CHAPTER I - part 2

Part 1 Part2 Part3 Part 4

THE PLAY OF KEDRIL AND DON JUAN

Don Juan’s first encounter with the devils is pictured in brilliant, sparkling orchestral colours. The scurrying demisemiquaver pattern of (A)

No. 20

rises to middle register level, then flames out on piccolos (the composer requires four flutes, three of which must double on piccolos). The gay 20 (B), with derivatives, is tossed about defiantly in the orchestra. The devils’ music persists until the struggling Elvira is brought in: 20 (A) thunders out on three timpani as Don Juan attacks the devils with his dagger ([24]+1-4): it shivers on lower strings when the servant trembles with fear; it pierces out in three-part harmony on flutes and piccolo as Don Juan commands Kedril to serve his supper and to hell with the devils.

Scene 2 of the pantomime (Con moto [25]-12) begins with a similar dual theme to Act I, No. 5.

No. 21

The knight storms in to the broken arpeggio in the lower voice (B of No. 10) played presto. The short duel is cleverly managed by Janáček: (A) of No. 21 on strings and in a slower tempo admirably suggests the combatants cautiously circling round one another, then, as they lurch at each other with swords, the tempo changes from a moderato "to a spirited 9 with the arpeggio figure (B) riding vigorously at top: this alternation of the two themes continues until the death of the knight. Seldom have sword clashes been so précisely indicated!

No 21A

Elvira runs away as Don Juan cleans his sword-the romping arpeggio figure from [25] which, a moment later, rages triumphantly (piccolo, etc.) on top of heavy brass chords, across the beats of a 3/4 tutti-as Kedril drags off the body of the slain knight.

Interlude 1 (p. 96, bars 5-10)

The ostinato four-note figure of the devils’ music (No. 20 A) is heard a few times in sixths, as the ever-resourceful servant returns with food, pushing in the ugly cobbler’s wife.

Scene 3. Don Juan finds her disgusting (twisting little figure at [26] above a sequence of 6/4 major chords) whereas the cobbler’s wife wants to be amorous (sentimental phrase in double thirds at [26] + 5-6 and 9-10) and at a nod from his master Kedril throws her out.

Interlude 2 (p. 97 up to un poco piu mosso)

After three introductory bars of a new three-note figure which overlaps with itself, the arpeggio motif (B of No. 21) enters and-mainly as a two-bar phrase-rises sequentially intertwining with the new overlapping three-note figure,

Scene 4, last line p. 97 till [30].

A happy lilting motif in B major-with its echoed variant-indicates that the clergyman’s wife is fair game for sport.

No. 22

It alternates with the less ardent two-bar phrase of Interlude 2.

At [28] the piercing devils’ music is resumed and sure enough we see them creeping out again. Don Juan shouts his defiance at them (a variation of the waltz tune No. 22) but they overwhelm him and carry him off as the same waltz tune-again slightly varied-appears with an interesting quaver group in the bass. At top of p. 100 Kedril takes control: the skittish quaver group continues alternating with the clergyman’s wife’s tune (No. 22) now with a new broken arpeggio figure in the accompaniment which becomes an ostinato chuckling figure on violin and flute during the ensuing laughing chorus (pp. 101-2). It also depicts the cheeky little devil who returns to pinch the clergyman’s wife.

Laughing Interlude

Oboe and muted trumpet, then horn and cor anglais, alternately double the vocal "Chi-Chi, Cho-Cho" (compare with [29]-1) hilarity of the convicts who have been immensely amused at the broad humour of the pantomime they have just witnessed. The phrase lengths here are 4 (2+2-D flat major), 3 (G flat major), 5 (E major), 4 (A flat major where a second laughing motif is introduced) and 4 (D flat major) in a steady crescendo.

Kedril announces the second pantomime to two bars of devils’ music.

MUSIC OF THE PANTOMIME

"THE BEAUTIFUL MILLER S WIFE"

Scene 1. The Scheherazade-like theme of the Miller’s wife dominates the music of the pantomime: it is a pert, quasi-Russian folk-song of three bars (representing the wife) first heard on clarinet with plucking harp and string accompaniment in the key of E minor, and is immediately repeated forte in G major (representing the No-nonsense-when-I-am-away Miller). This pattern of alternate piano and forte entries occurs four times passing through C major, E flat minor and B major.

No. 23

Note the subtle displacement of accents in the repetitions of the first five notes (compare (A) and (B)) . As the Miller leaves we hear the tune unharmonized in a quicker tempo extended by repetitions and ending on an E flat trill.

Scene 2. The wife begins to spin (her demure little tune steadied up in A flat minor): there is a tentative knock at the door (timid xylophone taps) as a nervous little scale passage dissolves back into the E flat trill; the phrase is repeated (she is surprised). We now hear a warm and richer presentation of (A) of No. 23 which expands as the amorous neighbour enters. Flute and oboe play the tune as the lovers embrace [32], then, rather grotesquely, a bassoon as they kiss. Further xylophone knocks: the frightened wife hides her visitor under the table (piu mosso) as a solo piccolo twice plays the tune which goes over-with the expansive extension-to an E flat clarinet: an agitated little four-note figure keeps scurrying about on celesta and violin. The Miller’s wife composes herself, although the demisemiquaver runs before [33] (compare with [31]+11) tell us that inwardly she is anything but calm.

