The main coincidence related to Borodin’s story is that I have been thinking lately about the way collective social values influence us from young age and then could become a hindrance for our happiness if not individuated. It seems that the pursuit of love and happiness is often stronger drive than collective norms and the dynamic between them triggers individuation. Borodin and his family are a great example of that as they both broke and held up the strict established norms. Borodin was the son of a Price, he was a Prince himself, but carried the name of the Prince’s valet. It so happens, that (Prince) Borodin’s most famous and polyphonic opera is Prince Igor. Similar dynamics in my own family. The other unexpected coincidence is that an ancestor of mine and Borodin’s maternal grandfather went together to Lombardy, known or unknown to each other. There were number of major wars during Borodin’s life, as the Ottoman Empire and then the West declared war to Russia, all due to the Great Schism in 1054, as it seems.

Many children in Russia at the time learned number of European languages and played music instruments from young age but Borodin was composing already as a small child and he spoke German. For example, as a 9 year old he wrote Hélène-Polka in 1843 for an adult woman he was in love with:

The story about Borodin comes directly after Brahms’; these composers are born the same year. As it happens, a turning point in Borodin’s career as a composer occurs after a visit in Heidelberg in 1861, a town Brahms had already been visiting for a decade, often in the company of Clara Schumann. At the time, “the city was in the Grand Duchy of Baden (Großherzogtum Baden), a sovereign state that was a member of the German Confederation (Deutscher Bund) — a loose association of 39 German-speaking states created in 1815 after the Congress of Vienna.” Borodin and his future wife met by chance there, two Russians who just happened to be in Heidelberg and in the same accommodation at the same time. Up to that point, Borodin was a professional doctor and a scientist; music was his hobby. But there he met this Russian pianist with a perfect pitch who influenced his future compositions with her taste of romantic music, especially Schumann and Chopin. She was there as patient with health issues and he was a doctor, a scientist and … a composer. She was older than him, but he didn’t care. They had no children but adopted. But the introduction to Balakirev, a meeting which resulted in the creation of the great Big Five in European classical music, came through his medical and scientific social circle at home, not through his wife.

Rightfully so, today, in number of educational programs in Europe, professional musicians, besides music, study courses in high level physics or chemistry, generally in natural sciences, because it appears that there is a natural neural affinity between these two mental activities, science and music. Art and science complement and develop one another, especially on individual level.

Enjoy a Moonlit Night in Pisa!

Alexander Borodin, Second Symphony. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by Karel Mark Chichon.

MOONLIT NIGHT IN PISA

The moon slipped into his room along with the scent of oleanders. Silvery shadows quivered in the corners. In the frame of the open window, the distant silhouette of the Leaning Tower of Pisa drew nearer, its outlines softened.

The young man woke up suddenly.

“Where am I?” was his first thought as he looked around the room bathed in pale light. Then everything became clear. They had been in Pisa for three months together with Ekaterina Sergeevna, because in September in Heidelberg she had begun coughing up blood. Her fits of coughing were terrible. Her chest was torn by dry wheezing.

Why had he come with her to Pisa? He had been sent from St. Petersburg University to Heidelberg to specialize in chemistry — not to escort tubercular Russian pianists around Italy, where the winter was mild and warm. But he was a doctor. Yes, he was a doctor before he became a chemist. And a doctor at only thirty-one years old! It didn’t matter that Professor Zinin placed his greatest hopes in him as a chemist. The doctor in him — and not only the doctor — could not abandon the young pianist who, on Professor Friedrich’s recommendation, simply had to go south if she did not want to die within the next few months…

Alexander Porfiryevich Borodin got out of bed and walked over to the open window. He stared intently at the leaning silhouette of the tower, from whose top Galileo Galilei had conducted his experiments three centuries earlier…“What a strange thing love is…” the young scientist smiled. “I myself am her child…”

His father, the fifty-nine-year-old Prince Luka Stepanovich Gedianov, who was a direct descendant of the princes of Gedea who had joined Russia back in the time of Tsar Ivan the Terrible, and his mother — the twenty-four-year-old soldier’s daughter Avdotya Konstantinovna Antonova — had never been married! He did not even bear his father’s surname; he had been registered as the son of his father’s valet, Porfiry Borodin. And although he knew that Avdotya Konstantinovna was his mother, as a small boy he had been forced — for the sake of appearances — to call her “Auntie”!

