained singing. Still, some other lines are set with artificially even note values (“Elviru p÷ived’! . . . Veðe÷i p÷iprav”) that might be intended to evoke crude song. Janáðek indicates that the prisoners’ stage is built from boat timbers, a detail not found in the novel. Janáðek also specifies that Goryanchikov sits next to Aljeja in the audience and leaves the two of them alone after the theatricals. Dostoevsky does mention that Aley (i.e., Aljeja) is standing close enough to Goryanchikov to reach out and touch him, but he is not, so to speak, Goryanchikov’s date. Goryanchikov is attending with Petrov, and Aley has come with a group of fellow Circassians. Dostoevsky’s aside that Kedril is reminiscent of Leporello is seized by Janáðek, who explicitly identifies Kedril’s master as Don Juan. Janáðek, in fact, was clearly interested in the correspondence. The words “in the manner of Don Juan”9 are underlined in pencil in Janáðek’s Czech translation of Dostoevsky10 and in pink crayon in his copy of the Russian original.11 In the latter, the name Leporello is similarly underlined.12

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All of the dialogue quoted by Dostoevsky is retained in the opera, and Janáðek adds a few lines of his own. In addition, Janáðek expands the action considerably. Don Juan orders Kedril to fetch Elvira, and a knight appears, only to be slain by Juan as a screaming Elvira flees. Kedril then brings in a cobbler’s wife, whom Juan rejects despite her interest in him. Finally, Kedril produces a priest’s wife, whom Kedril flirts with after the devils have seized Don Juan. Neither the knight nor Elvira nor either wife appears in the novel. Janáðek’s presentation of “The Fair Miller’s Wife” is much more faithful to Dostoevsky. The play is a pantomime in both treatments, and Janáðek preserves the husband’s threats, the spinning wife, and the various suitors: the neighbor with a red scarf,13 the army clerk, and the Brahmin. Here, though, events take an unexpected turn. The Brahmin is actually Don Juan in disguise. When the miller returns, instead of beating the hidden suitors he faints at the sight of Don Juan. Juan, meanwhile, spits fire at the devils, which have also reappeared, and he dances with the miller’s wife until they both drop. Don Juan’s reappearance is a striking addition, for which there are a number of possible explanations. In Dostoevsky’s rendition, the Brahmin appears as a suitor of the miller’s wife and figures in the final pantomime, attempting to revive a corpse. Perhaps the presence of the Brahmin in more than one of Dostoevsky’s scenes suggested to Janáðek that Don Juan could also be reused. A more likely possibility is that Janáðek was familiar with the Gogol variant and that Gogol’s devil-as-suitor has been transformed either into Don Juan-as-suitor or into the devils that pursue him. There may be other traces of Gogol’s stories in Janáðek’s scenario. Dostoevsky’s Brahmin hides in a cupboard while Janáðek’s jumps into a sack, as do all of Solokha’s visitors in the Gogol version. Janáðek was interested in the plays-within-a-novel from early in the compositional process, but details of the theatricals were still troubling him when the opera was nearly complete. On May 2, 1928, during the final revisions to Act II,14 he wrote to Kamila Stösslová, “I need devils on stage, I just cannot find the thread to pull them out of my brain. . . . If only I could get those devils finished!” Three days later he wrote to her describing the play “The Fair Miller’s Wife.” His description matches the final scenario fairly closely, except that the last suitor is the devil in the guise of a bearded monk instead of Don Juan clothed as a Brahmin. Before mailing the letter, he added a note on May 6 explaining that he had found a solution that morning: “[T]he devils have taken off the false miller’s wife.”15 This is closer to the final version—May 5th’s single devil (from Gogol?) has multiplied into the passel that torment Don Juan, but Juan himself is still missing. Thus, the most striking of Janáðek’s alterations, the return of Don Juan, was among the last. The motive for Janáðek’s changes to Dostoevsky’s “Kedril” appears mysterious at first. None of his alterations obviously derive from other versions of the Don Juan legend. We do know which versions Janáðek had in mind. On the back of a flyer published in March 1927, Janáðek listed treatments of the Don Juan story,

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including Vincenzo Righini’s Il Convitato di Pietra (Don Giovanni), the Mozart– Da Ponte Don Giovanni, and Pushkin’s The Stone Guest, as well as Molière’s play, Gluck’s ballet, and Alexei Tolstoy’s dramatic poem—all entitled Don Juan.16 Curiously, Janáðek also listed Don Quixote, adding the comment “Cervantes/ finds his eccentric brain in the life of a monster.”17 It is not clear how well Janáðek knew any of these versions, none of which have been preserved in his library. He would, of course, have known the Mozart opera intimately and probably saw the Gluck ballet at least once,18 but he must have known Righini’s opera, only portions of which survive, merely by reputation.19 Some similarities do suggest themselves. Don Juan’s duel with the knight could well be a descendant of his struggles with the Commendatore in many of these versions. Elvira also appears in a number of these treatments, and her flight after Don Juan’s duel with the knight is reminiscent of her hasty retreat from the home of Mozart’s Don Giovanni, with both exits marked by screams. The cobbler’s wife and priest’s wife, though, are not found in any of these Don Juan tales, nor, for that matter, are they found in Don Quixote. Janáðek may not have known Don Quixote particularly well. The fact that he tried three different spellings for “Quixote” (including one beginning with a quaintly phonetic “K”) may indicate only a passing familiarity with Cervantes. Nonetheless, the knight of the doleful countenance may hold the answer to Janáðek’s mysterious additions to “Kedril the Glutton.” Janáðek seems to have intended a Don Quixote pantomime rather than a Don Juan opera until fairly late in the compositional process. The notation “Theatre → climaxes in Don Quixote” appears in a draft scenario from Janáðek’s diary from between February 23 and 28, 1927.20 In a longer, undated scenario, in which Janáðek had listed many of the episodes to be included in the opera but left them in the order in which they are found in the novel, the words “theater p. 197” are crossed out and “only (pantomime) Don Quixote” is written in below.21 Finally, in yet another scenario—still undated but presumably later, since the episodes have now been grouped into acts—once more the parenthetical indication “Pantomime: Don Quichot” appears. This page also includes a drawing of the stage setup for Act II. In the lower left-hand corner of this page, Janáðek scrawled in pencil: “Duels: with a knight (man)/with a priest (fear)/with a cobbler (food).”22 Here we have all the elements of the final version. The duel with a knight is preserved in that version, although we now know the knight was not inspired by the Commendatore. The duel with a cobbler (food) is transformed into a meal with the cobbler’s wife, and, similarly, the duel with a priest (fear) becomes an encounter with a frightened, tearful priest’s wife. Apparently, Janáðek merely grafted the action of his planned Don Quixote pantomime onto “Kedril the Glutton,” switching the priest and the cobbler for their respective spouses and substituting amorous interludes for duels.23

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Continuity within From the House of the Dead Janáðek’s additions to “Kedril and Don Juan” and “The Fair Miller’s Wife” all further larger dramatic goals, either by linking the theatricals with the surrounding opera or by reinforcing dramatic themes. Some of the links are fairly trivial. The boat timbers used for the prisoners’ stage must come from the boat the convicts are tearing down at the beginning of Act II (the boat could perhaps also be a reference to the many Don Juan treatments in which the Don is shipwrecked). The music that accompanies “The Fair Miller’s Wife” (standing in the place of the Russian dance music “that was kept up all through it,” mentioned by Dostoevsky),24 with its repeated pitches on eighth notes and repetitive phrase structure, strongly recalls the little tune Skuratov sings and dances to at the end of his Act I monologue,25 providing musical continuity between acts. Some of Janáðek’s innovations meet more essential dramatic needs. The feminine presence in the theatricals, albeit provided by scruffy convicts in drag, is welcome in the otherwise heavily masculine opera, and the crude sexual innuendo in the plays supplies a touch of the erotic element otherwise only hinted at in the prisoners’ stories of their crimes. The one erotically charged relationship in the opera is that between Goryanchikov and Aljeja, who, although a boy, is sung by a woman and whom Janáðek compared to Kamila.26 Janáðek’s indication that the two watch the theatricals together encourages the audience to see the plays through their eyes and reinforces the centrality of their relationship, even when neither is directly involved in the action. More important, though, the theatricals aid Janáðek in constructing a dramatic work that, although deriving characters and incidents from Dostoevsky’s novel, is effectively very different from its source. Dostoevsky’s Memoirs from the House of the Dead is concerned largely with particularizing the inhabitants of his prison. The convicts’ beliefs and behavior are ascribed to nationality, religion, and social status. The audience for the Christmas plays is not an undifferentiated group of prisoners, as it is in Janáðek’s opera, but a heterogeneous group. The Poles boycotted all performances but the last; the Old Believer did not attend at all. The Circassians arrived together; Goryanchikov is granted a choice seat in deference to his urban sophistication and in expectation of his generosity. Indeed, the poignancy of the “Theatricals” chapter comes from the temporary sense of community that arises when all the prisoners are joined in laughter and from Goryanchikov’s noble origins finally being treated with respect rather than contempt. At the same time, Goryanchikov is painfully aware that the prisoners’ mirth during “Kedril the Glutton” is caused by the downfall of Kedril’s noble master while his servant steals his dinner. Herein lies the major difference between novel and opera. Dostoevsky’s Goryanchikov is permanently excluded from full membership in the community of prisoners by class boundaries, just as the Old Believer is excluded by his religion.

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The class element is almost absent from the opera. Two incidents from the novel illustrating prison distrust of gentlemen are retained in the opera: Goryanchikov’s humiliating entry into the prison and the attack on him while drinking tea. In the first case, though, the commandant’s sadism is not matched by any equivalent cruelty from the other prisoners. On the contrary, the following scene, in which the lame eagle (obviously symbolically connected to Goryanchikov) is treated respectfully by the prisoners before the commandant rushes in ordering more beatings, suggests that Goryanchikov will find a place in the prison community. If anything, the divide between guards and prisoners is emphasized rather than that between Goryanchikov and the other prisoners. In the second instance, the teatime assault, the actual physical violence is directed toward Aljeja, which obscures the squabble’s origins in resentment of Goryanchikov’s privileges. It is even possible in the opera to interpret Goryanchikov as a representative of the prisoners and to read his release, and that of the eagle, as symbolic of the freedom that will eventually be granted to other prisoners as well, even if some will die in captivity and they must now return to work. As Michael Ewans put it, “[F]or one convict resurrection, for the others a brief but real vision of the outside world and of freedom.”27 Further, there is no sense in the opera that the prisoners are of different creeds and classes. The opera’s oft-quoted motto, “in every creature a spark of God,”28 stresses the universality of Janáðek’s message, and Janáðek freely combines Dostoevsky’s characters and transposes incidents between them. The effect is of a sort of Siberian Gulag chorus line, perceived as a collective, from which individual members briefly step forward to tell their stories, only to be again subsumed. Only Goryanchikov and Aljeja are treated as autonomous individuals throughout. Because of this, Janáðek is able to make symbolic gestures that apply to all the convicts. Many of these gestures are found in the theatricals. Janáðek’s “Kedril and Don Juan” is not nearly as funny as Dostoevsky’s “Kedril the Glutton,” although Janáðek’s prisoners do indulge in loud (if stilted) laughter. Dostoevsky’s prisoners unequivocally identify with Kedril and revel with him in the demise of his master. Janáðek’s prisoners, on the other hand, are encouraged to respond to Don Juan. Janáðek’s Juan is a violent criminal, like many in the audience, and his slaying of the anonymous knight directly recalls Luka’s knifing of a prison major, related at the end of Act I. When Juan returns in costume as a Brahmin, he becomes an actor, just as the prisoners themselves are actors in the theatricals. Don Juan is a transgressor, paying no heed to moral, class, or religious strictures. In the brief “Kedril and Don Juan,” he disregards morality by murdering the knight and shows disrespect for religion by romancing the priest’s wife. In the following play, he seduces the miller’s wife, a woman not of his class. All of this is bound to appeal to the outlaws in the audience. Juan also crosses other boundaries. He transcends the confines of narrative and genre, appearing in a story—”The Fair Miller’s Wife”—in which he has no place and speaking in a pantomime, thereby violating the conventions of that genre.

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These various transgressive acts connect the opera’s middle to its end, as Don Juan’s escape from societal and conceptual restrictions prefigures the simultaneous release of Goryanchikov and the eagle. In general, Janáðek’s changes to the theatricals heighten Don Juan’s role in the opera. As Ulrich Müller has pointed out, Janáðek inverts the Dostoevskian treatment of Don Juan by bringing the character back in the pantomime. Instead of presenting him, as in the novel, as a figure outwitted by his servant, Janáðek’s Juan returns in triumph.29 Don Juan has even been described, in a description of the 1992 Salzburg Festival production, as “almost the secret protagonist of the Janáðek opera.”30 As he does in the opera, Don Juan will return in this chapter, after an examination of the music to which he dances.

Tunes: Cossacks and Gypsies In Dostoevsky’s description of the theatricals, he specifies that after Don Juan’s demise, the band strikes up a “Kamarinskaya,” commenting that Glinka would have done well to have heard this rendition. The Kamarinskaya is a Russian dance, best known from Glinka’s concert piece of the same name. The tune usually accompanies the kind of male dancing, involving squatting and leg thrusts, stereotypically identified in the West as “Cossack” and is frequently performed at weddings.31 Both the association with matrimony and that with male dance are obviously appropriate for an adulterous drag pantomime. Janáðek’s Czech translation contains a footnote, which explains that the Kamarinskaya is a “song of the Kamarinsky muzhiks, during which they dance the favorite Russian national dance, the ‘trepak.’”32 In the event, Janáðek, although heavily marking his Russian copy of the passages about the Kamarinskaya, both in the text and in the margins, seems to have taken little advantage of the musical possibilities suggested by Dostoevsky (or by his Czech annotator). Janáðek does not allude to the famous Kamarinskaya tune, and his leisurely allegretto hardly resembles the lively trepak. In fact, even though Janáðek’s tune is notated in the duple meter appropriate for both the Kamarinskaya and a trepak (and for the hopak specified in some English translations), it breaks clearly into phrases made up of four three-beat patterns. A listener without a score could be forgiven for guessing at a menuet before a trepak. Despite Janáðek’s failure to make explicit musical reference to any Russian dance, the music for the pantomime fulfills the same function as that described by Dostoevsky. Janáðek’s tune, like Dostoevsky’s Kamarinskaya, is repeated throughout the pantomime. Just as the Kamarinskaya starts quietly and then grows and speeds up, so, too, does Janáðek’s tune begin in piano, only to be repeated at higher volumes and subjected to multiple accelerations. There are even a couple of flurries of violin passage work (when the neighbor is hidden and when the miller returns) that might plausibly have been inspired by the flashing fingers of the balalaika players mentioned by Dostoevsky.

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Janáðek also seems to have been intrigued by Dostoevsky’s instrumental indications. Dostoevsky describes the prison band in great detail, giving the instrumentation as two violins, three homemade balalaikas, two guitars, and a tambourine and lavishing praise on the balalaika players, the tambourinist, and one of the guitarists. At the end of the passage, he also mentions two accordions. Janáðek marked the beginning of this passage and underlined the reference to the accordions with pencil in his Czech translation. In his Russian copy, he marked the entire passage in the margin and also underlined the name of each instrument mentioned in the text. In addition, he seems to have been keeping track of the number of instrumentalists involved. At first, Dostoevsky writes that there are eight musicians in the orchestra, and he lists them. Here, Janáðek has written a sort of extended curly bracket in the margin, with the numeral “8.” At the end of the paragraph, where the accordions are mentioned, Janáðek has written the numeral “10” in the margin, apparently concluding that two more musicians will be required. Remarkably little, though, of Janáðek’s interest in Dostoevsky’s specifications is audible in the opera. No onstage musicians are specified, nor are distinctive instruments such as guitar, balalaika, accordion, or tambourine introduced into the orchestra pit. There are, though, some hints of the Dostoevsky prison band in Janáðek’s pantomime. The accompaniment is given to plucked strings, perhaps imitating the guitars (the effect is heightened in the reorchestration by Osvald Chlubna and B÷etislav Bakala, where the harp is used for this passage). The melody is entrusted to a clarinet in its upper register, which could be either an attempt to suggest an accordion or merely a generic folk color (example 6.1). The first half of the phrase is answered by the full string section, which at least contains Dostoevsky’s pair of violins. As mentioned, some of the rapid violin figuration could be related to the nimble balalaika players so praised by Dostoevsky. One might expect Janáðek—the pioneering ethnographer, idolater of folksong, and pan-Slavist—to react to Dostoevsky’s Kamarinskaya with a more ethnically specific response, be it Russian, Ukrainian, or Cossack. Instead, he drew on a texture he had already used once before in a very different regional context. The pantomime “The Fair Miller’s Wife” is introduced by Kedril (“Ted’ zaðne pantomima o p¥kné mlyná÷ce!”) over a thirty-second-note ostinato of alternating minor and major thirds. This ostinato was also heard a number of times, in different registers and orchestrations, throughout the preceding play, “Kedril and Don Juan.” “The Fair Miller’s Wife” then begins with a naive tune in the clarinet. The layers of exoticism are somewhat difficult to disentangle. The pantomime is from a Ukrainian folktale, performed in a Siberian prison, described in a Russian novel, which has been utilized in a Czech opera. From the viewpoint, though, of either a Czech audience or of Goryanchikov, for that matter, this is exotic stuff. The melodic structure is simple and folksy. A six-beat tune is stated by a woodwind and answered by the strings. Soft and loud statements alternate

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& 42 Œ Fœ ? 42 ggg œœœ

œ œ # œ œ œ # œ. œ. # œ œ œ œ p gg œœœœ gg œœœœ gg œœœœ g œœœ g # œœ gg œœœœ gg gg gg œ gg # œœ g gg

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Strings

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ggg# # œœœœ

œ

œœœ œœœ œ œ œ œ f œœ œœ ggg œœœœ g Strings

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113

. . . #œ œœœ œœœ # # # œœœ. # œœ œœ # œ œ œ # œ œ œ œ (œ) p œœ œœ œ œœ ggg œœœœ gg œœœœ gg œœœœ g g œ Clarinet

œœœ œ

œœœ b œœ œ œ b œœ œ

œœ œœ b œ œ

bœ œ bœ œ

n œœ

Example 6.1. From the House of the Dead, Act II, twenty-five before [31].

regularly, and all phrases share a similar melodic contour. Each phrase begins with a pair of repeated notes and is crudely harmonized with parallel root-position chords (E minor: i–i–i–i–VI–V–i, G major: I–V–I–I–V–I, and so on). When Don Juan reveals himself, the thirty-second–note ostinato, hinted at throughout the miller’s searches, breaks out into a strident double forte. Then the music to which Juan fended off the devils returns (vocal score, p. 98, four after [28]), first the accompaniment figure (p. 109, [36]) and then the melody. This music is urbane, evoking the salon rather than the Ukrainian plains. Although notated in 46, the rhythms are distinctly waltz-like. Most of all, the sentimentality of the music is ensured by the continual parallel thirds and chromatic appoggiaturas, approached from below. The waltz music continues until the end of the play (and beyond), with occasional interruptions from the Kamarinskaya. As suggested previously, this combination of musical elements is familiar from an earlier Janáðek opera. The scene between the feebleminded Hauk and Marty from Act II of The Makropulos Case proceeds along very similar lines to those of Don Juan’s dance.33 Although they are presented in a different order, the scene is built from the same three musical elements: a thirty-second–note ostinato, a folk/exotic dance tune (example 6.2), and a sentimental salon dance. In The Makropulos Case, the ostinato alternates between diminished and minor thirds and ascends, but it still fulfills a similar function to the ostinato in From the House of the Dead, setting the scene apart from the surrounding material and serving as a sort of modernist base layer from which the two other marked languages can be distinguished. The sentimental element is, like that in From the House of the Dead, constructed from parallel thirds, although in this case the thirds are heard sequentially, as part of the melody, rather than simultaneously. Again, much of the effect comes from lower neighbors, here as an anacrusis to each two-note sigh. The folk/exotic element in The Makropulos Case is the music of the Andalusian gypsy Eugenia Montez. Again, the exoticism is signaled by a combination of dramatic

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i b œ œ œŸ~~~ b œ & 42 F jb œ œ bœ 2 & 4 b b œœ ‰ ‰ œœ œœ ‰ Clarinet

Castagnetti

b œ. b œ. b œ .