Scene 3. As the clerk and wife bow to each other the orchestra plays this more sedate motif in canon

No. 24

(derived from [31] + 18 and 19). After four repetitions (2+2), figure (A) is worked up, as the clerk approaches the Miller’s wife. Another knock: confusion: the clerk hides in a chest-a new two-bar agitato figure alternately on winds and strings repeated four times, leads into a series of trills as the Brahmin enters. Above, steady crotchet chords (p. 107-key D flat major) the clarinet plays the wife’s familiar theme: violins take it up, then piccolo in an extended form. Six heavy bangs on the bass-drum announce the return of the Miller. Great confusion. Another ostinato four-note figure appears and combines with the wife’s tune-slightly varied-as she pretends to spin. The Miller kicks in the door (crash on the bass-drum)-looks suspiciously around (same tune in a steadier tempo, then trill sequences as at [34])-finds the first two lovers and throws them out (repeat of wife theme combined with agitato ostinato figure, followed by further development of the theme fortissimo) .

As Don Juan climbs out from his hiding-place we hear the screaming devils’ music from the first pantomime. The devils themselves appear and the Miller collapses. This new one-bar motif

No. 25

may or may not represent the persistency of the devils: a stage direction states where the devils are to creep out but there are no further indications as to whether they disappear with the collapse of the Miller or circle around Don Juan and the Miller’s wife in their ensuing dance, as the constant presence of this figure in the bass somewhat suggests.

Don Juan and the Miller’s wife dance round to the waltz tune from p. 99 bars 7-10 (and always with No. 25 gnawing away in a lower octave) which alternates with an allegro unharmonized presentation of the jolly wife’s tune, she being delighted at the new turn of events. The pantomime concludes with a six-bar Coda from [37].

Finale (A) (pp. 112-13)

The thirty-seven seconds scene between the soldier and prostitute is set to singularly unromantic music, with a staccato piping figure in double octaves (p. 1 12) and a jerky little figure at [38]. One gets the impression that the couple are a little self-conscious (note hesitations at bars [38] + 1, 3, 5, 7).

The rougher banter (p. 1 14) between Šapkin and the old convict is even shorter (duration-seventeen seconds). In the background we hear choral harmonies to "Aj! Oj!" from the convicts which also accompany the dirge-like song of the young Cossack [39] tinged with a similar sadness, despair and poignancy of the Simpleton’s song in Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov.

No.26

The next number in this sequence of contrasting scenes, appearing and disappearing at breakneck speed, is where the fat little convict becomes insulting and aggressive to Petrovič and Aljeja. It begins with a three-note figure (p. 115, bar 7) consisting of a widely spaced open fifth and a contrasting 6 major chord, which persists right up to the assault on Aley and, indeed, with further variations, to the end of the act.

The conclusion, sforzando and long trill on a solo military drum, reminds one of the even more startling effect at the end of Tosca, Act II: here the military drum is obviously linked with the action or the guards who force the prisoners back into the barracks.

The Story of Act III

The first scene of this act is set in the prison hospital where we see a number of occupied camp beds. Among the patients is the wounded Aljeja; Petrovič sits beside him. In the background, we can see an old convict sitting on a stove. The time is towards evening. The young Mussulman, Aljeja, has proved an apt pupil of Petrovič for in only a few weeks he has mastered parts of a Russian translation of the New Testament-one of the few books permitted in prison. He can also write. Petrovič asks Aljeja what passages he liked best in the "Sermon on the Mount" they had been reading together. "The part where it says one should love even one’s enemies", the feverish Aljeja replies with enthusiasm: "Jesus was a prophet of God and he worked great miracles. He made a bird out of clay, breathed on it and it flew away."

Another patient named Čekunov brings in tea for the two friends. In one of the beds Luka is lying; although he is dangerously ill the sight of Čekunov "toadying" to Petrovič and his friend is too much for him and he watches the scene indignantly. "Ugh, a flunky! He’s found a master!" he gasps out, his voice broken with emotion. Čekunov makes a contemptuous rejoinder. "Listen, you good people "continues Luka addressing the ward at large, "he cannot see that he’s nothing but a serf!" "What business is it of yours anyway?" replies Čekunov heatedly, "can’t you understand that these gentlemen are used to having servants, so why shouldn’t I help them, you shaggy-faced fool? "The slanging match continues in the tough and noisy manner we have now learned to expect as almost normal conversation between some of the convicts. The dying Luka keeps on nagging until a terrible fit of coughing puts a stop to him. This coughing distresses the old convict who is sitting on the stove, and he finds comfort by muttering a few words of prayer. Several of the convict-patients sit down on a bed at back-stage. Šapkin remarks that there are more painful things than a cough- "Having your ears pulled for a long time, for instance." "Is that why your ears stand out so?" he is asked jestingly: "Who pulled them?" "Why, the Chief of Police, of course."