A prince by blood and birth, on paper Alexander Porfiryevich Borodin was listed as a serf. Shortly before his death, his father had to grant him freedom. At the time Sasha was ten years old. Now he understood perfectly why, in the world into which he had been born, the old prince could not marry his mother. Class differences were an insurmountable obstacle. But the prince had loved the young and beautiful Avdotya Konstantinovna sincerely and had taken care of her. He had bought her the large four-story house on Glazovskaya Street, where in the drawing room above the fireplace hung his portrait and hers. The prince, a retired colonel, came to visit them almost every day. He would question the governess Louise in detail about Sasha’s progress in French, make Franz Frantsevich report like a soldier on his German studies, and when satisfied with their answers, he would take his little son on his knees and tell him about the battles in the war against Napoleon in which he had fought. He spoke to him about his youth spent in the Russian army. Only when he grew up did Sasha realize that his father must have loved him very much. Just as he had loved his mother very much. He had most likely inherited his innate tenderness from him, but his iron will and proverbial stubbornness undoubtedly came from the blood of his grandfather — the soldier. Sasha had never seen this grandfather. He had no portrait like that of his father. But Avdotya Konstantinovna kept in her maiden chest an old uniform with a bullet hole. In that uniform his soldier grandfather had fought under the command of Field Marshal Suvorov in Lombardy, just as he had later fought at Borodino…

A funny story — Lombardy was also connected with one of his strangest adventures! The previous year, 1861, when he and Dmitry Mendeleev had escaped from the laboratory in Heidelberg and gone for a walk through Lombardy, the Austrian police arrested them in Verona. It all began with a thorough search of their train carriage. First they were asked where they were coming from and where they were going, then they were made to get off the train and were taken under escort to the station office. This was followed by a detailed search of their luggage. Despite their protests that they were Russian subjects, the Austrians rudely forced Sasha to undress completely naked. They were looking for some identifying mark on his back. When they didn’t find it, they finally left them alone. They returned to the train. The Italian passengers greeted them with extraordinary enthusiasm. Only then did they learn that the Austrians had been searching their carriage for an Italian political prisoner who had escaped from an Austrian jail. Because of his swarthy southern-looking face, Sasha Borodin had seemed highly suspicious to them.

When they crossed the Lombard-Piedmont border and entered the territory of the Kingdom of Sardinia, Sasha and Mendeleev were celebrated as true national heroes, because, without intending to, they had helped save the Italian fugitive, who turned out to be one of the passengers in their compartment.

“Only traveling second class can show you a nation as it really is!” smiled the Russian chemist sitting by the window.

A distant clock struck three.

Borodin realized he would not be able to fall back asleep before morning, so he dressed and went out. He began wandering through the ancient streets of Pisa. Two policemen came toward him, but they recognized him from afar. They stopped and exchanged a few courteous words with him. Then they parted amicably…By now all of Pisa knew them — him and Ekaterina Sergeevna. They called them “the Russian couple.” Everywhere they were welcomed warmly and treated with respect.