œ bœ J

i b œ œ. œŸ~~~ b œ. b œ. Ç

œ bœ œ bœ œ bœ œ bœ œ j ‰ b b œœ œœ ‰ ‰ œœ bb œœ ‰ ‰ bb œœ œœ ‰ ‰ b b œœ œœ ‰ ‰ œœ

Example 6.2. The Makropulos Case, Act II, [48].

context, timbre, and musical construction. Hauk reminisces about Eugenia during this music, and castanets are used for local color. Just as in From the House of the Dead, the melody is in duple meter, with repetitive phrases (this time threebar units) featuring pairs of repeated eighth notes, and is harmonized with parallel root-position triads. What is of particular interest is that, except for the timbral elements (the castanets and the imitations of balalaikas, guitars, and accordions), there is little to choose from between the Andalusian gypsy music and the Cossack dance. It is not hard to imagine the two being switched without much damage to either piece. Perhaps the most interesting regional context for the prison theatrical, though, is neither Cossack nor Andalusian but Czech, for Don Juan holds a place of particular distinction in the Czech lands.

Don Juan in Prague (and Brno) Even today, a visitor to Prague can hardly escape reminders that Mozart’s Don Giovanni was premiered in that city. The tourist-infested zone around the Charles Bridge is plastered with reminders that a Don Giovanni puppet show has been playing more or less continuously for the last two centuries. Janáðek was certainly not immune to Don Juan’s lure. He visited the villa Bertramka, where Mozart completed Don Giovanni, with the Stösslovás on April 7, 1928. Despite the fact that Kamila’s husband was with them, the villa became a special place, associated with his “honeymoon trip” with Kamila.34 After the trip he wrote, “I’d need . . . a permanent Bertramka, continually being with my negress Kamila; otherwise it’s a desert around me.”35 The long-rumored romantic relationship between Mozart and Josefa Dušková also appealed to Janáðek, and, inevitably, he saw a parallel with himself and Kamila, writing: “Did Mozart love Mrs. Dušková as much as I love you? I think I love you more.”36 Janáðek encouraged Kamila to read a book about Mozart and applied for membership in the Czechoslovak Mozart Society.37 In a Lidové noviny feuilleton, Janáðek blamed Bertramka’s decaying state on the management of the Salzburg Mozarteum and credited the Czech landscape for the sternness of Mozart’s opera:

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Cosy little rooms. Everything is soft, dainty. Look, a cast of Mozart’s ear on the mantelpiece. But Don Giovanni demanded hard soil, and the canopy of heaven. Out into the open air, right up to the well! To glance at oneself in its shiny surface, to head for the wooded hill with a broad view of distant lands. Now, you stony hand of the Commendatore, shake the hand of the rake, of Don Giovanni!38

This sudden interest in Bertramka in April and May 1928 coincides exactly with the time when Janáðek was making the final revisions to Act II of From the House of the Dead. Janáðek’s reminder to Kamila to read about Mozart and Josefa Dušková comes from the same letter in which he expressed his worries about working in the devils. Although it would be unlike Janáðek not to make the connection clear to Kamila, it is at least possible that the increased stress on Don Juan in the final version of the theatricals is connected to Janáðek’s new affiliation with Bertramka. Janáðek’s inclusion of Don Juan in the prison theatricals also allows for an illuminating comparison with other contemporaneous treatments of the same myth. Don Juan’s cameo in From the House of the Dead is just one of many such appearances in Czech lands in the first half of the twentieth century. Works that feature a Don Juan character include a novel by Max Brod (Schloss Nornepygge, 1908), short stories by J. S. Machar (“Faust and Don Juan,” 1903)39 and Karel ïapek (“Zpov¥d’ Dona Juana” [Don Juan’s Confession], 1932)),40 Erwin Schulhoff’s opera Plameny (libretto by Karel Beneš, 1927–29), and Ji÷í Voskovec and Jan Werich’s revue Don Juan & Comp. (music by Jaroslav Ježek, 1931). There are many similarities among the works just listed. One is that most of them feature Juans who are figures more of fun than of fear. None of these Don Juans is easy to take seriously. Instead of virile romantic figures, they are mostly flawed, even pathetic specimens. Kundera has described Dr. Havel, from Laughable Loves, as “a Don Juan at a time when Don Juanism is no longer possible.”41 Kundera does not specify when this Don Juan–incompatible time began, but these examples suggest that little of the twentieth century was hospitable to poor Juan. Of these treatments, only Brod’s Oironet is a proper romantic hero. He reveals himself as the three-hundred-year-old Don Juan Tenorio and presents his history of revolutionary activity in an (unsuccessful) attempt to rouse Walder, the novel’s protagonist, from his indifference.42 Oironet, although more a man of political than amatory action, is a vigorous, virile figure, to be taken seriously. His compatriots, though, seem to have descended from George Bernard Shaw’s Don Juan, who is a poor fencer and a windbag to boot. Machar’s Don Juan and Faust are disappointed by each other, seeing only old men who seem incapable of their famed exploits. ïapek’s Juan is literally impotent, a fact revealed only on his deathbed. The Juan of Schulhoff’s opera does have the life of the romantic paramour but does not want it, vainly seeking death in order to be released from his life of empty conquest. Voskovec and Werich’s Don Juan is a drunken

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weakling whom Leporello attempts to convert into the legendary figure for his own selfish purposes. Even the iconic status of Mozart’s opera in Czech cultural life is problematized in Ji÷í Weil’s Mendelssohn Is on the Roof, in which Reinhard Heydrich muses on Mozart’s German nature: The last notes of the overture to Don Giovanni faded away. . . . [I]t wasn’t exactly his kind of music . . . but Mozart was connected to Prague, and no other music would do for the opening of the Rudolfinum. Mozart’s music had first rung out in this city while it still slept under the chaotic rule of the Austrian Empire. . . . But Mozart was still German music . . . and this was a German concert hall, after all, where German music would ring out forevermore.43

Another similarity is that many of these works make specific reference to the Mozart–Da Ponte version. Brod’s novel uses a musical quotation from the Act I finale both as an epigram and as a heading for its final chapter and includes a scene set at a performance of Don Giovanni.44 Brod’s Don Juan claims that “Mozart understood me best.”45 Schulhoff alludes to Mozart at least twice. The swordfight music from Mozart’s Act I is quoted in Schulhoff’s Act II, and he also borrows the sinister rising and falling scales that appear in Mozart’s Overture and finale. Ježek also quotes directly from Don Giovanni, using the Menuet from the end of Mozart’s Act I in the finale tableaux of Voskovec and Werich’s revue.46 Of course, reverence for Mozart (or even a Mozartian epigram) is hardly a twentieth-century phenomenon. Pushkin, for instance, imagining the premiere of Don Giovanni, wrote of a theater “filled with astounded music lovers, hushed, intoxicated by Mozart’s harmonies.”47 The Stone Guest is also headed by a quote from Da Ponte’s libretto. There is no indication, though, that anyone in Pushkin’s play is aware of Mozart’s opera. Characters in our examples from Brod, Schuhoff, and Voskovec and Werich, however, share a self-referential awareness of literary (and operatic) history. Perhaps here, too, they take their lead from Shaw’s characters, who hear Mozart’s music reverberating through Hell. Don Juan:

Listen! Ha! Mozart’s statue music. It is your father. You had better disappear until I prepare him. Ah, here you are, my friend. Why dont [sic] you learn to sing the splendid music Mozart has written for you?

The Statue:

(III)48

Unluckily he has written it for a bass voice. Mine is a counter tenor.

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Brod’s Juan figure knows his own literary pedigree by heart and proudly lists the many works he has inspired. Schulhoff and Beneš’s Don Juan slays not the Commendatore himself but a man masquerading as the Commendatore, a discrepancy of which he is well aware. As he says, Ha, ha, ha, ha . . . you threaten me, to be sure your husband plays the Commendatore today, but only as a masker.

In Brod’s translation: Ha, ha, ha, ha . . . drohst du mir, dein Mann spielt ja heute den Komthur, doch als Maske nur.

After the duel, Juan sighs: The same old effect after all! You strike a masker dead, a random uninteresting man. Then he comes back in terror, grows into a statue, into an opera, is a knight, is majesty, just as in the story book!

Brod: Also doch der alte Effekt! Eine Maske erschlägt man, irgendbeliebigen, uninteressanten Menschen. Dann kommt er daher geschreckt, wächst zur Oper aus, ist Ritter, ist Majestät, ganz wie’s im Buche steht!49

Voskovec and Werich’s Don Juan is a drunken layabout forced by a manipulative Leporello to conform to preexisting stories. The plot of the revue (such as it is) is the story of his gradual assumption of the role. The characters are all aware that their own stories are shaped by other, better-known narratives: Juan: Commendatore: Juan: Commendatore: Juan: Commendatore: (Scene VII)

I welcome you, stone guest. Do you know what brings me? You intend to curse me to hell? As is customary in other operas? But here? Well, tell me! I congratulate you, for you have become the real Don Juan! (Shakes Juan’s hand)

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Juan: Komandér: Juan: Komandér: Juan: Komandér:

Vítám vás, kamenný hoste. Víš, co mne p÷ivádí? Snad hodláte mne do pekel zatratit? Tak bývá zvykem v jiných operách? Zde však? Nuž, mluvte juž! Jdu ti jen blahop÷at, že jsi se stal ted’ pravým Don Juanem. (Potřese Juanovi rukou)

(Obraz VII)50

The songs in the revue also describe the Don Juan of legend rather than the simulacrum actually displayed onstage. In “Don Juan Waltz,” a women’s chorus sings: Don Juan I know, Since long ago, And I like him so. He promises me little, Loves many women, And I like him exactly so. Znám Dona Juana, Znám ho jen od rána, Já ho mám asi ráda. Málo mn¥ slibuje, Více žen miluje, Já ho mám p÷ece ráda.51

Although From the House of the Dead is roughly contemporaneous with Schulhoff’s Flammen and Voskovec and Werich’s Don Juan & Comp., there is no trace of irony in Janáðek’s handling of Don Juan. Janáðek’s Juan (and it is almost entirely Janáðek’s Juan, with only a few elements taken from Dostoevsky) is very much a conventional romantic figure. As Peter Conrad has written, “[T]his Juan, like Don Giovanni, stands for resistance, ebullience, the erotic and musical irrepressibility of life.”52 A man of action and violence, he slays a knight and dominates the proceedings of both theatricals. The erotic element is present and unproblematic. The cobbler’s wife desires him, and he romances the priest’s wife. In the following pantomime, he embraces the miller’s wife while disguised as the Brahmin and waltzes off with her while her husband cowers in terror. No suspicions of impotence here. Further, there is no sense that Janáðek’s characters know their own stories.53 There are no references to other versions, no musical quotations, and—most glaringly—no musical quotations from Don Giovanni. Is this making too much of an absence? Perhaps. But Janáðek’s adherence to older dramatic conventions is one of the main reasons his stage works remain operatic, with or without characters and tunes. Of course, the kinds of literary involution54 I have cited in Shaw, Brod, and Voskovec and Werich are not

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twentieth-century inventions. Cervantes’s Don Quixote was aware of his multiple literary identities and even became embroiled in a puppet show within the novel, failing to distinguish his narrative and that of the puppets (part 2, chapter 26). Characters have been stepping off operatic stages and into books for centuries, the most notable example for our purposes being the appearance of a flesh, blood, and perfume Donna Anna in one of E.T.A. Hoffmann’s stories. Further, the Mozart quotes from Schulhoff and Ježek are also not an innovation. Strains of Don Giovanni float into Luther’s Tavern during the prelude to Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffman, hardly anyone’s choice as an avant-garde work. More generally, as Michael Wood put it, “modernity . . . is not so much a fresh start as a jogged memory.”55 Much of this could be explained by generic conventions. Irony and involution are much more easily accommodated by prose, drama, or musical theater than by opera. Still, we have Schulhoff’s Flammen as an example of an opera that includes exactly these traits. While Janáðek’s Don Juan may not be akin to the Don Juans of Brod and Schulhoff, the latter two Juans do immediately suggest another Janáðek character: Emilia Marty. Brod’s Oironet, like Marty, is over three hundred years old (the two, if you will, are part of the same, very small cohort). Unlike Marty, he is not permanently youthful but is just aging very slowly. As he explains to Walder: “Look here, I am aging, I have my years. At first I was a child, then a youth like you, and now I am a man. After, perhaps, another three hundred years, I will certainly die. It’s just that each individual phase of life lasts longer than other people’s.”56 Nonetheless, his life story, adopting different names in different countries and leaving countless lovers behind, is unmistakably Marty-like for the Janáðek buff. In Schulhoff’s opera, when the graying Don Juan finally despairs and shoots himself, he is transformed back into his youthful self and cries “So muss ich weiter, weiter sein!”57 A lover, eternally in the prime of life; again, very much like Marty. Schulhoff almost certainly would have been familiar with Janáðek’s Věc Makropulos, and both he and Beneš could very well have known ïapek’s play. Whether Janáðek would have known Brod’s Schloss Nornepygge is harder to ascertain. There is no direct evidence that he did, and he was no devotee of German literature. Additionally, Brod’s advocacy of Janáðek58 seems merely to have been accepted by the older composer as his due and not reciprocated with any particular appreciation of Brod’s work. On the other hand, Brod did send Janáðek copies of some of his novels, and Schloss Nornepygge was a widely read book in its time.

Conclusion Despite the similarities between Schulhoff’s Juan and Janáðek’s Marty, Flammen and From the House of the Dead are clearly very different kinds of operas. Of the two, the obscure Schulhoff work is typical of modern trends in 1920s Central

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European opera. Adorno’s assertion that Kurt Weill’s Mahagonny is among “the most complex of modern works” because its quotes of salon music are analogous to Sergei Eisenstein’s montage technique and provide “a dialectical criticism of the music of the past”59 could just as well apply to Schulhoff’s pastiche of Mozart, jazz, and dance music, but it has no relevance for Janáðek. The fact that From the House of the Dead shows no trace of the theatrical trends that interested Schulhoff and Adorno is unsurprising. As Dahlhaus has pointed out, exploitation of older dramatic works for libretti is the norm rather than the exception in the history of twentieth-century opera.60 Indeed, Janáðek’s list of Don Juan treatments is dominated by eighteenth-century works and does not advance beyond the middle of the nineteenth century. Even Dostoevsky’s novel was published before the composer had entered his teens. Although Janáðek knew Schulhoff and Brod, their interest in his work greatly exceeded his interest in theirs. I would argue that it is exactly Janáðek’s conservative dramatic instincts and shrewd exploitation of operatic conventions that have assured the continued success of his operas, which, unlike those of Schulhoff, Busoni, and Weill, are firmly ensconced in the international repertoire. Pace Auden, From the House of the Dead, like all of Janáðek’s operas, is far from an “anti-opera.” As Auden said in a different context, opera is “the last refuge of the high style,”61 and Janáðek was one of the last great practitioners of that high style.

Chapter Seven

Harmony and Mortality in The Makropulos Case One Last Opera Chapter 6 revolved around From the House of the Dead. That is Janáðek’s final opera, and it is tempting (and logical) to end the book there. One Janáðek opera of the 1920s, though, has been conspicuously slighted in the previous chapters, and that is Věc Makropulos (The Makropulos Case, first performed in 1926). This is not only a lacuna in the book but an embarrassing oversight for me, as it is my favorite Janáðek opera. Back in my graduate school days, I was inspired by the productions at the Metropolitan Opera starring Jessye Norman and Catherine Malfitano, and I had originally intended to write my entire dissertation on The Makropulos Case. I was interested in the ways the history of the Habsburg empire, and of opera itself, was inscribed into the Makropulos story. The opera is based on a Karel ïapek play, also entitled Věc Makropulos, about a singer born in 1585—not long after the establishment of the Habsburg monarchy in 1526 and just before the first academic experiments with opera at the end of the sixteenth century—who lived through the entire subsequent histories of both institutions. I foundered very quickly, though, on an inability to meaningfully include Janáðek’s music in my historical musings (I have Carl Schorske to thank for gently and tactfully pointing out that I was hopelessly stuck) and ended up writing a dissertation that discussed a number of Janáðek’s operas but barely mentioned Makropulos. I would like to conclude now with an epilogue about The Makropulos Case, both to pay off that promissory note left over from graduate school and to provide an example of the type of critical reading I am hoping to encourage. If the previous chapters have been about problematizing Janáðek’s relationships with, among other things, speech melodies, Russian culture, and Czech nationalism, this one will attempt to take a particularly moving moment in a Janáðek opera and explain the intersection between its musical and dramatic languages without recourse to any of those elements.

Makropulos as a Czech Opera of the 1920s The Makropulos Case has had passionate advocates ever since its 1926 premiere. Janáðek himself proudly reported to Kamila Stösslová that “they say it is my

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greatest work” (while pointing out that he was planning even greater accomplishments: “But it’s still possible to go higher”).1 Otakar Zítek, who produced the Brno premiere, wrote in his memoirs that Janáðek “regarded The Makropulos Affair as his most dramatic work.”2 Theodor Adorno, while no great fan of Janáðek, did write two reviews of the 1929 German premiere in Frankfurt. He felt Makropulos was unique rather than historically significant, but he did describe it as “revolutionary in the manner of its configuration” and “something noteworthy . . . even great.”3 Among more recent commentators, Jaroslav Vogel described Makropulos as “one of the . . . most powerful dramas of human existence,” Michael Ewans identified it as “Janáðek’s most profound and shattering drama,” and John Tyrrell called its conclusion “some of the most thrilling music Janáðek ever wrote, and some of the grandest music of [the twentieth] century.”4 Nonetheless, Makropulos has not fared particularly well in the secondary literature. It is duly represented in comprehensive surveys of Janáðek’s operas and crops up in interesting places outside the usual channels. Caryl Emerson has made a strong case for the opera as an inherently comic work that stands in a somewhat paradoxical relationship to other Slavic works in which female protagonists die for love, and Bernard Williams used it as a pretext for a discussion of the philosophical status of immortality.5 Still, there is hardly anything about the music, and Makropulos is only rarely cited in surveys of twentieth-century opera. Perhaps this is because Makropulos fails to slip gracefully into standard narratives about either modern or national opera. The nearest miss is probably with the fashionable Zeitopern of late 1920s Germany. As an opera of 1926 set in the present day (ïapek’s play is set in 1922, the year it opened) that prominently features an onstage telephone, Makropulos might, on first blush, seem to meet the criteria for a Zeitoper. In fact, in some ways, at least as a story, it comes fairly close. Susan Cook associates the term “Zeitoper” with Krenek’s Jonny spielt auf, which premiered in 1927, and finds it to have been in common use by the next year. Cook defines a Zeitoper as a comic opera relying on social satire that celebrates modern life by incorporating elements of contemporary life. Set in the present, these operas are peopled by ordinary citizens, take place in commonplace contemporary locales, and highlight modern technological devices.6 From a distance, and with a little squinting, Makropulos seems a plausible candidate. ïapek called his play a comedy. While Janáðek’s adaptation privileges the story’s tragic elements, Emerson convincingly argues that the opera is a comedy in the Shakespearean sense, that “the winning values . . . are youthfulness, fertility, escape from death, survival in all its aspects,” and that it is a “comic grotesque, a comedy with disorienting moments of tragic pathos.”7 There is certainly more satire in ïapek’s Makropulos than in Janáðek’s, but even in the opera neither the legal profession nor the political pretensions of the clerk Vítek emerge entirely unscathed. Both play and opera take place in the present and are set in the appropriately prosaic locales of a lawyer’s office, the empty stage of an opera house, and a hotel room. Opera singers who are 337 years old hardly qualify