Šapkin’s is a droll tale about himself and other ‘Soldiers in General Cuckoo’s service’ (by which he means they lived in the woods, that is, they were all tramps). Together they planned a housebreaking job but, alas, all five of them were caught and taken to a police station. "Such is life! Such is life! "Šapkin sighs philosophically. But, he assures us, tramps are cagey birds. They experience convenient lapses of memory which not even chopping wood on their heads will rectify. "Who are you?" the Captain barks out at Šapkin. "I don’t really know, your honour, I have forgotten", Šapkin replies. The Captain looks more closely at him: he seems to have seen this face before. Passing on to the other tramps he demands to have their names. "Grab-it-and-run-away, your honour", replies one rascal; "I-follow-him, your honour", says another: "Hatchet, your honour": "Quick-Sharpener". The Captain laughs and hustles them off to jail, all of them, that is, except Šapkin. It appears that the police are looking for a clerk who absconded with government money. The circulated description of the man states that his ears stuck out. So the Captain, suspicious of Šapkin, brings him pen and paper and commands him to write. "Have mercy, your honour", cries Šapkin, who can neither read nor write. "Write as best you can", commands the Captain, taking hold of the luckless Šapkin’s ears and pulling and twisting them. The best that the tramp can do is to move the pen meaninglessly over the surface of the paper. "Was he crazy or something?" some convicts ask, rising from the camp bed at the back. "He jolly well nearly pulled my ears off", concludes Šapkin amid general laughter. This light-hearted divertimento throws into high relief the grim tragedy of Akulka which we are shortly to hear.

It appears that the convict who did the mad song-and-dance act towards the beginning of the opera, later telling us the pathetic tale of his love for Lujza and his murder of the German watch-repairer, has now really gone mad. Skuratov rises from his bed dancing about, shouting "Lujza, oh, Lujza! "at the top of his voice and reliving the terrible moment when he shot his rival. The convicts tell him angrily to shut up. When he keeps on, they catch him and hold him down on his bed. It grows dark in the hospital ward, the convicts quieten down and gradually fall asleep. The old man on the stove has lit a candle. "My darling little children, I shall never see you again", he wails, and calls on God to have mercy upon him.

Cerevin and a young convict named Šiškov sit up in their beds. Dostoevsky speaks of Sigkov as being short and thin, a cowardly, mawkish fellow, very quarrelsome with restless eyes who, while telling his story, gesticulates wildly with his hands.

A rich landowner, Ankudim, has a wife, two young sons and a daughter, Akulka, who is 18. He is a highly respectable member of his community and very religious. His business partner has just died and the son of this partner, Filka Morozov, as thoroughgoing a scoundrel as one can imagine, is forthright in demanding 400 roubles as his share of his father’s property. "I won’t be your slave, old man, never fear ", he shouts angrily at Ankudim. "I mean to have a good time, get drunk, spend every bean I have got and when it’s gone, join the army and you will see in 10 years I return as a field-marshal." The old man pays up but cannot resist telling him that he is a lost soul. "Whether I am lost or not, you old greybeard, I don’t need you to teach me how to drink milk with an awl", retorts the incensed Filka Morozov. "Don’t think I will ever marry your daughter, Akulka, now! Why should I? I have slept with her often enough as it is. "Ankudim is appalled at this insult to the honest daughter of an honest father. He trembles with rage and angrily demands to know more. "I will take good care your daughter won’t easily find a husband", Filka Morozov continues. "No one is likely to want her when he knows I have been carrying on with her for years." This is a terrible blow to the religious old man, who breaks down.

When Šiškov first mentions the name of Akulka, Cerevin eagerly asks him if she was his wife. Šiškov tells him not to interrupt him. There are several such interruptions by Cerevin and always he is told to hold his tongue and not rush the speaker. Luka’s dying coughs also punctuate the tale at appropriate places, but whereas the anxious interruptions of Cerevin are of a humorous nature, Luka’s terrible coughing is later proved to be of the highest dramatic significance.

So, Filka Morozov paints the town red. Šiškov and he are buddies and at Filka Morozov’s suggestion they get a pot of tar and smear it on Akulka’s gate. Her parents turn harshly on their unfortunate daughter: they beat her from morning till night-neighbours hear her screaming: her mother says she will kill her for bringing this terrible disgrace on their family.