When Alexander Porfiryevich had arrived in Pisa with Ekaterina Sergeevna three months earlier and settled her in a boarding house, he had firmly intended to return immediately to Heidelberg and continue his scientific work. But he soon realized this would be impossible. He could not leave her alone in a foreign city. Then the crazy idea came to him to go to the University of Pisa, to the two famous Italian chemists De Luca and Tassinari, and ask their permission to continue his experiments in their laboratory. To his surprise, the Italians immediately opened their doors to him and placed the entire laboratory at his disposal. It was not difficult for the two old men to understand that he was deeply in love with the young lady he had brought to Pisa, and they decided to help him. Borodin then wrote to St. Petersburg that he would remain in Pisa for six months, and thanks to Mendeleev’s support — who genuinely valued him as a scientist — Sasha received Professor Zinin’s permission to continue his experiments in Italy.

Inspired by his mutual love with Ekaterina Sergeevna, Alexander Porfiryevich worked in Professor Tassinari’s laboratory in Pisa. His experiments gave him great hope. He was often visited there by the famous Italian physicist Felici, with whom he became friends. Felici was an extraordinarily erudite man. He helped him in many ways and, most importantly, introduced him to the director of the Pisa Music School. The director himself, Signor Menocchi, was not a brilliant musician, but he understood music. The very first time Borodin and Ekaterina Sergeevna played four-hands for him, he was delighted by their performance. Then Sasha confessed that he made certain attempts at composition.

- That is already too much, Signor Professor! - cried Menocchi. - I know you are a chemist, but that you are also a composer — that is really excessive, sir!

Then Ekaterina Sergeevna, who knew Sasha’s abilities as a composer very well, said playfully:

- Let us lock him in a room for one hour, dear Signor Menocchi, so he can show what he can do, and then we’ll see whether he was only boasting!

Menocchi gave Borodin sheets of music paper, and he and Katya went for a walk. They returned to the locked composer exactly one hour later. Alexander Porfiryevich then handed Menocchi a sheet on which he had written a small fugue. Menocchi was stunned. He could hardly breathe from surprise. And as a sign of his highest favor toward the young Russian, he declared that he would arrange for him and Katya to play the organ in Pisa Cathedral — an honor granted only to the most select musicians who passed through Pisa.

During one of the following Sunday services, Ekaterina Sergeevna sat at the organ in the ancient Pisa Cathedral and played “The Heavenly Powers” by the Russian composer Bortnyansky (who had lived a century earlier) for the astonished Italian worshippers. The impression made by the Slavic music, which sounded so unusual to the Apennine ears, was so strong that they would have begun to applaud had they not been in church. Alexander Porfiryevich, who stood by the ancient Giovanni Pisano pulpit listening to Katya play, understood at that moment that there would never be another woman in his life but her…Borodin noticed that he had unconsciously walked out onto the city square.

Dawn was already breaking. The moon was slowly fading. Somewhere far behind the high peaks of the Apennines, the day was being born.

“And in St. Petersburg at this hour it is still pitch dark and freezing cold…”

In his memory appeared the iron railings of Petersburg bridges covered in ice, the frozen Neva, the “Needle” of the Admiralty, Palace Square, the monument to Peter…He heard footsteps and muffled voices approaching. He turned. He saw a group of young men heading toward the harbor, carrying heavy sacks on their backs.

- Hello! - Borodin greeted them. - Where are you going at this hour?

- Good morning, signore, - the young men replied. - We’re going to work. It’s already five!

- Have a good day! - he wished them.

- And a light day to you, sir! - the young Italians called back as they walked on, and one of them began to sing. His song carried far into the morning silence. Borodin followed the small group with his eyes, and when the young men disappeared down the street leading to the harbor, he turned and slowly walked back home…

Johannes Brahms, age 20. Source: Wikipedia.

Generously, Substack made audio versions of my posts with a female AI voice. Would You listen to it or shall I record a reading with another voice? Would be great to hear what You think about that.