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as everyday people, but lawyers, their clerks, stage technicians, cleaning ladies, and chambermaids certainly do. On the other hand, aside from the aforementioned telephone, technology has little place in Makropulos, with the possible (and minor) exception of the photograph of Marty that she signs for Krista. It is hardly surprising that Makropulos is absent from Cook’s study. One does not have to agree with Adorno’s assertion that “its absurdity is one of a kind” to hear that Janáðek’s Makropulos belongs to a different musical world than the operas by Krenek, Hindemith, and Weill cited by Cook.8 No matter how many telephones and legal files appear onstage, Janáðek’s musical setting is innocent not only of the obsession with American jazz and dance music that Cook identifies as typical of the Zeitoper but also of any interest in French music of the 1920s or of any hint of a return to numbers opera, the other characteristic musical reference points for trendy operas of the late twenties. Janáðek’s Makropulos is far more evidence of his ability to take a fashionably modern comedy and turn it toward conventionally tragic and sentimental opera than it is an opera of its time. Furthermore, Makropulos is hardly more an opera of its place than an opera of its time. Just as there are no foxtrots or Bostons to remind us that we are in the 1920s, there are no musical clues that we are in Prague. There are no analogues to the Lydian folk-dance stylizations that place The Cunning Little Vixen on the outskirts of Brno, to the sleigh bell music and faux folksongs of Káťa Kabanová’s Kalinov, or to the Cossak dance in From the House of the Dead. The music that does bring with it associations of time and place is from long ago or far away. Offstage horns, trumpets, and timpani play fanfares that evoke Emperor Rudolf II’s reign, and castanets color Marty’s revelation that she was once the Spanish Eugenia Montez. Tyrrell has pointed out that in Makropulos, as in Brouček, Prague appears as both a modern city and a historical locale, with both operas harkening back to important moments in Czech history.9 Brouček returns to the glorious triumph of Jan Žižka at Vítkov Hill, and Makropulos refers to the last emperor who kept his court in Prague. Still, Rudolf II is a much more ambiguous figure than Žižka. As shown in the discussion of the Songs of Hradčany in chapter 3, Rudolf’s reign could just as well stand for Habsburg oppression as for the wonders of Magic Prague. Yes, the origins of Marty’s longevity in a formula created by her father—personal physician to the emperor—are reminiscent of the alchemists of Rudolf’s Golden Lane, and the offstage brass and drums are one of the most striking musical textures in the opera; but Marty is very much an international and cosmopolitan figure, and the impact of Rudolf’s trumpets is ameliorated, if not matched, by Montez’s castanets. Marty, despite her father’s service to Emperor Rudolf, is not Czech but Greek, born Elina Makropulos in Crete in 1585. Although she presumably spends some of her childhood and teen years in Prague, she lives most of her grotesquely extended life not only outside the Czech lands but beyond the Habsburg empire, fleeing with her father’s recipes to either Turkey or Hungary as a sixteen-yearold. This would have been in the midst of the Turkish war of 1593–1606 and at

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a time when Habsburg claims of sovereignty in Hungary were rejected by the Hungarian nobility. ïapek reveals little of Marty’s movements in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, although she met a Tyrolean priest in 1660 (possibly crossing back into Imperial territory if she met him on his home turf), consorted with an Italian officer sometime after that, and was in France in the eighteenth century to meet Danton. Marty allows that she may have been at the Congress of Vienna in 1816, then in the guise of the Scottish Ellian MacGregor, a persona she discarded in 1836 to become the Russian Ekaterina Myshkina. By 1870 she was the gypsy Eugenia Montez who so entranced the young Hauk-Šendorf in Madrid, and nine years later she held a passport as Elsa Mueller. Even when she is around the Czech lands, ïapek emphasizes the multinational character of the Habsburg territories. Ellian MacGregor was a singer at the Vienna Court Opera. While her lover, Baron Josef Ferdinand Prus, had estates at Loukov and Semonice, now in the Czech Republic, he also had an estate in Bavaria, and their son was educated in Vienna. When Baron Prus died, his lands were claimed by Polish and Hungarian relations. Aside from the narrative convenience of Marty returning to Prague to find Prus’s papers, there is no particular reason why the play and opera could not take place in any European capital without meaningful changes to the plot. If, then, The Makropulos Case is not to be explained as either a typical product of its time or as a late flowering of national opera, what types of interpretive or critical approaches would be most revealing? One recurring theme in the secondary literature about The Makropulos Case is that Janáðek’s music has a dramatic agency that not only augments but in some ways supercedes ïapek’s words, supplying the warmth and human subjectivity missing from the play. Ewans wrote that Janáðek’s music “redeems [the] humanity” of ïapek’s characters and reveals the emotions that generate the “harsh wit of ïapek’s ‘comedy.’”10 Tyrrell, again referring to the final scene, wrote that the “passion and eloquence” of the music turn ïapek’s “universal comedy” into a “personal tragedy.”11 It seems appropriate, then, to interrogate the music more closely and see what it tells us about ïapek’s characters and about Janáðek as an opera composer.

Musical Contrast in the Orchestral Introduction Perhaps the first things that strike the listener about the orchestral introduction to The Makropulos Case are its length and relative autonomy. Janáðek had not written a truly independent overture since discarding Žárlivost (Jealousy) as a prelude to the 1904 premiere of Jenůfa, but the introduction to The Makropulos Case—although it leads seamlessly into the opera’s first act—can easily be converted into a self-sufficient concert piece. Charles Mackerras recorded the Makropulos prelude as a concert overture with the Pro Arte Orchestra in 1959.12 Not only is the Makropulos prelude a substantial work in terms of its duration, but its

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internal structure is also clearly articulated in a way that emphasizes its potential independence. The prelude contains three distinct musical topics. The first is a lyrical melody over a bustling ostinato (example 7.1). This is followed by the fanfares for offstage brass and drums mentioned earlier (example 7.2), with the third element a glowing brass chorale, bathed in harp arpeggios (example 7.3). Nearly the entire prelude is constructed from repetitions of these three elements. In rough terms, there is an opening section built from the ostinato and the first theme, a lengthy middle section concerned with alternating and combining the fanfares and the chorale, and a concluding peroration that involves all three elements ([14]). It is also possible to hear very faint echoes of the sonata-allegro form expected in nineteenth-century overtures, with the lyrical opening melody as the first theme and the chorale as the second theme. There is a quasi-developmental passage ([9]) in which the chorale melody is compressed and sequenced, and both themes are recapitulated at the end of the prelude ([14] and [17]). The recapitulation of the chorale also gives some sense of tonal closure, as it begins on E-flat minor, the tonality implied at the beginning of the prelude (and continues to G-flat major, as does the first theme). These gestures toward sonata principles are mild at best. Still, when combined with the strong contrast in character between the opening melody and the chorale, they are capable of raising the expectation that the thematic material carries with it the kind of subjectivity typical of themes from nineteenth-century opera and concert overtures. It is tempting to associate specific meanings to the musical material, especially since the brass fanfares are explicitly linked to Emperor Rudolf, appearing in the final act as his name is mentioned for the first time ([65]). The opening material of the prelude could easily stand for the frantic pace and mechanical potential of modern life in the 1920s (Ewans describes an alternation between “the continual motion of an endless quest” and “the heraldic fanfares of a world centuries old”).13 The chorale theme, then, harmonized in block chords with triads (some, as is typical for Janáðek, spiced with added seconds and sixths) and warmly presented by horns and harps, seems to be doing the work of adding humanity and subjectivity, as suggested by Ewans and Tyrrell. 14 It is not necessary, though, to attach specific meanings to the individual musical topics in order to hear a drama created by the contrast between them or, later, to hear that conflict amplified and expanded over the course of the entire opera. Janáðek goes to considerable trouble to link these musical topics together. Most obvious, the timpani fourths that underlie Rudolf’s fanfares intrude upon the first theme before the fanfares proper appear, and the same fourths persist through the chorale. Janáðek also makes a show of combining the fanfares with the chorale, sounding both elements simultaneously shortly before the “recapitulation.” As Vogel has pointed out, all three melodies contain a second followed by a fifth.15 Both the fanfare and the chorale begin with those intervals in

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harmony and m ortality in

bœ & 38 b œ J

œ œ

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

œ bœ œ bœ

bœ bœ

b b œœ ... bœ

? 3 bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ 8 bœ nœ nœ #œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ bœ. & bœ.

bœ bœ J

bœ bœ

bœ bœ bœ bœ

œ œ

? œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ ‰ bb œœ .. & bœ.

“ f bœ bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ .. œ.

œ œ œ œ œ bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? bœ bœ bœ œ bœ œ œ bœ œ œ Example 7.1. The Makropulos Case, Act I, [1]. Più mosso D 

3 3 b œ^ 3 œ œ œ b & 8 œ œ b œ œ œ b œœ œJ (Behind the scenes)

? 3 bœ. 8

bœ œ

3 ^j 3 œ b œœ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ bœ

œ bœ bœ.

3 3 ^ œ b œœ œœ b œœ œ b œ J œ bœ œ

œ bœ.

bœ œ

3 3 ^j œ b œœ œ œ œ b œ œ bœ œ œ

œ bœ bœ

ϥ

Example 7.2. The Makropulos Case, Act I, [4].

descending three-note figures, and the first theme swells to a high D-flat moving through an inversion of the same figure. In a more general sense, the melodic contour of the opening theme is similar to that of the fanfare, with both themes moving down for three notes and then reversing direction for the next three. This slight resemblance is exploited in the “recapitulation,” as the first theme returns, first in canon (perhaps Janáðek was fonder of Kova÷ovic’s canonic additions to the end of Jenůfa than his pride would let him admit) and then (still in canon) in a version that blends the rhythmic and melodic shapes of the first theme and the fanfare (example 7.4).

gg b b œœ .. g b œœ .. & 38 ggg b œœ .. œ œ gggg œ . œ ‰ • R• ‰ ‰ • R R . ? 3 gg bb œœœœ .... œ œ ggbb œœœœ ... œ 8 ggg b œ . R gg ‰•R • g ‰‰•R

bœ bœ œ œ. ggg b œœ b œ b b œœœ œ gggg b œœœ ... g ‰• œ g œ R 2 2 gg bb œœ ..b œ b œœ .b œ gg b œœ .. œ ggg b œ . g ‰• R

gg b œœ .. gg b œœ & ggg œ . ‰ ‰ • œ ggg œ R . œ ? gggg b b œœœ ... g bœ. g ‰ ‰ • œR gg b œ .

2

2

Harp

2

2

bœ bœ

b bb œœœœ

bœ

2 2

bœ. ggg b œœœ ... g b œœ .. gggg bb œœœ ... g gg b œ . gg œ . g ‰• œ g R Ÿi 2 Ÿ ŸÈ 2 Ÿ œ gg bb œœ .. b œœ . œ gbbœ œ .b œ g b b œœœœœ ....œ .R R • gg œ‰ .‰ • œR ggggb b œœ .. ggg b œ . gggg b ‰• œ R•

gg b œœ .. ggg œ . • œ ‰‰ R

œ œ

b bb œœœœ

bœ bœ œ.

gg b b œœ .. ggg b œœ .. gb œ

2

2

bœ bœ

bbb œœœœ

œ

ggg bb œ œœœ .... gg œ

2 2

œ R•

œ R•

bœ bœ bœ

Example 7.3. The Makropulos Case, Act I, [5].

& 38 3 &8

& &

&

bœ F

b œœ ..

bœ

b b œœ

b b œœ ..

bœ

bœ b œœœ ..

® ® ® ®b œ ® ® bœ bœ bœ b œ b œ ® ® b œ ® œ ® ®bb œœ ® b b œœ ® ® b œ ® œ ® ® b œ ® bœ bœ bœ œ bœ bœ

bœ. bb b œœœ ...

b b œœ b œ.

b œœ ..

bœ

bœ

b bb œœœ . œ.

b b œœ

® ® ® ®b œ ® ® ® ® ® ®b œ ® ® bœ bœ bœ bœ b œ b œ ® ® b œ ® ® ®bb œœ ® bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ bœ bœ b b œœ ..

bb œœ

b œœ

œ. b b œœœ ..

bœ bœ &b œ bœ ® bœ ® b œ bœ ® b œ ® ® ® ® ® ® ® ® bœ ® œ œ bœ bœ Example 7.4. The Makropulos Case, Act I, [15].

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? bœ



harmony and m ortality in

bœ

bœ

bœ

bw

bw

bw

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

bw

Example 7.5. The Makropulos Case, Act I, opening ostinato.

Despite these similarities and manipulations, the opening material and the chorale are very different, and they create a musical tension that is not resolved until the very end of the opera. The opening ostinato is constructed from a fournote cell that can be expressed as a series of perfect fourths (example 7.5). The use of a pitch collection such as this to generate large musical sections is not unusual for Janáðek. Zdenek Skoumal has shown that the pitch content of the “Kreutzer Sonata” String Quartet’s entire first movement is generated from a similar four-note cell. In the case of the Makropulos prelude, the reach of the four-note cell is nowhere near as thorough and far-ranging as in the quartet, but the thirty-second–note ostinati for the first twenty-eight bars of the prelude all express the cell (or a transposition of it). Despite the constant thirty-second–note motion, melodically the ostinati are capable only of mechanical repetition and harmonically are only willing to move in static four-bar blocks. The ostinati bristle with energy but do not develop or lead anywhere. The combination of the intense rhythmic energy of the motoric ostinati with their melodic and harmonic immobility creates the kind of musical modernism Daniel Albright has called “motionless-within-movement.” This music frustrates processes of development and creates a “flattened musical surface,” or, as Ezra Pound called it, “horizontal music.”16 Albright’s words about Stravinsky’s Renard—”the listener can, so to speak, hear the scissors and glue pot at work”—could well be applied to the opening of Janáðek’s prelude.17 The theme that enters in the fifth bar provides a contrast with the ostinati in a number of ways. The lyricism of the theme and its passionate swells to the third bar of each four-bar clause add the element of romantic subjectivity missing from the ostinati. Further, the introduction of pitches from outside the four-note cell allows for implications of functional tonality that contradict the directionless quartal sonorities of the ostinati. This contrast is repeated even more emphatically in the middle section of the prelude. Like the opening ostinati, the offstage brass fanfares are built from stacked fourths, in this case a collection of five pitches all separated by perfect fourths. Again like the opening ostinati, the fanfares are simultaneously busy and static. The rolling triple meter of the brass flourishes is neutralized by the insistent duple groupings from the timpani, and the repeated two-bar phrases sound as if they could be repeated indefinitely—more opportunities for scissors and glue. In fact, since the fanfares are sounding faintly from a distance, it is easy to imagine that they are continuing inaudibly behind the scenes even when they are absent, an impression reinforced by their habit of peeking out from gaps in the musical fabric from the orchestra pit.

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The chorale that follows is the most triadic and functionally tonal section of the prelude, standing in a similar (but more pronounced) relationship to the fanfares as the first theme does to the ostinati. Although mostly made up of various inversions and flavors of A-flat major triads (with added sixths, sevenths, and seconds), the middle of the phrase does contain a nice dominant-to-tonic progression in A-flat major, with both dominant and tonic in root position. This conflict between music that is busy but quartal and static (ostinati and fanfares) and music that is triadic and potentially functionally tonal (first theme and chorale) is not resolved in the prelude. Although the prelude concludes with a majestic tutti statement of the chorale, it is quickly combined with the quartal fanfares and ends on what can either be heard as a G-flat major triad with added second and sixth or a transposition of the same collection of five stacked fourths that generated the fanfares (example 7.6). While various triadic sonorities permeate the remainder of The Makropulos Case, Janáðek waits until the musical and dramatic denouement of the opera to fully deploy the suggestive power of functional tonal harmony.

Music and Drama at the End of the Opera The end of the third act, in which Emilia Marty finally reveals her terrible secret and renounces the formula she has been seeking for so many years, contains, by consensus, the most moving music of The Makropulos Case. This is the music Tyrrell, as quoted earlier, called “some of the most thrilling music Janáðek ever wrote, and some of the grandest music of [the twentieth] century,” and this is the music bootleggers sought when Jessye Norman sang Marty at the Metropolitan Opera.18 A 1996 “The Talk of the Town” piece in The New Yorker profiled a “slightly disheveled and hugely annoyed man clutching an Eddie Bauer backpack,” who turned out to be a “pirating opera queen” with a portable Sony DAT player in his backpack. The bootlegger, identified only by a seat number (E22, “not his real seat”), arrived during the first intermission, furious at having missed the first act but consoled by the knowledge that “all anybody is interested in is the final act anyway. It will still make a good recording.”19 Marty’s revelation takes up about two-thirds of the last act and is split into two parts. In the first, Marty, drunk on whiskey, explains her long, strange career and finally unveils the secret of the formula. Marty dominates the action but still contends with hostile interjections from her disbelieving audience. While being interrogated by the lawyer Koletaný, Marty collapses and is led off to a bedroom to be attended to by a doctor. When she returns onstage, the second part begins. In this final section, Marty accepts her newfound mortality and expresses envy of those with normal life spans. Marty’s soprano is even more prominent in this section, nearly to the exclusion of the other voices, which are largely restricted to a murmuring male chorus hidden in the pit orchestra. The same musical contrasts

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harmony and m ortality in

j b b œœ i ‰ ‰ Ÿ ~~~~~~~ & bœ. ? bb œœ b œ ‰ ‰ bœ

b b b www

G b maj.

bw +2

‡

bw +6

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

bw bw b w bw bw ‡

Example 7.6. The Makropulos Case, Act I, three after [20].

found in the prelude are also present both within and between these two parts, albeit in a dramatic context that allows for richer readings of their meanings. The earlier portion, as appropriate for Marty’s boozy and belligerent state, is in a vigorous duple meter, with the main musical material a five-bar phrase in Janáðek’s fake folk style. This phrase shares some traits with the offstage brass fanfares from the prelude. Like the fanfares, Marty’s tipsy folk dance is a static unit that is immediately repeated and has the potential for indefinite repetition—more raw material for Janáðek’s glue pot. The fanfares are built from perfect fourths—a symmetrical collection that avoids tonal direction—and the pitches of the drunken dance are drawn from an octatonic collection (an octatonic scale is created by alternating minor and major seconds), another symmetrical collection capable of evading functional harmony. Janáðek takes advantage of these similarities to elide the dance and the fanfares, first adding an accompaniment built from a repeated perfect fourth that, like the fanfare’s timpani strokes, contradicts the meter of the melody (with the fourths implying three bars of accompaniment for every two bars of dance melody), then retaining and isolating that accompaniment before combining it with the fanfares, played by offstage horns as Marty sings her father’s name and alludes to Emperor Rudolf (vocal score, p. 160, [65]). Just as the quartal fanfares were juxtaposed with the triadic chorale in the prelude, so, too, do dances and fanfares give way to triadic music at dramatically apposite moments. In general, both dances and fanfares provide a backdrop for Marty’s rather prosaic (if sodden) narration of her fantastic past. There are moments, though, where she drops her pretense of haughty indifference. Her first such passionate outburst comes when she explains that she has returned for the formula so she may live for another three hundred years (p. 169, [85]). The prospect of renewing herself rouses her to two legato phrases that soar above the staff to high B-flats as she sings “three hundred years of life! Three hundred years of being young!” Perhaps the prospect of extending her career into the twenty-third century has brought out the singer in Marty, for this is a highly operatic display. This burst of emotion coincides with a sudden emphasis on

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major triads. Most of the outburst floats over pure A-flat major triads, with an unexpected and striking lurch to an E major triad for the word “young.” From here on the symmetrical pitch collections, both quartal and octatonic, are much less evident. Immediately after the outburst just described, the tipsy folk dance returns, but it is no longer octatonic, instead suggesting A-flat minor (p. 170, [86]). As Marty tells the story of Emperor Rudolf ordering her father to test the longevity potion on her, the fanfare returns but no longer in its formerly stable guise as an offstage brass and drums flourish. Instead, the fanfare emerges from the orchestra pit, becoming subject to manipulation and alteration. Just as the dance was uncoupled from its octatonic origins, so, too, do the fanfares become less quartal, also moving toward something that resembles A-flat minor (p. 173, two before [95]). Marty introduces herself into the story as the orchestral fabric becomes more triadic, exclaiming “And that was me! And that was me!” When she tells of lying unconscious for a week, there is an uncanny orchestral passage in which the fanfare motive is intoned slowly and quietly, harmonized in parallel major triads moving in contrary motion (example 7.7). The section’s emotional climax comes near its end, when Marty tires of telling her story and arguing with her interlocutors and accepts her mortality. Koletaný is still interrogating her and questioning her honesty, but she is weary of this game and of life itself. As she speaks her first words of true resignation and understanding—”I’ve reached the end”—a new motive enters (example 7.8). The opening gesture, built out of a perfect fourth and a major second, is one of Janáðek’s favorite configurations. It appears throughout his mature works, most notably in the first and last movements of the “Kreutzer Sonata” String Quartet and at the very end of From the House of the Dead. These pitches initially suggest a return to the quartal sonorities of the fanfares, since the three pitches can be arranged as two perfect fourths, but the accompanying voices are not quartal, and the second portion of the phrase fills in the space between B-flat and E-flat diatonically. The combination of the homophonic texture, with a clear divide between melody and accompaniment, and the poignant descending scale fragment places Marty in a new musical and psychological state—no longer tied to Rudolf’s fanfares or bound to her quest for his formula. Shortly after this, as Koletaný continues his increasingly aggressive and hostile cross-examination, Marty collapses while haltingly speaking her true name, Elina Makropulos, over a sustained G-flat major triad and a version of example 7.8, altered to conform to G-flat major (with an added second). After her collapse, Marty is led back to her bedroom. While she is offstage, solo strings, including Janáðek’s beloved viola d’amore, toy with example 7.8. Here [113] begins the second part of Marty’s great solo scene. She is now transfigured by her resignation. The stage directions describe her as “a mere shadow” and ask for “greenish light.” In the production directed by Lotfi Mansouri and Elisabeth Söderström, seen in Toronto (1989) and San Francisco (1993), not only is the stage suffused with a sickly green light, as Janáðek

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harmony and m ortality in

b bb ÇÇÇÇ ....