The troubled snoring of the sleeping convicts is heard in gentle three-part choral harmony. Šiškov continues his story: the two vicious and spiteful louts shout insults at Akulka when they see her in the street. Even while tormenting her, Šiškov does not fail to notice that she has remarkably fine eyes. Akulka’s mother happens to see the incident but imagines that her daughter is flirting with the two raw youths and she makes the girl suffer for it. Šiškov’s mother - who works for Ankudim’s family-gets an idea. Why shouldn’t her son marry Akulka, lazy dog that he is, and get a dowry of 300 roubles? They would be glad to marry her off to almost anybody now! The idea appeals to Šiškov. Filka Morozov, on the other hand, is mad and threatens that if he does go ahead with the plan and marries Akulka, he, Filka Morozov, will beat him up and sleep with his wife any time he likes. But the wedding comes off although the bridegroom has been drunk for weeks past. "In our part of the country", explains Šiškov, "they take us straight to the bridal chamber immediately after the ceremony while the guests drink outside." The bride sat quietly on the bed with not a drop of blood in her cheeks, frightened and miserable: the bridegroom had brought a whip with him to show her, right at the start, who was to be master. Then it turned out that the bride was pure and innocent. Why had his friend slandered her with his filthy lies? He kneels down and humbly begs his wife’s forgiveness. Her parents are filled with remorse and pity for the innocent daughter they had so wronged and Šiškov goes off fighting-mad to find Filka Morozov and kill the slanderer. But Filka Morozov says to him contemptuously: "You fool, you were dead drunk when you got married. You were in no state to know about this one way or the other." So, things turn out worse than ever for Akulka: her enraged, humiliated husband beats her continually; even when he feels sorry for her he continues to beat her and he blames his mother for promoting the match, telling her that her ears were stopped with gold.

Meanwhile, Filka Morozov has been enjoying himself hugely. He has hired himself out to a storekeeper to replace his eldest son as a soldier. In such cases, it is customary to allow complete freedom to their benefactor. The roisterer, Filka Morozov, takes full advantage of his opportunities; sleeping with the daughter, pulling the father’s beard, having a daily bath in vodka and generally behaving like the unspeakable blackguard he is. At last they managed to sober him up and he is taken off to be a soldier. Just then, he sees Akulka, bows humbly to her, and says: "Forgive me, honest daughter of an honest father, for I have been a scoundrel to you and everything is my fault. You are my soul. I have loved you for two years and now they are taking me away to be a soldier. "Akulka listened to him in silence, then she also made a low curtsey, replying: "Forgive me also, my dear lad, I have already forgotten any evil you have done me."

Šiškov followed her into the house. "What was that you said to him, you bitch?" he demanded, bursting with anger. Quite calmly she answered back- "Why, I love him now more than anything else in the world." Next morning Šiškov told his wife to get up and come with him to the harvesting.

At the point in the story where the loutish husband is telling how he cruelly beat his newly wedded wife, some of the convicts tell him to shut up not because they object to a husband beating his wife but because they cannot sleep for his ranting. The tender-hearted Aljeja, however, is moved at the pitiful story. The terrible coughing of Luka suddenly stops: he has just died. The old convict notices this and goes slowly over to the corpse. Šiškov concludes his story. He tells how he harnessed the horses, drove some miles into the wood, told Akulka to say her prayers as he was going to kill her, then grabbed her by the hair, took out a knife and cut her throat. The old convict tells the others that Luka is dead. They hurry over to the corpse and crowd round it as the guards and a doctor come in. One convict closes Luka’s eyes, another puts a rough wooden cross on his breast: the guards remove the fetters from his feet. Šiškov, who has been gazing intently at the dead Luka, suddenly recognizes him to be the Filka Morozov of his story-the man who so utterly ruined his life. "Filthy swine! Filthy swine!" he shouts at the dead man in a terrible outburst of anger.

The officer of the guard salutes the body and the old convict says gently, "He too had a mother", words which, Dostoevsky recounts, stabbed him to the heart.

A guard turns to Petrovič telling him he must follow him. The Commandant wants him. Aljeja embraces his friend. The convicts speculate as to what this unexpected summons can mean.

The curtain falls: during the orchestral interlude which follows we hear the characteristic "Hou! Hou!" of the convicts, the clanking of their chains and the sounds of their working tools.

The curtain rises on the same scene as Act I: it is a bright sunny morning and the convicts are preparing to go off to work. The hospital can be seen in the background. Petrovič is brought in by the guards. The Commandant of the camp enters: he is half drunk. He tells Petrovič that he is sorry for what he did to him when he first entered the prison. He had him flogged for nothing, nothing at all and regrets having done this. Petrovič answers that he understands. "Do you understand that I, I, your Commanding Officer ask you for forgiveness?", continues the maudlingly magnanimous officer. "Do you know what that means? To me you are less than a worm . . . infinitely less . . . you are a convict! And I, by the grace of God, am a major. Can you understand that?" Petrovič again assures him that he fully understands. The Major now comes to the point of the business and asks Petrovič if he, by any chance, had any dream last night. The latter replies that in his dream he received a letter from his mother. "It is something much better than that", continues the governor: "You are free! Your mother has petitioned in your favour and her appeal has been granted." He hands Petrovič his discharge and the fetters are removed from his feet. The astonished Petrovič is congratulated by the convicts. Aljeja alone is in despair at the thought of losing his wonderful friend. Will they ever meet again, is the thought foremost in the minds of both. In a moment of ecstatic emotion Petrovič kisses the chains which now no longer bind his feet-they have taught him the meaning of freedom. The big convict who kept the eagle in the cage suddenly decides to release it. As the eagle soars up into the sky, the convicts enviously watch its flight and they sing a short paean to the Freedom which most of them are never destined to know.