THE FAREWELL CONCERT

The old composer quickly glanced through the afternoon newspapers that Adela had brought him. There was nothing special. Only endless reports about diplomatic negotiations, society gatherings, foreigners at the palace, and, of course, many crimes. Only one small note held Brahms’s attention for a longer time. It announced that on this day, 3 March 1897, nineteen years had passed since the liberation of the small Balkan country Bulgaria. The old composer always remembered this tiny principality in Eastern Europe with sympathy. Its men had twice shown courage that astonished the world. The first time was when their volunteers, together with a handful of Russians, had defended some peak in the Balkans against the vastly superior Turkish army in 1877, halting its march toward the Danube. The second time was when the young Bulgarian army, led by its inexperienced but brave officers, had stopped the Serbian troops that had invaded their homeland in 1885.

- Yes, yes…- Brahms recalled. - The newspapers wrote then that their half-armed troops had to march nearly three hundred kilometers on foot from the southern border of their principality to meet the enemy, and despite the superhuman effort of that march, they swept them away in the very first battles…

A sharp pain stabbed the right side of his abdomen once again. The composer put down the newspaper. He poured a few drops of sedative into a small glass and drank it. Then he closed his eyes, gathered his strength, and waited for the pain to pass. After a few minutes he felt better. He got out of bed and began to dress. Putting on the stiff starched shirt, the collar, the cufflinks, and especially tying the white bow tie exhausted him greatly. He felt as helpless as a child and was soon drenched in sweat. He had to rest before pulling on his trousers and slipping into his patent leather shoes…

When he was finally ready, Brahms called his horrified housekeeper and asked her to fetch a carriage.

- But, Mr. Brahms, - the old woman protested, - you are ill and must not leave your bed. Doctor Seidl has forbidden you even to get up, and here you are, dressed and planning to go to a concert…”

She wrung her hands.

- Why are you behaving like a child?

- Because a man probably becomes childish again when he reaches my age, Mrs. Adela! - the old composer joked, even managing a smile despite the returning pain. - Please, go and get the carriage. I don’t want to miss the beginning of the concert.”

When he reached the hall of the Vienna Philharmonic, the old composer saw that it was packed with people. So many listeners had not gathered in a long time. There was not a single empty seat. With great effort he made his way to his box and could hardly wait to sink into his chair. He sighed with relief. Sitting down, his liver actually seemed to hurt a little less…

The orchestra musicians came onto the stage and began tuning their instruments. That inimitable dissonant noise rang out, always signaling the start of a pleasant experience for the audience. In Vienna, real music lovers attended concerts. The percentage of those who came merely to show off their new outfits was minimal…

Brahms knew the program by heart, but he still read it carefully once more. It was both sad and amusing. For the last time he was reading his own name on a concert program. He knew the end was near, regardless of the doctors’ lies. He was intelligent enough to understand that no one had ever been cured of liver cancer. And when he thought about it, everything had begun so innocently — with a slight jaundice he had contracted in Ischl, where he had gone for his usual summer holiday. Of course, they immediately sent him to Karlsbad to drink the mineral water, but the jaundice did not go away. Then came the consultations, endless examinations, doctors arriving from Berlin, and… naturally, the polite lies that everything would pass, but that it would take a long time, that he would need treatment and, of course, a strict regimen, that he must not work, must not overexert himself…But why should he live if he could not work? If he could not create?

“Has any of them had a childhood like mine…” the sick Brahms thought as he looked at the elegantly dressed people in the stalls, adorned with jewels and decorations from the many orders of the Austrian Empire.

Hans Richter, the conductor, stepped onto the podium, and applause broke out in the hall. Richter bowed, then deliberately turned toward Brahms’s box and bowed once more. The entire audience turned toward the box and began to applaud. Brahms rose with difficulty, leaned on the railing of the box, and bowed slightly. He felt as though his breath might stop at any moment…

The concert opened with his Fourth Symphony, which he had written exactly twelve years earlier, between 1884 and 1885. It was one of his favorite works because, in its own way, it told the story of his own life, of his struggle with fate and its twists, with its injustice…

Johannes Brahms, Symphony 4 op.98. Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, Conductor - Wilhelm Furtwängler, Live recording, Salzburg, 15.VIII.1950.