& 32

3 . # œœ. # œœœ. b b ww n œ # # n œœœ œœ œ n b ww

œœ Ç œœ b b ÇÇÇ

Maestoso

‰

?3 2 b b ÇÇ .. b ÇÇ ..

b ÇÇ b ÇÇ

nœ # n n œœœ

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

bw n b b www

nÇ # # n ÇÇÇ

Example 7.7. The Makropulos Case, Act III, [97].

&c &c

‡

Marty

Œ Œ

3

espress.

Œ bb œœ

3

‡

œ bœ œ Œ 3

To

pro - to,

œ Ç œ Ç

3

bœ bœ

3 b œ œ œ œ3 b œ œ

že

jsem

již

‡

u kon - ce.

œ Ç œ bb œœ œ Ç œ 3

œ œ

b œÇ . b œ b œ œ œ b œ bœ bœ bœ œ œ bœ

p 5 5 5 5 5 5 œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ œ b œ œ b œ œ bœ bœ bœ œœ œ bœ bœ bœ œœœ bœ bœ bœ œ œ œ ? c Œ Œ3 b w w w b œ. œ. w & bœ œ ? w

œ œ

bœ bœ 3

bœ

bœ 5

bœ

Ç Ç

bœ

œ

œ

œ 5

œ

œ

Example 7.8. The Makropulos Case, Act III, four before [103].

requested, but Marty (Stephanie Sundine in both houses) returns to the stage horribly aged; wizened, stooped, nearly bald, and with her few remaining wisps of hair gone white.20 By this point, Janáðek’s libretto has diverged significantly from ïapek’s play. The departure of ïapek’s Marty from the stage provides an opportunity for an extended discussion among the remaining characters about the philosophical, moral, and social implications of the Makropulos formula—a discussion Janáðek, who appears to have had not the slightest interest in this aspect of the play, omits

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completely. When ïapek’s Marty does return, she has sobered up and has a nasty headache but is just as loquacious and didactic as the other characters, going on at length about the ways in which her unnaturally long life has made it impossible for her to love, to express emotion in her singing, or to care about human affairs. By contrast, Janáðek’s Marty is grappling with a mortality she has only understood and accepted moments earlier, whereas the soul of ïapek’s heroine died centuries ago. Janáðek’s Marty is a tragic figure; ïapek’s is an object lesson. Marty’s first words upon her return are entirely Janáðek’s invention and are perhaps the most moving sentences in the libretto. “I could feel death’s hand on me. It was not so dreadful,” she says, over repeated invocations of the first half of example 7.8 (p. 181, [113]). Janáðek has one more grand musical gesture left. When Marty announces that “in me life has come to a halt, Jesus Christ, and can go no further,” the orchestra introduces a new musical element, the lushest and most lyrical in the opera (example 7.9). Only four bars long, it is more a cadential figure than a theme or a motive. In an opera that has so persistently avoided functional tonal harmony, it is striking that the top line of the figure is sweetened with parallel thirds and that the harmony is a clear perfect-authentic cadence in D-flat major, moving from subdominant (ii6/5) to dominant (V7) to tonic. Marty can go no further, and Janáðek’s music, for the first time in the opera, comes to a proper full close. Nearly all the remaining music in the opera is constructed from this lyrical cadential figure. The culmination of the opera in music that is not only triadic but also functionally tonal and the ways that music is juxtaposed with quartal and octatonic sonorities echo the tensions in the prelude among the bustling fourths of the opening ostinato, the harmonically static fanfares, and the triadic chorale. On one level, Janáðek is merely doing what all great opera composers do—using musical conflicts and tensions to heighten and enrich dramatic situations. Marty’s demise is a heartbreakingly effective operatic moment that need not have anything to do with speech melodies, Czech folk music, or Kamila Stösslová. This could very well be the conclusion of the chapter and of the book: that Janáðek needs no special pleading, and that his music is less dependent on his theories and on biographical incident than the existing literature has suggested. In addition, though, I would like to suggest that this moment at the end of The Makropulos Case, like many of the passages discussed earlier in the book, can be linked to earlier operas—both by Janáðek and by other composers—in ways that can enhance and deepen our experiences of that moment.

The Vixen’s Cubs and Valhalla’s End I alluded in chapter 4 to a similar juxtaposition of musical materials in Janáðek’s previous opera, The Cunning Little Vixen. In that instance, near the beginning of Act III, the poacher Harašta has just found a dead hare while wandering in the Vixen’s woods. He is about to pick it up when he is confronted by the Forester,

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harmony and m ortality in

. & 32 Œ b b œœ bb ÇÇÇ .. bœ F dolce ? 3 b Œw .. b œ b Ç . 2bw b b ww ..

œœ œ œ

b b ÇÇ .. bÇ.

b Çww .. b Ç . ww . .

b œœ œœ œœ b œœ œ œ bœ b œ b bb ÇÇÇÇ b œ

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

b ww .. bw.

b bb wwww ... .

ww .. w.

ww .. ww ..

Example 7.9. The Makropulos Case, Act III, four after [121].

who warns him off of the hare. As the humans leave, the Vixen, Lišák, and the fox cubs appear. They sniff around the dead hare, conclude (correctly) that it is a trap laid by humans, and smugly and triumphantly leave it alone. Harašta’s music is predominantly drawn from whole tone collections, typified by a distinctively jagged figure that outlines a descending whole tone scale (vocal score, p. 136, [6], p. 138, [9], and p. 142, [14]). Like the quartal and octatonic collections in The Makropulos Case, whole tone collections are symmetrical and ill suited to suggest functional tonality. Even in the rare moments when Harašta is not surrounded by whole tones, as when he is obsequiously lying to the Forester, his music is drawn from perfect fourths, still restricted by symmetry. As Harašta exits, cackling, the orchestral music is drawn entirely from a whole tone collection and is suffused with whole tone scales, both ascending and descending.21 The musical texture changes dramatically as the fox cubs enter (p. 143, [15]). The tempo more than doubles, and Harašta’s nebulous whole tones are supplanted by a pure B-flat major triad, pounding open fifths, and a fake folk melody in B-flat major with a Lydian fourth. This is the analogue to the brass chorale in the Makropulos prelude and to Marty’s music from the end of the opera, triadic music with clear tonal implications that is set into relief by the symmetrical collections around it. The raised fourth in the fox cubs’ melody does present an interesting ambiguity, since it can either be heard as a Lydian fourth in B-flat major (and we do hear it that way at first) or as part of a whole tone scale. As the fox cubs discover the trap and become suspicious of it, Janáðek takes advantage of this ambiguity to harmonize fragments of the fox cubs’ song with whole tones. When they decide to leave the trap alone (their glee echoing Harašta’s cackles), the fox cubs’ melody returns in B-flat major, where the music remains for a tender moment between Lišák and the Vixen. The dramatic situation in The Cunning Little Vixen is hardly analogous to that found at the end of The Makropulos Case, and dancing fox cubs seem to have little in common with potentially immortal sopranos. Nonetheless, Janáðek’s musical decisions in The Makropulos Case do seem inspired by a conflict present in both operas, namely, that between the natural and the unnatural. This tension is most obvious in The Cunning Little Vixen, where humans and animals live in parallel worlds, with Janáðek repeatedly privileging the realm of the animals. The fox cubs’ song

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from Act III presents a particularly clear instance of this conflict. Not only is there an alternation onstage between groups of humans and animals, but the humans are presented in an especially unflattering light. Harašta lies when caught in the act of poaching, and even the Forester, the most sympathetic human character in the opera, has killed a hare solely to trap the Vixen rather than to feed himself. The humans are caught up in artifice and deceit, and this is reflected musically in harmonically unmoored whole tone passages. The fox cubs, however, are not only clever enough to see through the trap but are part of a natural cycle of feeding and fecundity, a naturalness reflected by the simple triads that accompany their song. In The Makropulos Case, the unnatural element is Marty’s age. Until she accepts mortality, her music is just as untethered from functional tonal harmony as that of Harašta. As she becomes resigned to submitting to the natural process of aging, her music becomes more triadic. In Janáðek’s moral universe, she must begin to age again to become a fox cub rather than a poacher. There may also be a faint echo at the end of The Makropulos Case of an opera from even further in the past than The Cunning Little Vixen: Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. The lyrical cadential figure from Makropulos is a sort of partially upsidedown descendant of the motive that appears twice in the Ring Cycle, once when Brünnhilde tells Sieglinde she is carrying Siegfried and again at the very end of the entire cycle (example 7.10). Although this two-bar passage is not treated like a leitmotif, only appearing in these two locations, and is not subject to the kind of transformation and development more typical of the Ring motives, it is generally referred to as the “Redemption motive” (according to Cosima Wagner, Richard Wagner called it the “Glorification of Brünnhilde”).22 The musical parallels between the motives in Makropulos and in Götterdämmerung are admittedly rather tenuous. Both passages are about the same length, share a turning figure, have a similar harmonic rhythm, and are generally harmonized as cadential figures (although Wagner reverses the subdominant and dominant, moving I–vi–V–IV–I)—but these are not unusual traits. The dramatic similarities, though, are considerably more striking. Both motives appear at the end of lengthy (mostly) solo scenes for soprano (with Janáðek, characteristically, operating within a more compressed time scale than Wagner), in which an object with supernatural powers (the ring, the Makropulos formula) is neutralized by an element (water, fire) and an age of immortals (Wagner’s gods, Marty) gives way to one of ordinary humans. These correspondences can be heightened by directorial choices, as in the 1996 Elijah Moshinsky production at the Metropolitan Opera (starring Jessye Norman and bootlegged by “E-22”) that ended with the stage engulfed in flames as an enormous portrait of Norman-as-Marty burned, suggesting the immolation of Valhalla (at the very least to Bernard Holland, who described Norman as “cast[ing] herself Brunnhilde-like into the flames” in his review for The New York Times).23 I also argued in chapter 5 that the actual burning of the Makropulos formula is accompanied by music reminiscent of Loge’s dancing flames, which, if accepted, would strengthen the case for a Wagnerian reading of Marty’s final scene.

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harmony and m ortality in

Ç. bb b b 6 Ç . & b 8

œœœ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ ? bb 6 J œœ bbb 8

œ. œ.

cresc.

œ. bb b b œ . & b

œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ? bb J bbb

‰

&

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

œ œ

œ œ Ç. œ œ Ç.

œœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœJ ‰ ‰? j œœœ œ

œ œ œ œ ‰

œ. œœ . œ. œ œ œ œ œ ^ f ÇÇ ... Ç œ œ œ œ ‰

Example 7.10. Wagner, Götterdämmerung, conclusion (“Redemption motive”).

Regardless of whether one hears an echo of the “Redemption motive” in The Makropulos Case or accepts the idea that the end of Makropulos recalls the conclusion of the Ring Cycle, there is something both striking and moving about the coincidence of musical and dramatic events at the moment Marty announces she has felt the hand of death upon her. I suggested earlier that it is appropriate that the orchestra cadences as Marty realizes her life is over, but it would be even better to hear the moment as a beginning rather than an ending. Yes, the move from subdominant through dominant to tonic is a cadence, but it also marks a return to functional tonal harmony, to the natural movement of harmonies through time Janáðek has been tempting us with but denying us since the beginning of the opera. The fact that this return to a centuries-old harmonic procedure should coincide with Marty’s return to the natural cycle of aging and death is a masterstroke and fully merits the acclaim it has received. This is hardly a thorough reading of the conclusion of The Makropulos Case, let alone of the opera as a whole. Nonetheless, I hope it can stand as an example of the type of critical effort Janáðek’s music both deserves and demands. In this case, it was possible to make that effort without recourse to discussions of speech melodies, Czech folk music, or Janáðek’s psychology or biography. There is no reason why these elements, all of which have been central to Janáðek reception, should be excluded from critical writings, but there is also no reason why we should be limited by them. Janáðek’s music is rich and subtle and can bear a variety of responses and interpretations. This book is intended to provide suggestions for paths that have yet to be fully explored and to provoke further passionate engagement with Janáðek’s music. I am confident that Janáðek’s music, especially the operas, will continue to inspire vigorous debate and varied responses.

Notes Chapter One 1. Texaco Metropolitan Opera broadcast, January 15, 2000. 2. Adele Geras, The Random House Book of Opera Stories (New York: Random House, 1997), 54–67; The Cunning Little Vixen: The Animated Film of Janáček’s Opera, DVD (Waldron, Heathfield, East Sussex, UK: BBC Opus Arte, 2003); Bernard MacLaverty, Grace Notes (New York: Norton, 1997). The passages about Janáðek are on pages 62 and 84–86. 3. Paul Robinson, “Reading Libretti and Misreading Opera,” in Reading Opera, ed. Arthur Groos and Roger Parker (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 330–38. As Robinson points out, though, unintelligibility is an inherent part of the operatic listening experience, no matter what the language of the libretto. He suggests that the average operagoer understands no more of the sung text of an opera in German or Italian than he or she does of one in Czech. 4. The Janáðek-Mahler correspondence is reprinted and translated in John Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas: A Documentary Account (London: Faber and Faber, 1992), 61–62. 5. Matthew Gurewitsch, “Bringing Down Houses, from ‘Mony Mony’ to Opera,” The New York Times, Sunday, May 21, 2000, Arts and Leisure section, 41–42. Turay also declared that “Moses und Aron was no fun.” 6. Rebecca Mead, “Our Local Correspondents: Man Behind the Curtain,” The New Yorker, October 22, 2007, 149. 7. Heaney’s translation has been published (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2000), and Bostridge has recorded the cycle in Czech (EMI CD 5 57219–2). 8. Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermeneutical Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), xvi–xvii. 9. Miloš Št¥droÞ, “Mladý konzervativec—v stá÷í avantgardista?!?,” in Leoš Janáček a hudba 20. století: Paralely, sondy, dokumenty (Brno: Nadace Universitas Masarykiana, 1998), 225–33. 10. Ibid., 232–33. 11. Milan Kundera, “Janáðek,” trans. Susan Huston, in Cross Currents: A Yearbook of Central European Culture [no. 2], ed. Ladislav Matejka and Benjamin Stolz (Ann Arbor: Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures, University of Michigan, 1983), 371. 12. Jaromil Jireš, writer and director, Leoš Janáček (Prague: Supraphon Music Video, 1986). 13. Erwin Schulhoff: Schriften, ed. Tobias Widmaier, Verdrängte Musik, Band 7 (Hamburg: von Bockel, 1995), 51. “Janáðek zählt (so erstaunlich es auch klingen mag) als Siebzigjähriger zur jüngsten Komponistengeneration, deren Kampf er auch auszufechten hat.” 14. Hanns Eisler, “Konzert und Oper 1927,” in Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948 (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1973), 57. “etwas ganz Einzigartiges unter den heutigen bürgerlichen Komponisten. . . . als alter Mann noch von erstaunlicher Schaffenskraft.”

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notes to pp. 5–7

15. Presumably Cowell’s phonetic transcription of Janáðek’s name, as he had heard it in Brno, with the extra “r” indicating the elongated second syllable. 16. Both Cowell’s letter and the proceedings of the Club of Moravian Composers are reprinted in Št¥droÞ, Paralely, 123–24. 17. John Tyrrell, “Leoš Janáðek,” in The New Grove Turn of the Century Masters (New York: W. W. Norton, 1985), 26. 18. Jim Samson, ed., The Late Romantic Era: From the Mid-19th Century to World War I (London: Macmillan, 1991), 234. 19. Donald Jay Grout, with Hermine Weigel Williams, A Short History of Opera, 3rd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 679. 20. Richard Taruskin, The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 4, The Early Twentieth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 421–22. 21. Carl Dahlhaus, Die Musik des 19. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Akademische Verlagsgesellschaft, 1980), 300. “Aussenseiter in provinzieller Isolierung.” 22. William W. Austin, Music in the 20th Century: From Debussy through Stravinsky (New York: Norton, 1966), 77. 23. Elliott Antokoletz, Twentieth-Century Music (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1992), 146. 24. Grout, Short History of Opera, 679. 25. J. Peter Burkholder, Donald J. Grout, and Claude V. Palisca, A History of Western Music, 7th ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 2006), 788. 26. Schulhoff, Schriften, 51. “[Janáðek] musiziert seine mährische Erde, welche für ihn Klang bedeutet.” 27. Reprinted in Susan Cook, Opera for a New Republic: The Zeitopern of Krenek, Weill, and Hindemith (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988), 202. 28. Dahlhaus, Musik des 19. Jahrhunderts, 300. “Die Nähe zur Neuen Musik, die sich bei Janáðek fühlbar macht, hängt mit den folkloristischen Tendenzen, denen er nachging . . . eng zusammen.” 29. Theodor W. Adorno, Philosophie der neuen Musik, vol. 12, Theodor W. Adorno: Gesammelte Schriften (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1975), 41n3. “Wo die Entwicklungstendenz der okzidentalen Musik nicht rein sich durchgesetzt hat”; “hat die wahrhaft exterritoriale Musik . . . eine Kraft der Verfremdung, die sich der Avantgarde gesellt und nicht der nationalistischen Reaktion.” 30. Theodor W. Adorno, “Die stabilisierte Musik,” in Theodor W. Adorno: Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 18, Musikalische Schriften V (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1984), 721–28 (especially 725 and 727). See also Max Paddison, Adorno’s Aesthetics of Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 44–47. 31. Leoš Janáðek, “Mo÷e, zem¥,” Lidové noviny, June 13, 1926, reprinted in Janáčkovy Feuilletony z L.N., ed. Jan Racek and Leoš Firkušný (Brno: Nákladem Doboðinného komitétu v Brn¥, 1938), 126. “My všichni tu: Schrecker a Schönberg.” English translation in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays on Music, ed. and trans. Mirka Zemanová (London: Marion Boyars, 1989), 234. 32. Janáðek to Max Brod, Hukvaldy, June 10, 1926, Korespondence Leoše Janáčka s Maxem Brodem, ed. Jan Racek and Artuš Rektorys (Prague: Státní nakladatelství krásné literatury, hudby a um¥ní, 1953), 203. “Schrecker i Schönberg p÷išli ke mn¥ a poklonami o Káti Kabanové! To mne nejvíce t¥šilo.” 33. The speech is reproduced in facsimile and transcribed in Št¥droÞ, Paralely, 251– 58. For more on Janáðek’s relations with Schreker and Schoenberg, see Miloš Št¥droÞ,