This effective end to the opera was arranged by Osvald Chlubna and břetislav Bakala (who conducted the first performance of the opera) at the request of Ota Zítek (Director of the Brno Opera Theatre).

Janáček cut short the Hymn to Freedom and concluded his opera with the guards harassing the wretched prisoners back to another day’s toil.

Dostoevsky’s Novel-its Relation to the Opera: Act III

Dostoevsky devotes the first three chapters in the second part of his novel to his experiences in the prison hospital. He relates that although the beds were never free from bugs, that his filthy dressing-gown was full of lice, that the sanitary arrangements in the ward were utterly disgusting, that even the most diseased prisoner had still to wear his fetters, and so on, nevertheless, hospital life was infinitely more tolerable than life in the prison barracks. He speaks with enthusiasm of the kindness and the humanity of the doctors.

It has already been pointed out that the touching little scene between Aljeja and Petrovič at the beginning of this act was taken from an earlier part of the book (pp. 59-60). In the composer’s stage adaptation we have seen how he gave an unexpected dramatic twist to the conclusion of Act II when the pugnacious little convict assaulted Ayeja. This leads, naturally enough, to the injured boy being next seen in the prison hospital, although no reason is given for Petrovič’s appearance there. Anyway, it shows Janáček’s skill as a dramatist in making the deep and sincere friendship between the innocent young Tartar and the mature and cultured political prisoner a major motif in his opera. It may seem ironic that in the company of murderers, robbers, beggars and thugs, any incident so trivial as drinking a cup of tea could inflame tempers and rouse passions to such an extraordinary pitch. It has already been mentioned that most of the convicts had a highly inflamed sense of class consciousness, the tramps and peasants never failing to taunt the "gentlemen "in the camp at any display -real or imaginary-of their "wealth "and "superiority".

It does, however, seem a little repetitive that Janáček has made tea-drinking the subject of two consecutive quarrels in his opera when there are plenty of other causes for dispute among the convicts mentioned in the book.

The scene immediately following the tender passage between the two friends-continuing Janáček’s plan of contrasting consecutive scenes-is to be found in the first hospital chapter (pp. 156-7). The dying convict there is a soldier called Ustyantsev who, from fear of corporal punishment, drank a jug of vodka heavily loaded with snuff, which has brought on consumption. We now know that Janáček is going to identify Luka with the primitive Filka Morozov thus making Luka a very composite character. This compression of several characters into one is not only fully justified, but is, in fact, a necessity in making a stage play from this rambling autobiographical novel with its 200-odd characters. The pious old convict sitting on the stove can be identified on p. 152 and his lament over the children he will never see again on p. 36.

Šiškov’s explanation of why his ears stick out is on pp. 191-4. The operatic version takes over the entire humorous dialogue very slightly shortened. Janáček links Šapkin’s story to the quarrel of Cerevin and the dying Luka, with Šapkin saying that there are more painful things than coughing-getting your ears pulled, for instance.

The interruptions of Šapkin’s recital by other convicts in the ward-later from the guards and Doctor-break up what otherwise would be an accompanied recitative, and are further evidence of Janáček’s sense of "theatre ".

Skuratov’s heart-rending cries of "Oh, Lujza! Oh, Lujza! "are made even more so when accompanied by his grotesque mad little dance. This scene, which continues with the convicts pouncing on Skuratov, is Janáček’s own invention although rough-house incidents of this type are common enough in the novel.

[four pages of plates between pp 73/74]

We now arrive at the centre-piece of the opera and a very important part of the book, for it is the only convict’s story to which Dostoevsky allocates an entire chapter-the long and terrible tale of Akulka’s husband. The convicts falling asleep, the heavy breathing of the dying convict, the dim light of the night-lamp, the two convicts whispering together in the dark, all is described in the opening paragraphs of the chapter referred to (p. 195), which inspired the short orchestral interlude Janáček has inserted between the two convict stories.

Dostoevsky described Šiškov as being under 30, an unlikeable, shallow, sullen, gawky, rude fellow, cowardly and mawkish. He stands in violent contrast to his wife Akulka, with her simple-hearted innocence in love, and almost childlike humility, and entire submission uncomplainingly to a cruel and harsh destiny. In the chapter discussing Kátja  Kabanová we shall find that the heroine of that opera has much in common with the gentle and longsuffering Akulka, as the spoilt, possessive, bullying mother-in-law has with Akulka’s husband.

Janáček’s condensation of Šiškov’s story is a first-rate bit of craftsmanship: his idea of making the dying Luka the evil genius of the tale in disguise is a dramatic stroke of genius, particularly when he follows this up with the action of Akulka’s husband carrying his insane hate of the man who ruined his life so far as to assault the corpse of his enemy with curses on his lips. No such dramatic twist, of course, occurs in the book for the tale ends with the recipient of the story, the phlegmatic Cerevin, casually observing that when he found his wife with a lover, he beat her into submission till finally she cried "I will wash your feet and drink the water".