notes to pp. 7–9



139

“Janáðek und der Expressionismus,” in Leoš Janáček—Materialien: Aufsätze zu Leben und Werk, ed. Jakob Knaus (Zurich: Leoš Janáðek–Gesellschaft, 1982), 97–101. 34. Leoš Janáðek, Lidové noviny, November 8, 1925, reprinted in Janáčkovy Feuilletony, 123. English translation in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 226. “ðp¥la . . . hospodou.” “Basta!” 35. Leoš Janáðek, “Adolf Šrajbr,” Lidové noviny, September 25, 1921, reprinted in Janáčkovy Feuilletony, 137. “Ale jak dlouho kráðel Beethoven ve stopách Mozartových i Haydnových? A u nás nemáme ješt¥ dosti Mahlerø, Straussø, Schönbergø, Debussych? Vždyť vše se za nimi plahoði. Proð?” 36. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 127. 37. Theodor W. Adorno, Theodor W. Adorno: Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 19, Musikalische Schriften VI (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1984), 151. 38. Reviews of these two pieces are reprinted in ibid., 72, 149–53. English translations by Susan H. Gillespie of the Makropulos reviews are in Michael Beckerman, ed., Janáček and His World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), 45–48. 39. Jarmil Burghauser, “Some Aspects of the Phylogeny of Czech Music,” in Colloquium: Dvořák, Janáček and Their Time, ed. Rudolf Peðman (Brno: ïeska hudební spoleðnost, 1985), 18. 40. Ibid., 20. 41. Miloš Št¥droÞ, “Janáðek and His Relation to the Avant-Garde of the 1920’s,” in Prof. Jiří Fukač: Festschrift/Commemorative Book, ed. Stanislav Bohadlo (Hradec Králové: Gaudeamus, 1998), 153–54. 42. Winton Dean, “Janáðek and ‘Kátya Kabanová,’ “ The Listener 51 (1954): 945. Reprinted in John Tyrrell, Leoš Janáček: Káťa Kabanová (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 171. 43. Tyrrell, Káťa Kabanová, 6. 44. Charles Mackerras, “My Life with Janáðek’s Music,” from the liner notes for Janáček: The Cunning Little Vixen, Sinfonietta, Schluck und Jau, Jealousy, etc., Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Charles Mackerras (Supraphon CD SU 3739–2 032, 2004), 8. 45. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 54–55. 46. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 86. Emphasis in original. 47. Joseph Kerman, Opera as Drama, new and rev. ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 204. 48. For the problematic history of the use of the term “verismo” in music, see Andreas Giger, “Verismo: Origin, Corruption, and Redemption of an Operatic Term,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 60 (Summer 2007): 271–316. 49. Theodora Straková, “Janáðek und der Verismus,” in Colloquium Leoš Janáček et musica Europaea, Brno, 1968, ed. Rudolf Peðman. (Brno: International Music Festival, 1970), 67–80. 50. Ibid., 72–73. “Vor allem unterscheidet sich Janáðeks Kompostionsprinzip durchaus von jenem der Veristen. Die Melodik stützt sich auf folkloristische Elemente und auf Sprechmotive . . . Janáðek zitiert in Jenufa keine fremde Melodie. Auch in dieser Hinsicht ist die Melodik dieser Oper von dem melodischen Denken der Veristen weit entfernt.” 51. Carl Dahlhaus, Musikalischer Realismus: Zur Musikgeschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Munich: Piper, 1982), 121. 52. Št¥droÞ, “Avant-Garde of the 1920’s,” 155. 53. Miloš Št¥droÞ, “Janáðek, Verismus a Impresionismus,” Časopis Moravského Musea (1968–69): 141–42.

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notes to pp. 9–14

54. Tyrrell suggests that Janáðek removed the overture to Jenůfa in direct response to having heard Charpentier’s Louise in 1903. See Mackerras, “My Life with Janáðek’s Music,” 10. 55. Št¥droÞ, Paralely, 21–32. 56. For Osud, see ibid., 33–39; Št¥droÞ, “Verismus a Impresionismus,” 140–41; Hans Holländer, Leoš Janáček: His Life and Work, trans. Paul Hamburger (London: John Calder, 1963), 133. For more on the connections between Osud and Louise, see John Tyrrell, Janáček: Years of a Life. vol. 1 (1854–1914), The Lonely Blackbird (London: Faber and Faber, 2006), 583–89. For Brouček, see Št¥droÞ, Paralely, 40–48. 57. Dahlhaus discusses both operas in his Musikalischer Realismus, and Herbert Lindenberger describes both as “exercises in verismo.” Lindenberger, Opera: The Extravagant Art (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), 48. 58. Robin Holloway, “Expressive Sources and Resources in Janáðek’s Musical Language,” in Janáček Studies, ed. Paul Wingfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 8. 59. Jaroslav Vogel, Leoš Janáček: A Biography, rev. and ed. Karel Janovický; trans. Geraldine Thomsen-Muchová (New York: W. W. Norton, 1981), 22. 60. Jane Boutwell, “Janáðek,” The Talk of the Town, The New Yorker, March 4, 1991, 28.

Chapter Two 1. Karel ïapek, “Historie dirigenta Kaliny,” in Povídky z druhé kapsy (Prague: Fr. Borový, 1947), 88–95. English translations from Karel ïapek, “The Orchestra Conductor’s Story,” in Tales from Two Pockets, trans. Norma Comrada (New Haven: Catbird Press, 1994), 266–72. 2. As Michael Beckerman points out, something like “tunelet” would be a better translation of the diminutive “náp¥vek,” but the phrase “speech melody” is standard in the English-language Janáðek literature. Beckerman, Janáček as Theorist (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon, 1994), viii, 47n25. 3. For an overview of Janáðek’s writings about speech melodies, see Paul Wingfield, “Janáðek’s Speech-Melody Theory in Concept and Practice,” Cambridge Opera Journal 4, no. 3 (November 1992): 282–84. 4. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 121. 5. Tyrrell, Years of a Life I, 479. 6. Bohumír Št¥droÞ’s catalog of Janáðek’s writings about speech melodies includes ninety-eight items, written between 1885 and 1928. Some of these writing, though, especially those from before 1897, are only loosely connected to the concept of speech melody. See, for instance, John Tyrrell’s discussion of Janáðek’s 1885 review of Shakespeare’s Othello. Št¥droÞ, Zur Genesis von Leoš Janáčeks Opera Jenufa (Brno: Universita J. E. Purkyn¥, 1968), 149–52; Tyrrell, Years of a Life I, 479–80. 7. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 121–22. 8. Ibid., 86. 9. Leoš Janáðek, Letters and Reminiscences, ed. Bohumír Št¥droÞ, trans. Geraldine Thomsen (Prague: Artia, 1955), 90. 10. Paul Wingfield, for instance, points out that one such Hipp’s Chronoscope reading would imply a tempo of quarter note=ca. 650 for the associated speech melody. Wingfield, “Janáðek’s Speech-Melody Theory,” 288. See also Janáðek’s 1922 feuilleton,

notes to pp. 14–19



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“H[ippsche]. Ch[ronoskop].,” reprinted in Leoš Janáðek, Literární dilo (1875–1928), ed. Theodora Straková and Eva Drlíková (Brno: Editio Janáðek, 2003), 1:490–94. Paul Christiansen has also suggested that some of Janáðek’s speech melodies are “too tonal” and were probably altered to imply a clearer tonal shape. Christiansen, “The Meaning of Speech Melody for Leoš Janáðek,” Journal of Musicological Research 23 (2004): 253. 11. John Tyrrell, Janáček: Years of a Life, vol. 2 (1914–1928), Tsar of the Forests (London: Faber and Faber, 2007), 428–29. See also Brass Instrument Psychology at the University of Toronto, “Hipp Chronoscope,” http://www.psych.utoronto.ca/museum/hippchron.htm (accessed April 28, 2008). 12. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:478. 13. Janáðek, Letters and Reminiscences, 91. This has not, however, prevented attempts to perform Janáðek’s speech melodies. Iva Bittová, for instance, has recorded a selection of speech melodies arranged for girl’s choir and pan flute: Janáček Unknown IV (Supraphon CD SU 3349–2 931, 1998). 14. Miloš Št¥droÞ, “Direct Discourse and Speech Melody in Janáðek’s Operas,” in Janáček Studies, ed. Paul Wingfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 80. 15. Letter dated May 21, 1897, quoted in Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:455. 16. Michael Heim, Contemporary Czech (Columbus, OH: Slavica, 1982), 22–23. 17. Ibid., 11. 18. Bedřich Smetana: Letters and Reminiscences, ed. František Bartoš; trans. Daphne Rusbridge (Prague: Artia, 1955), 44. 19. Eliška Krásnohorská, “O ðeské deklamaci hudební,” Hudební listy 2 (March 1871), quoted in Jan Smaczny, “Cypresses and Its Metamorphoses,” in Rethinking Dvořák: Views from Five Countries, ed. David R. Beveridge (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 62. Emphasis in original. 20. John Tyrrell, Czech Opera (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 257. 21. Janáðek had the first edition of the piano-vocal score (overture for piano four hands) published by Hudební matice of Prague in 1872. This is the edition with a cover identifying the librettist, Karel Sabina, only by his initials. Despite his services to the formation of Czech nationalist opera, Sabina had been exposed as a police informer and was in disgrace. See ibid., 117–18, and the reproduction of the title page on page 243. 22. John Tyrrell also points out that some of Smetana’s mis-stressings may have been intended for comic effect and that some of his themes were conceived without words, with Sabina’s poetry wrestled onto them after the fact. Ibid., 263. 23. Ibid., 270. For more on Hostinský, see Brian S. Locke, Opera and Ideology in Prague: Polemics and Practice at the National Theater 1900–1938 (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2006), 22–35. 24. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 270; Smaczny, “Cypresses,” 61–62. 25. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 270. 26. Smaczny, “Cypresses,” 63–67. 27. Examples can be heard in the 1961 Prague Radio broadcast of Karel Kova÷ovic’s Psolavci (The Dogheads), conducted by František Dyk (Supraphon SU CD 3357–2 603), and the Zden¥k Chalabala recording of Rusalka, also from 1961 (Supraphon SU 0013–2 612). 28. Quoted in Janáček-Newmarch Correspondence, ed. Zdenka E. Fischmann (Rockville, MD: Kabel, 1979, 2nd ed. 1990), 59. 29. Rostislav Dubinsky, Stormy Applause: Making Music in a Worker’s State (New York: Hill and Wang, 1989), 17. 30. Št¥droÞ, “Direct Discourse,” 80.

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notes to pp. 19–27

31. Wilfrid Mellers, “Synopsis: Innocence and Guilt in ‘Káťa Kabanová,’ “ in Tyrrell, comp., Leoš Janáček: Káťa Kabanová, 71. 32. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 14–15. 33. Jan Racek, Leoš Janáček, trans. Barbara Richli-Krause (Leipzig: Reclam, 1970 [1962]), 84. Racek’s biography is one of the two Janáðek sources cited by Dahlhaus in Realism in Nineteenth-Century Music (the other is Michael Ewan’s Janáček’s Tragic Operas). The passage from Racek cited is also discussed in John Tyrrell, “Janáðek and the SpeechMelody Myth,” Musical Times 111, no. 1530 (August 1970): 793. For more on Dahlhaus, Janáðek, and realism, see Wingfield, “Janáðek’s Speech-Melody Theory,” 284–86. 34. Carl Dahlhaus, Realism in Nineteenth-Century Music, trans. Mary Whittall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 104. 35. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:486. 36. Leoš Janáðek, “Náp¥vky naší mluvy vynikající zvláštní dramatiðností,” reprinted in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:296. 37. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:508; Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 121–22. Emphasis in original. 38. Leoš Janáðek, “Around Jenůfa,” in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 91; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:429. 39. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 122; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:616. 40. Janáček-Newmarch Correspondence, 101. Janáðek was apparently reacting to Alfred Einstein’s Das neue Musiklexicon; see 102n157. 41. Tyrrell, “Speech-Melody Myth,” 793. 42. Janáðek, “Around Jenůfa,” 90; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:428. 43. Leoš Janáðek, “Moravany! Morawaan!” (1918), reprinted in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 40–42; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:444–45. Emphasis in original. 44. Janáðek did create miniature musical settings of speech melodies in two of his essays. See Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:495, 1:523–26; also Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:481. 45. Leoš Janáðek, “O výzanamu Její pastorkyně,” reprinted in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:310. See also Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 137. 46. Janáðek, “Around Jenůfa,” 86; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:426. Emphasis in original. 47. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 282–92. See also Tyrrell, “Speech-Melody Myth,” 794. 48. Tyrrell, Káťa Kabanová, 9–18. 49. Tyrrell, “Speech-Melody Myth,” 794–95. 50. Wingfield, “Janáðek’s Speech-Melody Theory,” 289. 51. Ibid., 292, 298. 52. Ibid., 298–99. 53. Once in the Archiv Narodního Divadlo v Brn¥, the score is now in the Janáðek Archive (in the Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum), call number T1–416 b and c. In addition to Janáðek’s changes and corrections, the score also has marks in blue pencil by František Neumann, who conducted the first performances. 54. The equivalent passage in the earlier version is mostly illegible, and Janáðek scratched out much of it with a knife. There appear to be at least two earlier settings, neither of which coincides with either version in Neumann’s score. 55. Leoš Janáðek, “Moje Luhaðovice [My Luhaðovice],” reprinted in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:301–9. The speech melody discussed later is on p. 307. There is an excerpt in English translation in Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 110–11. 56. Notebook 27, Z 27, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. The speech melody appears to have been collected between August 30 and September 7, 1903.

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57. The proofs for the article show no changes here. Proofs, LS 55, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 58. The letter is excerpted and translated in Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 109–10. For details about the opera’s gestations, see Nigel Simeone, John Tyrell, and Alena N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works: A Catalogue of the Music and Writings of Leoš Janáček (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 21–22. 59. This excerpt is taken from the authorized vocal score, A 7454, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 60. Jaroslav Vogel argues that the minor seventh is part of a motive that permeates Act II and is connected to the Živný family. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 174. 61. Wingfield cites work by Carl Dahlhaus and Carolyn Abbate. Wingfield, “Janáðek’s Speech-Melody Theory,” 301, n49. 62. Št¥droÞ, “Direct Discourse,” 81. 63. Olin Downes, “The Music of Janacek, Composer of ‘Jenufa,’ to Be Heard at Metropolitan,” The New York Times, July 13, 1924. 64. Št¥droÞ, “Direct Discourse,” 103. 65. The passage in question is on pages 70–71 of the Universal Edition full score of the 1908 Brno version. The first act was completed in full score by 1897, if Janáðek’s own program note for the 1904 Brno production is to be trusted. Leoš Janáðek, Jenůfa: její pastorkyňa, rev. ed., libretto by Gabriela Preissová, ed. Charles Mackerras and John Tyrrell (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1993; UE 30 140), xx; Leoš Janáðek, “O výzanamu Její pastorkyně,” reprinted in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:310. 66. Milan Kundera, Testaments Betrayed, trans. Linda Asher (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 135. 67. Ibid. 68. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:489.

Chapter Three 1. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:80, 134. 2. Ibid., 1:80–81. 3. Ibid., 1:81. 4. Ibid., 1:444. 5. Ibid., 1:445. 6. English translations of these reviews can be found in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 160–63, 176–79. 7. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:438–43. 8. There is also an 1876 melodrama, after Lermontov, now lost, and fragments of two projected Tolstoy operas, Anna Karenina (1907) and The Living Corpse (1916). 9. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:61. 10. Hans Kohn, Pan-Slavism: Its History and Ideology, 2nd ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 1960), ix. 11. Lonnie R. Johnson, Central Europe: Enemies, Neighbors, Friends (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 132. 12. See ibid., 130–34; Larry Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), 311–15. 13. Kohn, Pan-Slavism, 20–23. 14. Ibid., 80.

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notes to pp. 33–40

15. Stanley Kimball, Czech Nationalism: A Study of the National Theatre Movement, 1845– 83 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1964), 89. 16. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:59. Svatopluk ruled the Great Moravian Empire in the late ninth century. 17. Ibid., 1:71. 18. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 283. 19. Ibid., 319; Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:717–21, 724. 20. H. Louis Rees, The Czechs during World War I (Boulder: East European Monographs, 1992), 8–9. 21. Ibid., 12. 22. Ibid., 13. 23. Ibid., 16. 24. Robert A. Kann, A History of the Habsburg Empire 1526–1918 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 489. Kramá÷ was amnestied in July 1917. 25. Zdenka Janáðková, My Life with Janáček: The Memoirs of Zdenka Janáčková, ed. and trans. John Tyrrell (London: Faber and Faber, 1998), 121. 26. Ibid., 122. 27. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 213. 28. See Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 223. 29. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:745. 30. The gentle duet seems to have a very different effect from the vigorous sonata movement, but it is not so removed in character from Janáðek’s first version of the melody. The sonata melody’s first appearance (m. 17) in the discarded Allegro that Janáðek originally intended as the fourth movement of the Violin Sonata is slower and more lyrical than its eventual incarnations in the final version of the sonata. See Alena N¥mcová’s notes to the Complete Critical Edition of the Works of Leoš Janáček, series E, vol. 2 (Prague and Kassel: Supraphon and Bärenreiter, 1988). This volume includes the discarded Allegro. The relationship between that movement and the eventual third movement, generally described as a “reworking,” is almost entirely limited to the reuse of the pentatonic melody and the combination of it with descending scalar figures. 31. The similarities among the Violin Sonata, Pohádka, and the “sleigh bell theme” from Káťa were also noted by Jaroslav Vogel. See Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 214. 32. The identification of fall 1916 for the new fourth movement of the Violin Sonata (later reworked as the eventual third movement) is conjectural and rests rather heavily on the similarities between the Violin Sonata theme and the Mazal-Malinka duet from The Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon. See N¥mcová’s notes in the Works of Leoš Janáček, series E, vol. 2; Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 223. 33. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 213. 34. This comparison was suggested by Karel Janovický, who edited and revised the 1981 English translation of Vogel’s Janáðek biography. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 216n. 35. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 200. 36. Cited in Hugh MacDonald, “Narrative in Janáðek’s Symphonic Poems,” in Janáček Studies, ed. Paul Wingfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 47–48. 37. Leoš Janáðek to Gabriela Horvátová, March 1918, in Korespondence Leoše Janáčka s Gabrielou Horvátovou, ed. Artuš Rektorys (Prague: Hudební Matice, 1950), 83. 38. Svatava P÷ibáÞová, notes to The Complete Critical Edition of the Works of Leoš Janáček, series D, vol. 7 (Prague: Supraphon, 1980), xvi. 39. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 240, 242. Vogel must have spoken with Janáðek in 1924, after one of the two performances by the Czech Philharmonic and Václav Talich,

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either on November 9 or December 8. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 202. 40. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 243. 41. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 203. 42. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 243. 43. Bakala’s trumpet parts can be heard in his own performances, including a 1952 recording with the Brno Radio Symphony Orchestra (Multisonic 31 0184–2), and in later recordings with the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Karel Anðerl (EMI CZS 5 75091, 1961) and Ji÷í B¥lohlávek (Chandos CHAN 9080, 1991). 44. Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:527. English translation in P÷ibáÞová, notes to Works of Leoš Janáček, series D, vol. 7, xvi. 45. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 202–3. 46. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:48, 298, 398, 448. 47. Translations by Paula Kennedy, from the liner notes to Janáček Choral Works, Netherlands Chamber Choir, conducted by Reinbert de Leeuw (Philips CD 442 534–2, 1995). 48. See Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 220. 49. Uncredited translation in liner notes to the CD Janáček: Choruses for Male Voices, Moravian Teachers Choir, conducted by Mát Lubomír (Naxos 8.553623). Music by František Škroup, from Josef Kajetán Tyl‘s 1834 comedy Fidlovačka. The song was an unofficial anthem during the Habsburg era, and its first strophe, in combination with the first strophe of a Slovak song, was adopted as the official Czechoslovak anthem in 1918. Before the 1992 “Velvet Divorce” of the Czech and Slovak republics, a long-standing joke claimed that the pause between the Czech and Slovak portions of the national anthem was the Moravian anthem. 50. See Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:445–51, 737–39; 2:749–51. 51. Catalog numbers are from Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works.

Chapter Four 1. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, ix. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid. 5. Max Brod, Prager Sternenhimmel: Musik- und Theatererlebnisse der Zwanziger Jahre (Vienna: Paul Zsolnay, 1966), 33. The essays were first published in 1923. 6. Rosa Newmarch, The Music of Czechoslovakia (London: Oxford University Press, 1942), 213. 7. Locke, Opera and Ideology in Prague, 23 (“Dalibor Wagner”); Brian Large, Smetana (New York: Praeger, 1970), 234 (“The Bartered Bride . . .”). 8. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 10. 9. For Young Czech and Old Czechs, see Kann, History of the Habsburg Empire, 349; Robert A. Kann and Zden¥k V. David, The Peoples of the Eastern Habsburg Lands, 1526–1918 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984), 304–12. For the musical politics of the National Rebirth, see Locke, Opera and Ideology in Prague, 18–35. For Masaryk’s politics, see Ivan T. Berend, History Derailed: Central and Eastern Europe in the Long Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 262–63.

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notes to pp. 53–60

10. Mirka Zemanová, Janáček (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2002), 28–30, 274n24. 11. Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:234–65. 12. See, for instance, “Dr. Antonín Dvo÷ák and Brno,” and “Looking Back at Antonín Dvo÷ák,” in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 180–82, 185–87. 13. Max Brod, Leoš Janáček: Leben und Werk, rev. and exp. ed. (Vienna: Universal, 1956), 63. 14. Locke, Opera and Ideology in Prague, 62–64. 15. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 69, 126. 16. Ibid., 126–35. 17. Ibid., 135–43. 18. Ian Horsbrugh, Leoš Janáček: The Field That Prospered (Newton Abbot, Devon, England: David & Charles, 1981), 131. 19. Brod, Leoš Janáček, 44. 20. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 227–28. 21. Svatava P÷ibáÞová, “P÷ehled inscenaci jevištního dila Leoše Janáðka z let 1894– 1998,” in Svět Janáčkových oper (Brno: Moravské Zemské Muzeum, 1998), 111–12. 22. Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, October 17, 1917, in Janáðek, Letters and Reminiscences, 148. 23. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 204. 24. Ibid. 25. Leoš Janáðek, “Výlety pán¥ Brouðkovy: Jeden do M¥síce, druhý do XV. století,” December 23, 1917; Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:431. 26. Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:431. 27. Peter Demetz, Prague in Black and Gold: Scenes from the Life of a European City (New York: Hill and Wang, 1997), 160. 28. František Šmahel, “The Hussite Movement: An Anomaly of European History?” in Bohemia in History, ed. Mikuláš Teich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 81. 29. Zemanová, Janáček, 94. 30. The score in question is the 1919 Universal Edition vocal score: Leoš Janáðek, Výlety páně Broučkovy (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1919; UE 6185); Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 38. See also Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:342. 31. Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, June 28, 1918, in Janáðek, Letters and Reminiscences, 128. 32. Cited in Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:379. 33. Janáðek to Jan Mikota, Brno, April 18, 1926, in Janáðek, Letters and Reminiscences, 183. Emphasis in original. 34. František S. Procházka to Leoš Janáðek, April 30, 1917, quoted in Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 205–6. 35. Svatopluk ïech, Výlety Pana Broučka I–III (Prague: Slunovrat, 1985), 256. For more on the relationship between burlesque and satire, see Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:136– 37. 36. Demetz, Prague in Black and Gold, 144–45. 37. In ïech’s novel, Brouðek has been far away, but he does not specify where. ïech, Výlety Pana Broučka I–III, 158–59. 38. “Mohammedan” was an epithet used by the Hussites, albeit for Orthodox Christians. Demetz, Prague in Black and Gold, 146. 39. Šmahel, “Hussite Movement,” 84.

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40. Richard Crampton and Ben Crampton, Atlas of Eastern Europe in the Twentieth Century (London: Routledge, 1996), 61. 41. Carol Skalnik Leff, National Conflict in Czechoslovakia: The Making and Remaking of a State, 1918–1987 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 16. 42. Gary B. Cohen, “Ethnicity and Urban Population Growth: The Decline of the Prague Germans, 1880–1920,” in Studies in East European Social History, vol. 2, ed. Keith Hitchins (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1981), 3. 43. Gary B. Cohen, The Politics of Ethnic Survival: Germans in Prague, 1861–1914 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 13. 44. Ibid., 5. 45. Crampton and Crampton, Atlas of Eastern Europe, 61. 46. “Czechs Would Let UNO Weigh Teschen,” The New York Times, December 5, 1945, 13. 47. Derek Sayer, The Coasts of Bohemia: A Czech History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 241 (Beneš); Norman M. Naimark, Fires of Hatred: Ethnic Cleansing in Twentieth-Century Europe (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 113 (Gottwald). For more on the German expulsion from the Sudetenland, see Naimark, 108–22, 136–38. 48. Leff, National Conflict in Czechoslovakia, 20–21, 21n19. 49. Ibid., 21. 50. Sayer, Coasts of Bohemia, 140. 51. These figures are somewhat misleading, since there were major regional differences. Most of the Uniates and Orthodox were in Ruthenia, and the non-Czech National Protestants were most numerous in Slovakia. The greatest concentration of Czech Nationals was in Eastern Bohemia. Crampton and Crampton, Atlas of Eastern Europe, 62–63. 52. See Miroslav Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups among the Smaller European Nations, trans. Ben Fowkes (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000 [1985]), 45–50. 53. Janáðek’s postcard to Ludvík Kundera is reproduced in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 124. 54. From the memoirs of Janáðek’s servant, Marie Stejskalová. Marie Trkanová, U Janáčků (Brno: Šimon Ryšavý, 1998), 117. Trkanová, secretary at the Brno Conservatory from 1920 to 1923, who worked with Zdenka Janáðková on her memoirs between 1933 and 1936, also worked with Stejskalová in the 1950s. See Janáðková, Memoirs of Zdenka Janáčková, x–xii. 55. Nejedlý, citing Zíbrt, traces bagpipes back to the fifteenth century. Zden¥k Nejedlý, Dějiny Husitského Zpěvu (Prague: ïeskoslovenská Akademie V¥d, 1954), 1:172. First published as Dějiny předhusitského zpěvu v Čechách in 1904 (Prague: Nákladem Královské ðeské spoleðnosti nauk). 56. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 216. 57. Ibid., 212. 58. Janáðek had hoped for real bagpipes, but the bagpipe music is usually played by an oboe and two bassoons in the orchestra. The 1992 Brno production did use actual bagpipes. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 39. 59. Mirka Zemanová hears this as the moon theme and suggests that its return is connected to Turkey as the land of the half-moon. Zemanová, Janáček, 144. 60. “Turkish” music is also used to characterize the Devil in The Devil and Kate, another unfortunate association for poor Brouðek.

148



notes to pp. 65–81

61. Although, as Tibor Kneif has wryly pointed out, why should Brouðek risk his neck in a battle he knows has long since been won? Kneif, Die Bühnenwerke von Leoš Janáček (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1974), 43. 62. Bruno Nettl, “Ethnicity and Musical Identity in the Czech Lands: A Group of Vignettes,” in Music and German National Identity, ed. Celia Applegate and Pamela Potter (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 269–87. The Burney quotes are discussed on 271–72. 63. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 163. The bagpiper of Strakonice is none other Švanda, later immortalized by Jaromír Weinberger. 64. The classic South Bohemian bagpipe actually has only a single drone, usually tuned to E-flat, but bagpipe simulations in Czech art music inevitably feature an openfifth drone. 65. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 216. 66. Michael Jackson, The New World Guide to Beer (Philadelphia: Courage Books, 1988), 25, 30. 67. Sayer, Coasts of Bohemia, 42. 68. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 88. 69. T. G. Masaryk, Česká otázka (Prague: Melantrich, 1969), 179. 70. The text of the Brouðek chorus is vaguely reminiscent of the Smetana Act II beer chorus, while its music, in particular the middle section in the parallel minor, resembles that of the opening chorus in The Bartered Bride. 71. Demetz, Prague in Black and Gold, 162. 72. Janáček: Leaves from His Life, ed. and trans. Vilem Tausky and Margaret Tausky (London: Kahn & Averill, 1982), 56. 73. Peter Conrad, A Song of Love and Death: The Meaning of Opera (New York: Poseidon, 1987), 220. 74. Michael Beckerman, “ ‘Pleasures and Woes’: The Vixen’s Wedding Celebration,” in Janáček and Czech Music: Proceedings of the International Conference (St. Louis, 1988), ed. Michael Beckerman and Glen Bauer (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon, 1995), 46.

Chapter Five 1. Tyrrell, Years from a Life, 1:297–306. 2. Ibid., 1:762–66. 3. Ibid., 1:763. 4. Ibid., 2:772–79. 5. Ibid., 2:773. 6. Ibid., 2:774. 7. George Bernard Shaw, Shaw on Music: A Selection from the Music Criticism of Bernard Shaw, ed. Eric Bentley (New York: Doubleday, 1956), 165. 8. George Bernard Shaw, London Music in 1888–1889 as Heard by Corno di Bassetto (Later Known as Bernard Shaw) with Some Further Autobiographical Particulars (London: Constable, 1937), 6. 9. This is also the duet whose melody Alena N¥mcová compares to that of the third movement of the Violin Sonata (see chapter 3, n. 30). 10. Písně detvanské, zbojnické balady, no. 7. For the verismo connection, see Št¥droÞ, “Verismus a Impresionismus,” 141. 11. Erik Chisholm, The Operas of Leoš Janáček (Oxford: Pergamon, 1971), 274.

notes to pp. 81–89



149

12. Št¥droÞ, Paralely, 45–46. 13. John Tyrrell also suggests possible connections among La Bohème, Fate, and Brouček. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 1:639. 14. Brod, Leoš Janáček, 44. 15. Tyrrell, Káťa Kabanová, 7. 16. Ibid., 24–25. 17. Ibid., 154–61. 18. This is not specified in Janáðek’s libretto, although it is in Ostrovsky’s play. Despite this, Boris often wears Western dress in productions of the opera. 19. Published by Ricordi in 1907. Vocal score, 50.408, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 20. Published in Hudební revue, 1911, reprinted in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:390, 1:391n13. Emphasis in original. “Pucciniho Baterflaj leží na pultu klavírním. Jak nenávid¥l onen jediný tón, jenž ve své b÷itkosti nese celé okolí výrazu dramatického po n¥kolik taktø!” Mirka Zemanová speculates that the note in question might refer to the repeated Fs sung by Butterfly in her suicide scene, as she resolves to die with honor. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 185. 21. Program, February 16, 1908, JP 729, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 22. Program, April 4, 1920, JP 660, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 23. Janáðek had begun Kát’a by January 9, 1920; the opera was finished on April 17, 1921. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 40. 24. Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, Brno, December 5, 1919, in Intimate Letters: Leoš Janáček to Kamila Stösslová, ed. and trans. John Tyrrell (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 29. 25. Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, Brno, February 25, 1922, in ibid., 38. 26. “Stála tam, at’ p÷išel on ði nep÷išel? Butterfly?—ïeho se doðkala?” Leoš Janáðek, “Poðátek románu,” March 17, 1922, in Janáðek, Literární dilo, 1:496. 27. Brod, Leoš Janáček, 49. 28. Earlier versions are preserved on the reverse sides of the autograph MS, T1–401, 402, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 29. Orchestral score, T1–416 b, c, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 30. For more on the use of six-four chords in Verdi, see David Lawton, “On the ‘Bacio’ Theme in Otello,” 19th Century Music 1 (March 1978): 212–13. 31. “Velké dv¥ úlohy.” From a review of a performance on December 25, 1891, published on December 30. Reprinted in Bohumír Št¥droÞ, “Leoš Janáðek Kritikem Brn¥nské Opery v Letech 1890–1892,” in Otázky divadla a filmu, i, ed. Artur Závodský (Brno: Universita J. E. Purkyn¥, 1970), 234–35. English translation in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 170–71. 32. Št¥droÞ, “Kritikem Brn¥nské Opery v Letech,” 226. 33. Ibid., 220; Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 164–65. 34. See Beckerman, Janáček as Theorist, 26–27. 35. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 363. 36. “Moderní harmonická hudba,” originally published in Hlídka 24. Reprinted in Leoš Janáček: Hudebně teoretické dílo 2. Studie, úplná nauka o harmonii, ed. Zden¥k Blažek (Prague: Editio Supraphon, 1974), 7–14. See also Beckerman, Janáček as Theorist, 46–47. 37. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 435.

150



notes to pp. 81–89

38. Vocal score, 50.419, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. 39. “a shledal stejné p÷ednosti i nedostatky.” 40. Carl Dahlhaus, Vom Musikdrama zur Literaturoper (Munich: Emil Katzbichler, 1983), 231. 41. F. D. Reeve, ed. and trans., Nineteenth Century Russian Plays: An Anthology (New York: Norton, 1961), 369. 42. Dahlhaus, Musikalischer Realismus, 134. 43. Kneif, Bühnenwerke von Leoš Janáček, 52. 44. Lindenberger, Opera: The Extravagant Art, 45. 45. W. H. Auden, “Notes on Music and Opera,” in The Dyer’s Hand, and Other Essays (New York: Random House, 1962 [1948]), 470. 46. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 49. 47. P÷ibáÞová, Svět Janáčkových oper, 13. A television broadcast of the Berlin production of Vixen has been released on DVD (Immortal 960001, 2004). The animated film is by Geoff Dunbar and uses male voices for all the biologically male animals (Opus Arte DVD, OA 0871 D, 2003). 48. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 302–3. 49. John Tyrrell, “The Cunning Little Vixen,” essay from the liner notes to Leoš Janáček: The Cunning Little Vixen, Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras (London CD 417 129–2, 1982), 16.

Chapter Six 1. Robert Craft, Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, rev. and exp. ed. (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1994), 426. 2. Holländer, Leoš Janáček, 148–49. 3. John Tyrrell, “Janáðek and ‘From the House of the Dead,’” essay from the liner notes to Leoš Janáðek, From the House of the Dead, Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras (London CD 430 375–2, 1980), 29. 4. Kundera, Testaments Betrayed, 188. 5. Tyrrell, “Cunning Little Vixen,” 22. 6. Fedor Dostoevsky, Memoirs from the House of the Dead, trans. Jessie Coulson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965), 175–98. 7. F. M. Dostoevskii, Zapiski iz mertvogo doma, vol. 4, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v tridtsati tomakh (Leningrad: Nauka, 1972), 307. See also, Pavel Berkov, ed., Russkaia narodnaia drama XVII–XX vekov (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1953), 326–28. 8. But not, despite what one reads in the Janáðek literature, for Musorgsky’s Sorochintsy Fair, which is taken from other stories in the same collection. 9. “na zpøsob Dona Juana/v’ rod’ Don’-Zhuana.” 10. F. M. Dostoevskii, Zápisky z mrtvého domu, trans. H. Jaroš (Prague: J. Otto, n.d.), JK 10, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno, 183–84. 11. F. M. Dostoevskii, Zapiski iz mertvogo doma (Berlin: I. P. Ladizhnikov, 1921), JK 11, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno, 210. 12. Ibid., 211. 13. Which recalls the red svitka in Sorochintsy Fair.

notes to pp. 89–107 14.



151

Dates of composition given in Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works,

54. 15. Leoš Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, May 2, 1928, in Janáðek and Stösslová, Intimate Letters, 264–65; Leoš Janáðek to Kamila Stösslová, May 5–6, 1928, in Janáðek and Stösslová, Intimate Letters, 267–68. 16. Flyer, March 1927, L98, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. Transcribed in Jaroslav Procházka, “Z mrtvého domu—Janáðkøv tvørðí i lidsky epilog a manifest,” Hudební věda 3 (1966): 464. See also Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 328–29. 17. Ibid. “Cervantes/hledá v život¥ stvøry svého výst÷edního mozku.” 18. On October 11, 1925, Gluck’s Don Juan was performed as the second half of a double bill with the belated Brno premiere of Šárka. 19. The extant portions of Righini’s opera include the Act II and III finales, preserved in a manuscript at Esterhazy. Nino Pirrotta, Don Giovanni’s Progress: A Rake Goes to the Opera, trans. Harris S. Saunders, Jr. (New York: Marsilio, 1994), 66n49. 20. Diary, R93, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. “Divadlo → vyvrcholit Don Quichotem.” Since Janáðek did not use this diary as a date book, the entry may not have been made between these two dates. 21. Loose sheet of plain paper, folded in half, L98, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. “Divaldo str. 197/(jen (pantomima) Don Quichot).” 22. Loose sheet of plain paper (different sheet from that cited in note 21), L98, Janáðek Archive, Music History Division of the Moravian National Museum, Brno. Reproduced in facsimile in Procházka, “Z mrtvého domu,” 229. “Souboje:/s rytí÷em (muž)/s popem (strach)/se ševcem (jidlo).” 23. Interesting but no doubt irrelevant, this is reminiscent of another drama-withina-narrative. In Don Juan’s Last Fling, the movie screened during Lucette and Van Veen’s tragic trip on the Tobakoff, Don Juan’s story also merges with that of Don Quixote, as Juan rides by windmills and Leporello acquires Sancho Panza’s donkey. Vladimir Nabokov, Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle (New York: Vintage, 1990), 488–89. 24. Dostoevsky, Memoirs from the House of the Dead, 194. 25. Leoš Janáðek, Z mrtvého domu (From the House of the Dead), piano-vocal score (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1930; UE 8221), 38–39. 26. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 331. 27. Michael Ewans, Janáček’s Tragic Operas (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977), 206. 28. Simeone, Tyrrell, and N¥mcová, Janáček’s Works, 291. “V každém tvoru jiskra boží.” 29. Ulrich Müller, “‘The Phantom of the Opera’: Eine Reise auf den Spuren des Spaniers Don Juan rund um die Welt bis ins Totenhaus des Leoš Janáðek,” in Europäische Mythen der Neuzeit: Faust und Don Juan, ed. Peter Csobádi. Gesammelte Vorträge des Salzburger Symposions 1992, vol. 1 (Anif: Verlag Ursula Müller-Speiser, 1993), 263–64. 30. Ibid., 265. 31. Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically, 116–17. 32. “PíseÞ o kamarinském mužíku, p÷i níž se tanðí nejoblíbn¥jší národni tanec ruský ‘trepak.’” Dostoevskii, Zápisky z mrtvého domu, 186. 33. John Tyrrell has also pointed out similarities between the Hauk-Marty duet and the “folksongs” in From the House of the Dead. Tyrrell, Czech Opera, 98. 34. Ibid., 246.