Dostoevsky calls Cerevin a sullen pedant, a cold formalist and a conceited fool, which is borne out by his comments when Šiškov-at the height of his passion-cuts his wife’s throat: "There is a vein, you know; if you don’t cut through that vein straight away, a man will go on struggling and won’t die, however much blood is lost!"

A guard tells Petrovič that he is wanted by the Commandant-a necessary link added by Janáček leading up to Petrovič’s release. On p. 274 of the book the writer states that he entered the prison in winter and also left it in winter: so the usual manner of staging Act II in summer, in between two acts set in winter, is most likely the intention of the composer. Vogel has pointed out that Janáček was sometimes extremely careless in such details.

The confession of the Major that he had wrongfully ordered Petrovič a beating occurs on p. 259, but it concerns a prisoner named "Z". It seems that, as time went on, the Major had completely reversed his views on political prisoners and, indeed, began to show a bias favourable towards them. "So even this drunken, vicious man had some humane feeling", comments Dostoevsky, though he adds cautiously that probably his drunken condition had a good deal to do with his magnanimity.

The reason for Petrovič’s release is to be found on a page earlier in the novel, but again about a different prisoner "M". The freeing of the eagle, which in its flight has not looked round once, completes Chapter 6, and one notes that, after the release of the eagle, the guards shout at the convicts and drive them off to work, which is how Janáček wished his opera to end.

In spite of this, it is probably better to use the alternative end of the printed score and the chorus in praise of "Freedom, New Life, Resurrection from the Dead!" which is how Dostoevsky concludes his novel.

The Music of Act III

Orchestral Prelude (p. 120 to [2])

After some rumbles in the bass, we hear a kinder, gentler, more humane variation of the Destiny motif which we remember from Act I, but which made no appearance in Act II. Here is the theme as heard at rise of curtain-on violas with celli and bass-clarinet two octaves lower-

No. 27

More timpani rumblings and a caressing, delicate motif with a touch of the Orient about it makes its appearance, a motif associated with the charming young Tartar, Aljeja, in the opening scene.

No. 28

This quickly works up to a climax where brass triumphantly declaim the Freedom motif which we hear with such welcoming relief at the end of the opera-

No. 29

SCENE 1. ALJEJA AND PETROVIč DISCUSS THE TEACHING OF JESUS ([2] to [3])

The orchestra plays No. 28 widely spaced as Aljeja speaks with enthusiasm of the teachings of Jesus: the music becomes warm, serene, exalted when, with feverish enthusiasm, he recounts the legend of the clay bird which flew away.

SCENE 2. QUARREL BETWEEN ČEKUNOV AND LUKA ([3] TO P. 126, BAR 11)

Midway through this bickering scene this theme

No. 30

seems to characterise the unctuous servility of the opportunist, Čekunov. Note that the rising and falling contours of the Fate motif are again present here in skeleton. When the two convicts make unpleasant comments on the physical appearance of the other, it appears forte in notes three times shorter as a kind of "Snarl" motif (see [4]).

The last three notes are declaimed with mock dignity in the top and bottom scoring so characteristic of this opera (trumpets and violins on top; muted trombones and doublebass at bottom) when Luka says proudly that he wouldn’t bow the knee to anyone (p. 126, bars 6-7).

SCENE 3. ŠAPKIN’S SEMI-HUMOROUS STORY (p. 126, bar 13 to p. 135, bar 9)

With the exception of the little tune in double thirds at [5] (Šapkin feeling sorry for himself) practically the entire thematic material is derived from

No. 31

The first three notes are used as a sort of Pain motif ([5]-8, etc.): the first two notes as a "cuckoo" motif ([5]+28, etc.): the whole of No. 31 with the first note doubled in value and in imitation, becomes suitably swaggering music for the attempted robbery (top of p. 129), which overlaps with another metamorphosis-the first three notes imitated a fourth lower in an alla breve allegro unison passage picturing the cops chasing the tramps [6]. The whole theme, above sustained brass, is transformed into impressive music for the entry of the police captain (p. 130, 3rd bar). A few bars later at the 4 allegro, it is turned into a humorous twisting figure as Šapkin recounts that even chopping wood on the head of tramps won’t help them to remember anything-if they don’t want to! In this quick 6/8 variation form it further represents the cheeky Šapkin (p. 131, bars 4-6, etc.), while the music for the interrogating captain is the same theme (No. 31) in a suitably authoritative 3/8 adagio (p. 131, bars 1-3; 7-8; 12 et seq.). Yet, by rhythmic, harmonic, tempo, spacing and instrumental subtleties and changes, the different characterizations and different dramatic situations are always perfectly clear.

The feeling-sorry-for-myself tune in double-thirds reappears at [8] + 7 as the luckless Šapkin gets his ears pulled.

The composer, by the way, requires the singer taking this part to have two voices-tenor and bass: and he writes the voice part in two clefs-

No. 32

The tiny fanfare-like figure in the last three bars of p. 133 should not go unnoticed. It is a characteristic thumbprint of the composer and we will meet it again in the interlude between the two scenes of this act (see [33]): the student of Janáček’s works will know of many other examples in instrumental as well as operatic works.

No 33

SCENE 4. THE CRAZED SKURATOV SHOUTS AND DANCES AND IS SUPPRESSED BY THE CONVICTS

(p. 135, bar 10 to p. 136-up to the 3)

Skuratov’s dual theme from Act I is one of only a handful of themes which are common to more than one act. His agonizing cries of "Oh, Lujza"-to the exasperation of the convicts-is very moving. The relentless Destiny theme reappears (p. 136 at the 3)-no one can hope to escape his fate.

In the excellent L.P. recording made at the Holland Festival in 1954 a break is made at the foot of p. 136, the only sounds heard being the sobbing of the crazed Skuratov and the sinister hollow coughing of the consumptive-an excellent production touch which is harrowing and deeply moving.

Orchestral Interlude (p. 137)

A solo violin sings out a beautifully serene "new" theme, as though to tell us that the gift of sleep, with its priceless blanket of unconsciousness, relaxation, forgetfulness and the magic of dreams is granted to all God’s creatures-alike to the just and the unjust. If one chooses to examine the mechanics of this "new" theme it actually turns out to be a variation of the lower voice of the Skuratov theme. Perhaps Janáček meant us to view with compassion the poor mad wretch who has passed into the temporary relief of unconsciousness. Soft tremolos on cello and bass, however, denote that the sleep of the convicts is not an untroubled one. Twice the eagle motif intervenes in an energetic dance rhythm (hopeful dreams of freedom?) and there is a counterpoint to the transformed Skuratov motif which soars upwards instead of having the usual drooping curves, setting a more optimistic note.

The pathetic outburst from the old convict on the stove, thinking of the children he will never see again, is a little masterpiece of controlled but intensive expression (p. 138).

SCENE 5. THE STORY OF AKULKA AND HER HUSBAND

(p. 138 at the (5) Andante to p. 173: continued in a dramatic Coda up till [31])

Šiškov’s monologue runs to around thirty pages of the vocal score and is, therefore, the longest and most highly developed single scene in the entire opera. The story itself has sufficient incidents and human interest to serve as basis for an entire opera.

A detailed analysis of the music of Šiškov’s story will be found in Appendix 1.

From even a casual study of this, it should be clear that Janáček employs as highly a complex system of leitmotif as any composer has attempted since the death of Wagner.

All the leading characters in the drama have associated motifs, devised to give truthful musical expression to their individual characteristics: the Akulka motif, for example, stands out from all others by its tenderness, serenity and simple-heartedness.

One feels, perhaps, that Janáček could have more forcefully, realistically and dramatically revealed the double identity of Filka Morozov by declaiming, for instance, an augmented version of the swaggering Filka motif (see vocal score p. 141 at the con moto) at the crucial moment, for this theme dominates the first part of the monologue for ten pages and is associated with Filka in the minds of perceptive members of the audience.

To continue with the analysis of Act III, it is a relief, after the emotional rhapsodies and complexities of the Šiškov monologue, to listen to the light texture-mainly in polka and waltz rhythms-of the orchestral interlude separating the two main scenes of this act.

The main theme is a jerky folk-song-like polka strain orchestrated in musical-box colours; a piquant touch is achieved by immediately repeating it in waltz time: this delightful swaying between duple and triple rhythms occurs three times, during which we hear bass and tenor convicts, behind scene echoing their characteristic "Hou! Hou!" calls.

Trumpet calls break into the care-free atmosphere, reminding us perhaps that, however momentarily happy the convicts may be in the enjoyment of their physical work, they are still prisoners-or could this be a preliminary call to Freedom? Anyway, the five-bar contrasting section is tinged with heaviness.

The polka theme dressed out in full orchestral colours and now punctuated a few times by trumpet notes is developed at some length after which the lighter first part of the interlude is repeated and a short Coda added. This repeat was added by the editors for practical reasons-Janáček’s interlude was too short to allow the necessary change of scenery.

The Commandant enters to this somewhat unctuous and mock-solemn theme-

No. 34

 

The speech curves of his "apology "are particularly realistic.

The dance tune of the interlude (last bar p. 183) cuts in for a moment and again we hear the whirling "Hou! Hou!" of the convicts who are watching this incredible scene with interest and amazement.

The music for the continuation of the Commandant’s speech [35]is in two threads; the lower voice, on horns and strings, can be read as an unexpected jaunty derivative of the Destiny motif (unless the resemblance is purely accidental) while, above it-on oboes-is a development of the first two notes of the convicts’ folk-song (see [32]) expanding to the tune itself at the second last bar on p. 184 as the convicts now openly nudge one another at the ridiculous and unbecoming conduct of their Major. The two themes continue in combination (pp. 185-6). The little fanfare theme from the middle of the orchestral interlude is added to the texture (top of p. 186). When the Major goes to the length of actually embracing Petrovič the orchestra chuckles sardonically: when he questions Petrovič about his dreams and the latter replies that he was dreaming of his mother last night, a new descending arpeggio figure appears with solo violin and flutes weaving continuous triplets around it (see [36]+ 6 et seq.).