152



notes to pp. 114–119

35. Ibid., 257. 36. Ibid., 261–62. 37. Ibid., 264–65, 256. For more on the relationship between Mozart and Dušková, see Maynard Solomon, Mozart: A Life (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 445–49. 38. Leoš Janáðek, Lidové noviny 36:256 (May 20, 1928), reprinted in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 195. The article was actually written on May 1. See Tyrrell, Intimate Letters, 263. 39. J. S. Machar, “Faust and Don Juan,” in An Anthology of Czechoslovak Literature, ed. Paul Selver (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1969 [1929]), 173–78. 40. Karel ïapek, “Zpov¥ď Dona Juana,” in Kniha apokryfů (Prague: ïeskoslovenský spisovatel, 1983), 198–204. 41. Milan Kundera, The Art of the Novel, trans. Linda Asher (New York: Harper and Row, 1988), 40. 42. For more on Brod and “indifferentism,” see Scott Spector, Prague Territories: National Conflict and Cultural Innovation in Franz Kafka’s Fin de Siècle (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 60–64. 43. Ji÷í Weil, Mendelssohn Is on the Roof, trans. Marie Winn (New York: Penguin Books, 1991), 14–15. 44. “Viva la libertà!” Max Brod, Schloss Nornepygge: Der Roman des Indifferenten (Leipzig: Kurt Wolff, 1918), 5, 115–21, 481. 45. Ibid., 345. “Mozart, der hat mich am besten verstanden.” 46. Ji÷í Voskovec and Jan Werich, Fata Morgana a jiné hry (Prague: Orbis, 1967), 87. See also Michal Schonberg, The Osvobozené Divadlo (Liberated Theatre) of Voskovec and Werich: A History (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1977), 1065. 47. From an undated note, probably from 1832. Aleksandr Pushkin, The Little Tragedies, trans. Nancy K. Anderson (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 131. 48. George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, ed. Dan H. Laurence (London: Penguin, 1946), 131. 49. Karel Beneš, Plameny (Flammen), trans. Max Brod, from the liner notes to Erwin Schulhoff, Flammen, DSO Berlin, conducted by John Mauceri (London CD 444 630–2, 1995), 43, 46. English translation by Kenneth Chalmers. 50. Voskovec and Werich, Fata Morgana, 86. 51. Ibid., 53. 52. Conrad, Song of Love and Death, 146. 53. There is at least one example of involution from an earlier opera. When Lišák courts Bystrouška in Act II of The Cunning Little Vixen, he tells her that novels and even operas will be written about her. This charming joke is lifted directly from T¥snohlídek’s novelization, with the suggestion of an opera Janáðek’s addition. Typically, though, even here Janáðek chooses sentiment over irony. In T¥snohlídek, Lišák continues on to say that anyone who would read such a novel would be a silly person indeed. Janáðek’s version, however, is entirely serious, turning Lišák into a more conventionally operatic swain. Rudolf T¥snohlídek, Liška bystrouška (Prague: Bystrov a synové, 1995), 190. 54. In the sense defined by Alfred Appel. Vladimir Nabokov, The Annotated Lolita, ed. Alfred Appel (New York: Vintage, 1991), xxiii–xxiv. 55. Michael Wood, The Magician’s Doubts: Nabokov and the Risks of Fiction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 14. 56. Brod, Schloss Nornepygge, 342. “Sieh nur, ich werde alt, ich habe meine Jahre. Zuerst war ich ein Kind, ein Jüngling wie du, jetzt bin ich ein Mann und ganz gewiss werde ich, vielleicht nach abermals dreihundert Jahren, sterben. Nur dauert jedes einzelne Lebensalter länger als bei andern Menschen.”

notes to pp. 119–132



153

57. Brod, Flammen, 55. 58. Although Brod considered Ladislav Výcpalek the most important modern Czech composer, just as great as Janáðek. Max Brod, Streitbares Leben (Munich: Kindler, 1960), 433. 59. Adorno quotation ca. 1930. Quoted in Herbert Lindenberger, Opera in History: From Monteverdi to Cage (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 195. 60. Dahlhaus, Vom Musikdrama zur Literaturoper, 231. 61. W. H. Auden, “The World of Opera,” in Secondary Worlds (New York: Random House, 1968), 85–116; quote is on 116.

Chapter Seven 1. Tyrrell, Janáček’s Operas, 317. 2. Ibid., 318. 3. Theodor W. Adorno, “Janáðek, The Makropulos Affair,” Musikblätter des Anbruch 11, no. 4 (April 1929): 167, trans. Susan H. Gillespie; reprinted in Beckerman, Janáček and His World, 45–46. The second review of Makropulos by Adorno was published in Die Musik 21, no. 7 (1929): 538–39, and is also reprinted in Beckerman, Janáček and His World, 46–48. 4. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 320; Ewans, Janáček’s Tragic Operas, 203; John Tyrrell, liner notes for Leoš Janáðek, Věc Makropulos, Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras (London CD 430 372–2, 1991), 27. 5. Caryl Emerson, “ïapek, Janáðek, That Makropulos Thing, and a Word about Sacrificed Women in 20th-Century Slavic Opera,” in Festschrift for Michael Henry Heim, ed. Craig Cravens, Susan Kresin, and Masako Fidler (Bloomington, IN: Slavica, 2008). Bernard Williams, “The Makropulos Case: Reflections on the Tedium of Immortality,” in Problems of the Self, ed. Bernard Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 82–100. 6. Cook, Opera for a New Republic, 3–4. 7. Emerson, “ïapek, Janáðek, That Makropulos Thing.” 8. Quoted in Beckerman, Janáček and His World, 47. 9. Tyrrell, Years of a Life, 2:750–51. 10. Ewans, Janáček’s Tragic Operas, 169, 171. 11. Tyrrell, liner notes for Věc Makropulos, 14. 12. Leoš Janáðek, Sinfonietta for Orchestra/Operatic Preludes, Pro Arte Orchestra, conducted by Charles Mackerras (Pye Golden Guinea LP GSGC 14004, 1959); reissued on Testament CD SBT 1325, 2003. 13. Ewans, Janáček’s Tragic Operas, 172. 14. For more on Janáðek’s use of added tones in triads, see Zdenek Skoumal, “Janáðek’s First String Quartet: Motive and Structure of the First Movement,” in Janáček and Czech Music, ed. Beckerman and Bauer, 101n6. 15. Vogel, Leoš Janáček, 316–17. 16. Daniel Albright, Modernism and Music (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 68–69. 17. Quoted in ibid., 69. 18. Tyrrell, liner notes for Věc Makropulos, 27. 19. David France, “Opera Bluffa,” The New Yorker, February 5, 1996, 25. 20. The 1989 Toronto production was released on VHS tape. Leoš Janáðek, The Makropulos Case, Canadian Opera Company, conducted by Berislav Klobucar (New York: Video Artists International 69099, 1989).

154



notes to pp. 134–135

21. For more on whole tone collections in The Cunning Little Vixen, see Nors S. Josephson, “Musical and Dramatic Organization in Janáðek’s The Cunning Little Vixen,” in Janáček and Czech Music, ed. Beckerman and Bauer, 87–91. 22. In an unpublished letter from 1875. Cited in Carolyn Abbate, Unsung Voices: Opera and Musical Narrative in the Nineteenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 206. 23. Bernard Holland, “Art, in the End, Transcends,” The New York Times, January 13, 1996, section 1, 13.

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Scores Janáðek, Leoš. Jenůfa: její pastorkyňa. Rev. ed. Libretto by Gabriela Preissová; ed. Charles Mackerras and John Tyrrell. Full score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1993 (UE 30 140). ———. Káťa Kabanová, ed. Charles Mackerras. Full score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1992 (UE 7070 / UE 30532). ———. Die Sache Makropulos. Piano-vocal score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1926 (UE 8656). ———. Das Schlaue Füchslein (The Cunning Little Vixen). Piano-vocal score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1924 (UE 7564). ———. Souborné kritické vydání děl Leoše Janáčka (Complete Critical Edition of the Works of Leoš Janáek). Prague and Kassel: Supraphon and Bärenreiter, 1978–. ———. Výlety páně Broučkovy. Piano-vocal score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1919 (UE 6185). ———. Z mrtvého domu. Piano-vocal score. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1930 (UE 8221).

Discography Dvo÷ák, Antonín. Rusalka. Conducted by Zden¥k Chalabala. Supraphon CD SU 0013–2 612, 1998. Janáðek, Leoš. The Cunning Little Vixen: The Animated Film of Janáček’s Opera. DVD. Directed by Geoff Dunbar. Waldron, Heathfield, East Sussex: BBC Opus Arte, 2003. ———. The Diary of One Who Disappeared. Thomas Adès, Diane Atherton, Ian Bostridge, Deryn Edwards, Susan Flannery, and Ruby Philogenes. EMI Classics CD 5 57219–2, 2001. ———. From the House of the Dead. Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras. London CD 430 375–2, 1980. ———. Janáček Choral Works. Netherlands Chamber Choir, conducted by Reinbert de Leeuw. Philips CD 442 534–2, 1995. ———. Janáček: The Cunning Little Vixen. Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras. London CD 417 129–2, 1982. ———. Janáček: The Cunning Little Vixen, Sinfonietta, Schluck und Jau, Jealousy, etc. Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Charles Mackerras. Supraphon CD SU 3739–2 032, 2004. ———. Janáček: Taras Bulba. Brno Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by B÷etislav Bakala; recorded in 1952. Multisonic CD 31 0184–2, 1999. ———. Janáček: Taras Bulba, etc. Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Ji÷í B¥lohlávek. Chandos 9080, 1991. ———. Janáček Unknown IV. Supraphon CD SU 3349–2 931, 1998. ———. Karel Ančerl. Includes Taras Bulba performed by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Karel Anðerl; recorded in 1961. EMI Classics CD CZS 5 75091, 2002. ———. Das Schaue Füchslein (The Cunning Little Vixen). DVD. Orchestra and chorus of the Komischen Oper, Berlin, conducted by Vaclav Neumann. Berlin: Immortal 960001, 2004. ———. Sinfonietta for Orchestra/Operatic Preludes. Pro Arte Orchestra, conducted by Charles Mackerras. Pye Golden Guinea LP GSGC 14004, 1959. Reissued on Testament CD SBT 1325, 2003. ———. Věc Makropulos. Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Mackerras. London CD 430 372–2, 1991. Kova÷ovic, Karel. Psolavci (The Dogheads). Prague Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by František Dyk. Supraphon CD SU 3357–2 603, 1998. ———. Rusalka. Conducted by Zdenĕk Chalabala. Supraphon CD SU 0013–2 612. Schulhoff, Erwin. Flammen. Berlin Sinfonie-Orchester, conducted by John Mauceri. London CD 444 630–2, 1995.

Index Page numbers in italics indicate musical examples.

Adorno, Theodor: Mahagonny viewed by, 120; Philosophie der neuen Musik, 3, 6; review of Věc Makropulos, 7, 122, 123; “Die stabilisierte Musik,” 6 Albright, Daniel, 128 Aleš, Mikoláš, 58–59 Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, 44–45 Antokoletz, Elliott, 5, 6 Asaf’yev, Boris, 19 Auden, W. H., 99, 104–5, 120 Auschwitz concentration camp, 59 Austin, William, 5 bagpipes, as Czech identity symbol, 63, 65, 68, 70, 71, 147n58, 148n64 Bakala, B÷etislav, 41, 112, 145n43 Bartered Bride, The (Smetana): conventions in, 66–70, 73–74, 75; Janáðek’s personal score, 17, 141n21; nationalism and, 54, 55; opening chorus, 148n70; text setting problems, 17–18 Bartók, Béla, 3, 5, 6 Beckerman, Michael, 74–75, 140n2 beer and Beer Choruses, 69–70, 71–72, 148n70 Beethoven, Ludwig van: “Kreutzer” Sonata, 34 Beginning of a Romance, The, 1, 60; BeÞaðková, Gabriela, 2 Bendl, Karel: Dítě Tábora, 56 Beneš, Edvard, 62 Beneš, Karel: Plameny (Flammen), 115, 117, 119 Berg, Alban, 5, 99; Wozzeck, 78, 104 Bittová, Iva, 141n13

Bizet, Georges: Carmen, 9, 77; The Pearl Fishers, 96 Bliss, Arthur, 5 Bolshevik revolution (1917), 41 Borodin Quartet, 18–19 Bostridge, Ian, 3 Brahms, Johannes, 53 Brno: Janáðek’s early life in, 31–33; Russian Circle in, 31, 35; viewed as provincial backwater, 7, 59–60, 76 Brno Beseda (concert society), 48, 54 Brno Czech Provisional Theater, 76–77, 78 Brno National Theater, 60, 78 Brod, Max: Brouček viewed by, 56; German translation of Z mrtváho domu, 106; Janáðek’s association with, 7, 30; Jenůfa viewed by, 52; Leoš Janáček: Leben und Werke, 86; on Nejedlý’s persecution of Janáðek, 55; Schloss Nornepygge, 115, 116, 117, 119 Brothers Quay, the, 1 Bruneau, Alfred: Le rêve, 8, 21 Burghauser, Jarmil, 7 Burkholder, J. Peter: A History of Western Music, 6 Burney, Charles, 68 ïapek, Karel: “Historie dirigenta Kaliny,” 13; Věc Makropulos, 121, 124, 132–33; “Zpov¥d Dona Juana,” 115 Casella, Alfredo, 5 časomíra (quantitative verse), 17 ïech, Svatopluk: The Epoch-Making Excursion of Mr. Brouček, 46–47, 60, 71 ïernohorská, Milena, 14

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Cervantes, Miguel de: Don Quixote, 108, 119 Chadimová, Anna, 68–69 Charpentier, Gustave, Louise, 77, 78; Jenůfa influenced by, 29; love duet, 93, 94, 99; Osud influenced by, 10; overture omitted from, 140n54; viola d’amore in, 85 Chisholm, Erik, 81 Chlubna, Osvald, 112 Christiansen, Paul, 141n10 Club of Moravian Composers, 5 Conrad, Peter, 74, 118 Cook, Susan, 122, 123 Corsaro, Frank, 72 Counterreformation, 62 Cowell, Henry, 5 Craft, Robert, 104 Cunning Little Vixen, The: animated film, 1, 100, 150n47; climax, 75; coherence in, 105; Czech operatic influences, 52; involution in, 152n53; love scenes, 100, 101–2, 102–3; modality in, 74–75, 123; musical juxtaposition in, 81, 133–35; popularity, 1; productions, 72, 100, 150n47; village opera conventions and, 72–75; Wagner’s Die Walküre Magic Fire music and, 84 Cyrilo-Methodius movement, 33 Czech history: foundation legends, 55– 56; Hussite period, 43, 46, 47, 55–63, 65–66, 72–73, 123; post World-War-II expulsion of German speakers, 62; Rudolphine era, 43–46, 123 Czech lands, heterogeneity of, 61–62 Czech language, text setting of, 15–18, 137n3; accentuation, 15; Dvo÷ák’s problems, 18; Janáðek’s approach, 21, 23, 25–29, 51; Smetana’s problems, 17–18; vowel length, 16 Czech music and opera: historical operas, 55–56, 71; Janáðek in context of, 51–52, 121–24; “national” composers and, 3–4, 53–55, 63, 65–75; village operas, 55, 66–72, 73–75. See also specific composers

Czech National Rebirth movement: goals, 32–33, 46; Hussite era glorified by, 58; Janáðek and, 51; music’s role in, 53–55; poetry of, 16–17; religion in, 62–63, 147n51 Czech politics and nationalism: beer and, 69–70; post-World War I, 47–48; pre-World War I, 52, 53–55, 58–59; World War I and, 34–35, 41–42, 43–46, 48 Czech stereotypes, 57, 61–62, 68–69, 70 Czechoslovak Mozart Society, 114 Czechoslovak national anthem, 145n49 Czecho-Slovak statehood, 30, 41–42, 46, 51, 57 Da Ponte, Lorenzo: Don Giovanni libretto, 108 Dahlhaus, Carl: on Janáðek, 5, 6, 9, 10, 19, 99; on opera libretto sources, 97, 120 Dean, Winton, 8 Debussy, Claude: Pelléas et Mélisande, 8, 28–29, 78 Don Juan story, 105–7, 110, 113, 114–19 Donizetti, Gaetano, 77 Dostoevsky, Fyodor: Memoirs from the House of the Dead, 32, 34, 104, 105, 107, 109, 111–12 Downes, Olin, 28 drones, 67–68, 70, 71 Dubinsky, Rostislav, 18–19 Dunbar, Geoff, 150n47 Dušková, Josefa, 114, 115 Dvo÷ák, Antonín: advice to Janáðek, 15; Čert a Káča (The Devil and Kate), 70, 74, 147n60; Cypresses, 18; Dmitrij, 41, 53–54; Holoubek, 54; Hussite Overture, 59; Janáðek influenced by, 52, 54–55; Janáðek’s reminiscence of, 85; Král a uhlíř, 68; as “national” composer, 3, 7, 46, 53–54; operas, 73, 77; Rusalka, 18; Serenade for strings, 54; Slavonic Rhapsody No. 2, 54; Symphony No. 3, 54

index Dyk, František, 141n27 Einstein, Alfred: Das neue Musiklexikon, 142n40 Eisenstein, Sergei, 120 Eisler, Hanns, 4 Emerson, Caryl, 122 Erben, Karel Jaromír, 54 Ewans, Michael, 110, 122, 124, 125 Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, The, 56–72, 64, 66–67; bagpipes in, 63, 64, 65, 147n58; Brouðek’s linguistic failings, 61–62; Brouðek’s theological failings, 62–63; dramaturgical problems in, 72; failure of, 56, 57, 65–66; Hussite rebellion portrayed in, 58, 60–63, 72; Janáðek’s motives for composing, 59–60; libretto, 56, 60; as nationalist gesture, 46–47, 52, 60–63; Prague National Theater premiere (1920), 56–57; productions, 1; publication rights, 56; subsequent productions, 57; tritone in, 65; Turkish references, 63, 65, 147n60; verismo and, 10; village opera traditions in, 71–72, 75 Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon, The (Výlet pana Broučka do měsáce): additional texts, 42; composition, 42, 46; failure, 99; love duet, 79, 80, 81–82, 103, 144n30; Violin Sonata and, 36 Felsenstein, Walter, 72 Ferdinand I, king of Bohemia, 44–45 Fibich, Zden¥k, 55; operas, 77; Šárka, 47, 56; string quartet, 69 Firkušný, Rudolf, 10, 86 Foerster, Josef Bohuslav, 55, 78 From the House of the Dead. See Z mrtváho domu (From the House of the Dead) Gelb, Peter, 2 Giordano, Umberto, 97 Glinka, Mikhail, 111; A Life for the Tsar, 41 Gluck, Christoph Willibald: Don Juan, 108, 151n18



169

Gogol, Nikolai: Taras Bulba, 32, 34, 40; Village Evenings Near Dikanka and Mirgorod, 106, 107 Goncharov, Ivan: Oblomov, 57 Gottwald, Klement, 62 Gounod, Charles: Faust, 76, 77, 82, 83; Roméo et Juliette, 89, 90, 96, 97 Grout, Donald Jay: A History of Western Music, 6; A Short History of Opera, 5–6 Gruenberg, Louis, 4–5 Haas, Pavel: Suite for Oboe and Piano, 59 Hába, Alois, 5 Habsburg empire, 31–35, 45, 53, 57, 121, 123–24 Halévy, Fromental: La Juive, 77 “half-step creep” ascending chromatic scale, 93, 96 Hanslick, Eduard, 53 Harrach, Jan, 55 Hartmann, Karl Amadeus: Concerto Funebre, 59 Heaney, Seamus, 3 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 32–33 Heydrich, Reinhard, 116 Hindemith, Paul, 4–5, 123 Hipp’s Chronoscope, 14 Hlídka, 26, 54 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 119 Holland, Bernard, 135 Holländer, Hans, 104 Holloway, Robin, 10 Honegger, Artur, 4–5 Horák, Antonín, 47 Horvátová, Gabriela, 40 Hostinský, Otakar, 17, 54 Hudební listy, 76–77, 89, 91 Hudební revue, 8 Hus, Jan, 57 Husa, Karel: Music for Prague, 59 Hussite battle hymn, 46, 58–59, 63 Ibert, Jacques, 4–5 intonatsiya theory, 19 involution, literary, 118–19, 152n53