The mood of the scene and the music has changed. There is, however, no change of tempo and the jerky little folk fragment continues to intervene although in gentler tones (p.187, bars 5 and 6). After Petrovič is handed his discharge the music rises quickly to a pitch of ecstasy.

At [37] the Destiny motif appears in friendlier tones and soon we begin to relax after two hours of almost unbearable tension as the triumphant Hymn-to-Freedom theme reappears (No. 30). We hear it when the caged eagle soars to freedom-with high piccolo flutterings (p. 190 to [39])-and again, more subdued and intimate-horn solo-as the two friends bid farewell to one another [39], finally ringing out with exalted triumph as Petrovič leaves the prison and the convicts sing of Liberty and Freedom on which note the opera closes.

I, for one, cannot find fault with this extremely effective edited ending. It begins at the third bar of p. 195 repeating the previous two bars, followed by the first six bars in [38] and a coda of nine bars, where the Freedom and Destiny motifs are fused perfectly together.

Janáček’s original ending was printed in the Musical Times of August 1956, pp. 408-10, and can also be found on p. 374 of Vogel’s book. It repeats from the tempo primo on p. 179 to the con moto at the bottom staves of p. 180: that is, the middle development section of the orchestral interlude, now heavily orchestrated and ending fortissimo.

The theme is the jolly polka-waltz tune of the convicts, so that there is no trace in Janáček’s original finale of any return to tragedy or despair.

Note

Although Janáček wrote to Mrs. Kamila Stosslova on 4 January, 1928 that The House of the Dead was finished, some Janáček scholars consider that 8 June is probably nearer the date, although, as we have seen, the final revision was never completed by the composer.

It is thought that Janáček first met the 23-year-old beautiful wife of David Stossel in Hukvaldy in 1915, when he became immediately attracted to her. Vogel considers the introduction took place two years later in Luhacovice while the families were on holiday. Janáček himself, however, in the musical story of their love, sets the first movement of his Love Letters quartet "in Hukvaldy-my first impressions when I saw you for the first time".

During the course of his thirteen years’ friendship with this lady, a friendship which grew in intimacy as the years passed, he wrote nearly 600 letters to her and on his own confession she was the inspiration for many of his most mature works. "I know a most wonderful lady", he tells Professor Knop. "I have her perpetually in my mind. My Kátja (Kabanová) grows in her, in Kamila!": later he writes to Kamila-"You are, for me, the poor Elian Makropulos!": again "You were the one I thought of when writing this work" (The Diary of One Who Vanished): and the crowning tribute to his beloved was the second string quartet, Love Letters, in which he pours out his passion, his tenderness, his love for Kamila. He began writing this, his last instrumental masterpiece, in January 1928, that is, in the last year of his life.

Janáček and his wife had mostly lived apart for many years: she was no sweet, sympathetic, understanding wife for this tremendously vital, headstrong and eccentric genius. The personal attributes of our tumultuous hero will be discussed later: suffice now to state that however proud and incorruptible he was as a great musical personality, however much of an original Diogenes among musicians, however much he was and is now to an even greater extent the creator of tempestuously new and strong musical works, by everyone’s account, he was, in his personal relationships, an exceedingly difficult man. One sympathizes with Madame Janackova, as one sympathizes with the first wife of Debussy in rather similar circumstances, but rejoices in the fact that his later years were made radiantly happy by Kamila.

His actual relationship with Kamila has involved biographers in some speculation: Janáček once told his great admirer and propagandist, Max Brod, that their relationship was "a purely spiritual one". Max Brod, refusing to have the wool pulled over his eyes, had this dry comment to make: "Friendship with a woman is not an empty phrase, it is simply an inaccurate description leaving out what is most important and stressing a side-issue."

The events leading up to the death of Janáček created some scandal and, for a time, an attempt was made to stifle the truth. Kamila’s husband practically handed over his wife, accompanied by their young son, to Janáček, who converted an attic in his house at Hukvaldy to accommodate his beloved. The 11-year-old boy strayed away from the adults when they were walking to Babi hill: the 74-year-old composer searched uphill and downhill looking for the lost child, sitting down in an overheated condition with a strong wind blowing. As a result of this he caught a chill which was diagnosed first as "flu" with laryngitis and mastoid-later turning into pneumonia. A week later he was dead.

The meeting of wife and mistress, the quarrel of the rival undertakers, the smuggling of his body into Brno, the lying in state in the foyer of the Brno Theatre opposite his own bust is a macabre story worthy of the pen of a Hoffmann.

Two years after his death The House of the Dead was performed in Brno before the gathering of distinguished musicians, many of whom had come from far afield to pay tribute to this great Czech composer. Other performances soon followed in Prague, Berlin, Dusseldorf, Zurich and elsewhere. The woman who had meant so much to Janáček, to whom he had poured out his heart, who had been the inspiration behind many masterpieces, to whom he had written a propos The House of the Dead- "I am hurrying with the new opera like a baker throwing buns into the oven", herself died of cancer seven years after the man who had loved her so much.

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