170



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Janáðek, František (brother), 31 Janáðek, Leoš, See also headings below; animated film on, 1; boyhood monastery education, 33; career trajectory, 30, 59–60; children’s names, 31; conservative aesthetic views, 7; Czech opera and, 51–52; Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande viewed by, 28–29; documentary film on, 4; England trip, 13; ethnographic fieldwork, 9; as “extraterritorial” composer, 6; “fake folk” style, 36, 37–38; favorite musical gesture, 131; as folklorist, 5–6; as honorary member of New Music Society of California, 5; journalistic writing about, 3; leadership of Brno Beseda (concert society), 54; Lydian scale usage, 36; as miniaturist, 91; as modernist, 6–8; as Moravian, 5–6, 59–60; as “national” composer, 3–4; new critical paths, 10–12; New York Times interview, 28–29; octatonic scale usage, 130; as old avant-gardist, 4–5; operatic knowledge of, 76–78; panSlavism and, 32–33, 34–35; personal philosophy, 75; political/nationalist views, 31–33, 34, 36, 41–42, 46–48, 51; Puccini Madama Butterfly score owned by, 85; as realist, 8–10; religious beliefs, 62–63; Russian Circle, 31, 35; Russophilism, 31–32, 36–42, 46; scholarly writings about, 3–4; Smetana Bartered Bride score owned by, 17, 141n21; Venice ISCM festival attendance, 4–5, 7; visit to villa Bertramka, 114–15; Wagner viewed by, 89, 91; whole-tone scale usage, 8, 134; worklist, 1914–19, 49–50 Janáðek, Leoš, non-operatic works of: Amarus, 15; Ballad of Blaník, 47; “ïeská legie,” 47; Dunaj Symphony, 85; female choruses, 42–46; folk song arrangements, 81; Four Moravian Male-Voice Choruses, 48, 145n49; Glagolitic Mass, 3, 62; Hospodine!, 48; Idylla, 54; nationalist-inspired, 42–48; piano trio, 34; Pohádka, 34,

36, 37, 37, 41; Rákoš Rákoczy, 60; Russian-inspired, 34–39; Sinfonietta, 3, 38, 85; Songs of Detva, 81; Songs of Hradčany, 43–46, 123; String Quartet No. 1, “Kreutzer Sonata,” 2, 4, 7, 30, 32, 34, 69, 128, 131; String Quartet No. 2, “Intimate Letters,” 2–3, 18–19, 69, 85, 306; Suite, 54; Taras Bulba, 3, 32, 34, 35–36, 40–42, 42; use of folk dance in, 40–41; Violin Sonata, 34, 35–39, 37, 39, 41, 42, 144n30, 144n32; Zápisník zmizelého (The Diary of One Who Vanished), 3, 18; Žárlivost, 124 Janáðek, Leoš, operas of: compositional methods, 20, 23–27; context for, 1– 12; Czech libretti, 2, 104; exotic elements used by, 112–14; journalistic writing about, 3; love duets, 78–82, 86–87, 89, 91, 92–93, 93, 96–97; Osud (Fate), 9–10, 22, 26–27, 28, 60, 77; as repertoire staple, 1–3; Russian influences, 31–32; Russian sources, 34; Šárka, 47, 56, 76, 151n18; scholarly writings about, 3–4; speech melodies and, 13–29; vocal writing, 2. See also Beginning of a Romance, The; Cunning Little Vixen; Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Fifteenth Century, The; Excursion of Mr. Brouček to the Moon; Jenůfa; Kát’a Kabanová; Věc Makropulos, The; Z mrtváho domu; Janáðek, Leoš, writings of: feuilleton “Around Jenøfa,” 21–22; feuilleton on Berlin premiere of Kát’a Kabanová, 7; feuilleton on Madama Butterfly, 86; on his works as “cultural weapons,” 41; Hlídka articles, 26, 54; Hudební listy article “Modern Harmonic Music,” 89, 91; Hudební listy opera reviews, 76–77, 89; Hudební revue article on Jenůfa, 8; Lidové noviny articles on Russian travels, 31; Lidové noviny feuilleton on Brouðek character, 57; Lidové noviny feuilleton on villa Bertramka, 114–15; Moravské listy reviews, 77, 89; reviews of Tchai-

index kovsky operas, 31; on Schoenberg Serenade, 7 Janáðková, Zdenka, 35 Janovický, Karel, 144n34 Jelínková, Št¥pánka, 2 Jenůfa: discarded prelude, 124, 140n54; German-language production, 20, 21; Gounod’s Faust and, 82, 83; internationalism of, 52; Mahler and, 2; Metropolitan Opera 1924 production, 28; Moravian culture and, 48; Moravian elements in, 60; Prague National Theater’s rejection of, 48, 71; Prague premiere (1916), 30, 42, 55, 56, 59–60; prose libretto, 8, 21–22; reception, 55; as repertoire staple, 1, 2; speech melodies and, 19; as verismo opera, 9–10; vocal writing, 29 Ježek, Jaroslav: Don Juan & Comp., 115–16, 119 Jirásek, Alois: Old Bohemian Legends, 47 Jireš, Jaromil, 4 Ji÷í z Pod¥brad, 43, 58 Jurinac, Sena, 2 Kalda, Ozef, 3 Kamarinskaya (Russian dance), 111–12 Kát’a Kabanová: Berlin premiere, 7; Boris’s character, 99; Brno production (first), 23; composition, 38; critical opinion on, 8; first love duet, 86–87, 88, 89; Janáðek as librettist, 97–99; libretto modifications, 22; Madama Butterfly and, 77, 84–87; popularity, 1; Russian exoticism in, 36–37, 42, 46; Russian source, 32; second love duet, 91, 92–93, 93, 96–97, 98–99, 103; “sleigh bell” theme, 36–37, 38, 123; verismo and, 10; viola d’amore in, 84–85; vocal writing, 22, 23, 24–25, 25–26, 27; waiting song, 106 Kaufman, Philip, 1 “Kde domov møj?” (national anthem), 47 “Kde je sládek, tam je mládek” (folk song), 69



171

Kerman, Joseph, 8 Kienzl, Wilhelm: Der Kuhreigen, 85 Kneif, Tibor, 99, 148n61 Kodály, Zoltán: Háry János, 8–9 Kollár, Jan, 32 Kolya (film), 59 Kova÷ovic, Karel: operas, 77; Psohlavci (The Dogheads), 71, 82, 141n27; revisions to Jenůfa, 126 krakowiak, 40 Kramá÷, Karel, 35 Krásnohorská, Eliška, 16, 17–18 Krenek, Ernst, 5, 6; Jonny spielt auf, 122, 123 K÷iðka, Jaroslav, 78 K÷ížkovský, Pavel, 33 Kundera, Milan: essay on Janáðek, 4, 104; Laughable Loves, 115; Testaments Betrayed, 29; The Unbearable Lightness of Being, 1 Leoncavallo, Ruggero, 9; I pagliacci, 96–97 Leoš Janáček: Intimate Excursions (film), 1 Libuše myth, 43, 45, 46, 47, 55, 56 Lidové noviny, 31, 57, 114–15 Lindenberger, Herbert, 99 Literaturoper, 8 Lolek, Stanislav, 73 Lydian scale, 36, 65, 73, 75, 103, 123 Machar, J. S.: “Faust and Don Juan,” 115 Mackerras, Charles, 8, 124 MacLaverty, Bernard: Grace Notes, 2 “Magic Prague” era, 43–46, 55, 61–62 Makropulos Case, The. See Věc Makropulos Malfitano, Catherine, 2, 121 Malipiero, Gian Francesco, 4–5 Mansouri, Lotfi, 131–32 Masaryk, Jan, 62 Masaryk, Tomáš, 54, 59, 71 Mascagni, Pietro, 77, 97; Cavalleria rusticana, 9, 77, 78 Massenet, Jules: Manon, 78 Mattila, Karita, 2 mazur, 40 Mellers, Wilfrid, 19

172



index

Meyerbeer, Giacomo: Les Huguenots, 85 Milhaud, Darius, 5 Mixolydian scale, 74 Molière: Don Juan, 108 Moravia and Moravian ethnicity: folk elements, 5–6, 9, 48, 51, 72–73, 75; Janáðek’s identification with, 31–33, 41, 60, 65–66; slighted in CzechoSlovak national anthem, 145n49; speech song and, 14, 18 “Moravian” cadences, 41, 42 Moravian Teachers’ Choir, 42 Moravian Women Teachers’ Choir, 42–46 Moravské listy, 77, 89 Moshinsky, Elijah, 135 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus: Don Giovanni, 108, 114–16, 118 Müller, Ulrich, 111 Musorgsky, Modest: Boris Godunov, 8, 78; Sorochintsy Fair, 150n8; Zhenit’ba, 8, 21, 28 Nabokov, Vladimir: Ada, 151n23 nationalism, musical. See also Czech National Rebirth movement; Moravia and Moravian ethnicity: Czech, 3–4, 53–55, 63, 65–75; folk dance and, 40–41, 68–69, 74; folk songs and, 69–70; Herder’s influence on, 32–33; historiographical approach to, 3; Janáðek’s “fake-folk” style and, 37–38; Krenek’s views on, 6; pan-Slavism and, 32–35; village operas and, 72–75 Nebuška, Otakar, 36 Nedbal, Oskar, 54 Nejedlý, Zden¥k, 20, 54, 55, 63 N¥mcová, Alena, 36, 38, 148n9 neo-classicism, 6 Neumann, František, 23, 78, 142n53 New Music Society of California, The, 5 New Yorker, The (magazine): Gelb interview, 2; “Talk of the Town” piece, 129 Newmarch, Rosa, 20; The Music of Czechoslovakia, 52 Norman, Jessye, 2, 121, 129, 135 Novák, Václav, 56

Novák, Vit¥zslav, 54, 55 octatonic scale, 130 octaves, singing in, 96–97, 103 Offenbach, Jacques, 77; Tales of Hoffmann, 119 Olivero, Magda, 2 operettas, Janáðek’s views on, 77 Ostrðil, Otakar, 55, 78 Ostrovsky, Alexander: The Storm, 32, 97–98, 149n18 Palacký, František, 33 pan-Slavism, 32–33, 34–35, 54 Pius II, Pope, 69 Pivoda, František, 53 Počátek románu, 22 polkas, 68–69, 70, 74 Popp, Lucia, 2 Pound, Ezra, 128 “Prague, Magic” (era), 43–46, 55, 61–62 Prague, Mozart’s Don Giovanni and, 114–16 Prague Conservatory, 54–55 Prague National Theater, 15, 33, 48, 53, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 71, 72, 77 Prague Provisional Theater, 51–52, 55 Prague Vinohrady Theater, 85 Procházka, František S.: Brouček libretto, 57, 60, 63, 65; poetry of, 42–46 Puccini, Giacomo: La Bohème, 81–82, 95, 96, 99; Janáðek influenced by, 78, 81– 82; Madama Butterfly, 29, 77, 84–87, 87, 98, 99; operas, 76, 77, 97; stylistic conservativism, 8; Tosca, 89 “Pøjdem spolu do Betléma,” 68 Pushkin, Alexander: Eugene Onegin, 31; The Stone Guest, 108, 116 Racek, Jan: Leoš Janáček, 19, 142n33 Rattle, Simon, 72 Ravel, Maurice, 4–5 realism. See verismo operatic movement Rieger, František, 53–54 Righini, Vincenzo: Il Convitato di Pietra, 108, 151n19

index Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolay: Noch’ pered rozhdestvom, 106 Robinson, Paul, 137n3 Roussel, Albert, 4–5 Rubinstein, Anton, 31 Rudolf II, king of Bohemia, 43–46, 123, 125, 130, 131 Russian Circle (Brno), 31, 35 Russophilism, 31–32, 36–42, 46 Ryba, Jan Jakob: Christmas Mass, 68 Rysanek, Leonie, 2 Sabina, Karel, 141n21 Šafa÷ík, Josef, 32 Samson, Jim: The Late Romantic Era, 5 Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich von, 16 Schnabel, Artur, 5 Schoenberg, Arnold, 4–5, 99; Serenade, Op. 24, 7 Schorske, Carl, 121 Schulhoff, Erwin, 4, 6; Plameny (Flammen), 115–20 Šebor, Karel: Nevěsta husitská, 55–56 second-inversion chords in love duets, 87, 89, 91, 93, 102 Sendak, Maurice, 72 Shakespeare, William, 16 Shaw, George Bernard: “A Bad Opera,” 78–79, 96; Don Juan in Hell, 115, 116 Sigismund, Holy Roman Emperor, 57–58, 63 Silja, Anja, 2 Skoumal, Zdenek, 128 Škroup, František: Libušin sňatek, 56, 145n49 Sladkovský, Karel, 33 Slavonic liturgy, 33 Smaczny, Jan, 18 Smetana, Bed÷ich: Braniboři v Čechách (The Brandenburgers in Bohemia), 53, 55, 66; concert polkas, 69; criticized as “Germanic,” 53–54; Dalibor, 2, 52, 53, 68, 77, 89, 91; The Devil’s Wall, 77; Janáðek influenced by, 52; Janáðek’s reviews of operas by, 77; “Joyful Wedding Dance,” 68; Libuše, 18, 43, 54,



173

55, 58–59, 66, 77; Má vlast, 43, 46, 47, 54, 59, 63, 69; as “national” composer, 3, 54, 63; Prodaná nevěsta, 53; The Two Widows, 69; village operas, 73. See also Bartered Bride, The Söderström, Elisabeth, 2, 131–32 Solð, Karel, 38, 39 speech melodies (nápěvky mluvy): common preconceptions about, 18–19; Janáðek’s actual compositional practice, 21–29; Janáðek’s notations of, 14–15, 21, 23, 26–27; Janáðek’s writings and views about, 13–14, 19–21, 26, 140n6; operatic style and, 23–26 “stabilized” music, concept of, 6 Stasov, Vladimir V., 32 Št¥droÞ, Miloš: on Brno, 7; on Janáðek’s use of speech melodies, 15, 19, 28, 29, 140n6; on Janáðek’s verist tendencies, 79, 81; Leoš Janáček and Music of the 20th Century, 4; on veristic traits in Janáðek, 9 Stemme, Nina, 2 Stösslová, Kamila: Janáðek’s first meeting with, 30; Janáðek’s letters to, 60, 85–86, 107, 121–22; as Janáðek’s muse, 30; Janáðek’s visit to villa Bertramka with, 114–15 Straková, Theodora, 9 Strauss, Richard: Elektra, 77; operas of, 99; popularity of operas, 2; Puccini and, 84; Salome, 2, 77; stylistic conservativism of, 8 Stravinsky, Igor, 4–5, 104; Renard, 128 Suk, Josef, 46, 54; Praga, 59 Sundine, Stephanie, 132 Sychra, Antonin, 19 Szymanowski, Karol, 4–5 Talich, Václav, 72, 144–45n39 Taruskin, Richard, 3; Oxford History of Western Music, 5 Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich: Cherevichki, 106; Eugene Onegin, 31, 77; Kuznets Vakula, 106; The Queen of Spades, 31–32, 77 Terezín concentration camp, 59

174



index

Ullmann, Viktor: Piano Sonata No. 7, 59 Unbearable Lightness of Being, The (film), 1 Universal Edition, 30, 56 Urválková, Kamila, 26

126, 127, 128, 129; Frankfurt production (1929), 122; gypsy element in, 113–14; Hauk-Marty Act II scene, 114; Hauk–Marty Act II scene, 113– 14; Marty–Don Juan parallels, 119; Metropolitan Opera production, 121, 129, 135; music and drama at end of opera, 129–33; orchestral introduction, 124–29; ostinati, 125, 126, 128, 128; pitch collection used in, 128, 129, 130–31; popularity, 1; reception, 121–22; resignation motive, 131–32, 132; Rudolphine era portrayed in, 46; San Francisco production (1993), 131–32; Sinfonietta and, 38; timelessness of, 123–24; Toronto production (1989), 131–32; viola d’amore in, 85; vocal assignments, 97; vocal writing, 29; Wagner’s Die Walküre Magic Fire music and, 82, 84, 135; Wagner’s Götterdämmerung Redemption motive and, 135–36, 136 Verdi, Giuseppe: Un ballo in maschera, 77; Don Carlos, 96; Ernani, 77; operas of, 76, 77; Otello, 89, 90, 93, 96; Rigoletto, 89; La traviata, 29, 77; Il Trovatore, 77 verismo operatic movement, 9–10, 76, 78, 96–97, 99 viola d’amore, 84–85 vocal assignments in operas, 97, 99 Vogel, Jaroslav, 10, 19, 40, 41, 122, 125, 144n39 Voskovec, Ji÷í: Don Juan & Comp., 115– 16, 117–18 Vycpálek, Ladislav, 4–5, 153n58 Výlet pana Broučka do měsíce, 22

Vach, Ferdinand, 42 Václav IV, king of Bohemia, 69 Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 4–5 Věc Makropulos (The Makropulos Case), 121–36; as 1920s Czech opera, 121–24; cadential gesture, 133, 134; ïapek’s play and, 13, 132–33; character of Marty, 123–24; chorale, 125, 127, 129, 130; dramatic agency in music, 124, 134–35; fanfares, 125,

Wagner, Cosima, 135 Wagner, Richard: Der fliegende Holländer, 77; influence on Czech opera, 53; Lohengrin, 77; Parsifal, 77; Tannhäuser, 78; Tristan und Isolde, 27–28, 77, 78, 86, 89, 90, 93, 96, 98; Die Walküre, 78, 82, 84 waltzes, 74 Warner, Deborah, 3 Weber, Carl Maria von: Der Freischütz, 77

T¥snohlídek, Rudolf, 72, 152n53 Thun-Hohenstein, Franz Anton, 34 Tikalová, Drahomíra, 2 Todorov, Tzvetan, 3 Tolstoy, Alexei: Don Juan, 108 Tolstoy, Leo: Anna Karenina, 34; Kreutzer Sonata, 32, 34; The Living Corpse, 42 Tomlinson, Gary, 3 trepak (Russian dance), 111 Turay, Gregory, 2 Tyl, Josef Kajetán: Fidlovačka, 145n49; Strakonický dudák, 68 Tyrrell, John: on Cunning Little Vixen, 105; Czech Opera, 51–52, 70; Janáček: Years of a Life, 10, 76–78; Janáðek entry in New Grove Turn of the Century Masters, 5; on Janáðek’s children’s names, 31; on Janáðek’s Jenůfa libretto modifications, 22; Janáček’s Operas: A Documentary Account, 11; on Janáðek’s speech melody concept, 14, 29; on Jenůfa, 140n54; on Kát’a Kabanová, 8, 84; on K÷ížkovský’s influence on Janáðek, 33; liner note essays, 10–11; on Smetana’s text setting, 141n22; on “speech melody myth,” 19; on Taras Bulba, 40; on Tchaikovsky’s Queen of Spades as Janáðek influence, 31–32; on Věc Makropulos, 122, 123, 124, 125, 129; on Z mrtváho domu, 104

index Weil, Ji÷í: Mendelssohn Is on the Roof, 116 Weill, Kurt, 123; Mahagonny, 120 Weinberger, Jaromír: Švanda Dudák, 8 Wenzig, Josef, 58 Werich, Jan: Don Juan & Comp., 115–16, 117–18 whole-tone scale, 8, 134 Williams, Bernard, 122 Wingfield, Paul, 22, 27–28 Wood, Michael, 119 World War I, 34–46 Wundt, Wilhelm, 14 “Ye Who Are God’s Warriors” (Hussite battle hymn), 46, 58–59, 63 Young Czechs, 53, 54 Z mrtváho domu (From the House of the Dead), 104–20; conservative dramaturgy of, 120; continuity within,



175

109–11; Don Quixote and, 108, 119; Dostoevsky source, 32, 34, 104, 105, 109–10, 111–12; end of, 131; “Fair Miller’s Wife” scene, 105, 106, 107, 109, 110–11, 112–13; German translation, 106; “Kedril and Don Juan” scene, 105–8, 109, 110, 118–19; libretto, 104; Mozart’s influence on, 114–19; negative views of, 2; popularity, 1; prison band in, 112, 113; productions, 104; reception, 104–5; reorchestration, 112; Russian exoticism in, 42; Russian folk dances in, 111–12, 123; sex and class in, 109–10 Zeitoper genre, 122–23 Zemanová, Mirka, 147n59 Zeyer, Julius, 56 Zíbrt, ïen¥k, 63 Zítek, Otakar, 122 Žižka, Jan, 43, 58–59, 61, 63, 66, 123

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