Brahms watched as Richter raised his slender baton and heard the first sounds of his symphony. Strangely, at that moment they sounded somehow foreign to him. As if he had not written this music, but someone else — a man he did not know, whom he was seeing now for the first time and observing with curiosity…

The violins took up the first melody. The violas and cellos joined in. And with them, it seemed, came the silence of the quiet morning streets of Hamburg, where only the differently sounding footsteps of his father and his own could be heard…

His father walked, holding his little hand, clutching his old violin in the other. On his tired face in those early morning hours there was always a flicker of guilt when he looked at his young son’s eyes, red from sleeplessness in the ghostly half-light. And Father Brahms would always say at such moments: “What can we do, my boy? We have no choice! We need bread…”

Johannes would only smile at his father and never say anything in reply. The thick tobacco smoke of sailors’ taverns, the whitened faces of the girls, and the drunken sailors who had drifted into Hamburg’s St. Pauli from ports all over the world — that was the academy that had taught him so many truths about life that even at ten years old, Johannes already felt almost a hundred. In those years, the children he went to school with seemed like real children to him, because he was so much older than they were, even though they were the same age…

And yet Johannes read more than they did! He read constantly. He read whatever he could get his hands on and absorbed everything. In the evenings in the taverns where they played, the little pianist would place his book on the music stand of the piano and read while his accompaniment played itself, never making a mistake…

His father, a descendant of craftsmen and the only musician in the entire family, recognized his son’s musical talent and did everything he could to prepare him, as far as his own strength allowed. Johannes carried music in his heart. When they played dance music together, he always improvised, enriching the monotonous rhythm of the waltzes, and often composed melodies himself. They came to him most often in the morning while he was polishing shoes…

Then came his first public performances as a performer in Hamburg, and some small successes, due perhaps more to his phenomenal musical memory than to his playing…

A storm of applause pulled him out of his distant memories.

It was not customary to applaud between movements of a work, but this time the Viennese made an exception. As if awakened from a dream, the old Brahms rose from his chair and bowed once again to his admirers.

“…and they, like me, know that we are meeting for the last time, and that is why they are applauding with such enthusiasm!…” he thought, and bowed to them again, patiently standing despite the pain until the second movement of the symphony began.

Fortunately, Richter raised his baton once more and Brahms sat down. His thoughts flew back to the Hamburg years……one evening in the tavern where they were playing, a group of young men entered speaking a language Johannes had never heard before, although people from all over the world came to the Hamburg taverns.

- Who are they, Hans? - he asked a waiter.

- Hungarian emigrants, Johannes!- the waiter replied. - They fled Budapest after the revolution was crushed, and they told me while ordering beer that they are going to America to try their luck…

During the break, one of the Hungarians approached his father and asked in very good German if he could play on his violin. Father Brahms agreed. Then the dark-eyed young man seized the instrument, and at the first stroke of the bow across the strings, the violin sang in his hands in an extraordinary way. As if in a half-dream, Johannes sat at the piano and began searching for the accompaniment to the unusual Hungarian melody. The violinist looked at him in surprise. The other Hungarians gathered around them, and Johannes merged more and more with the Hungarian’s music, as though he had lived among Hungarians his whole life…

- You are amazing! - the young Hungarian said to him when they finished playing. - My name is Reményi. I suggest we become friends and play together. Of course, we will give concerts with real music. I must confess — I have never met another pianist like you. Come with me and the world will be ours. I will not go to America if you agree to give me your hand…

Once again the hall of the Vienna Philharmonic rang with the audience’s applause and enthusiastic cheers. Once again Brahms had to rise with effort and bow. Then the third movement of the symphony began……then he and Reményi set off to wander through German cities and give concerts. That was how Johannes learned that Germany was not only the free city of Hamburg, but dozens of tiny states and cities. In Weimar he met Liszt, and later Robert and Clara Schumann entered his life…

“…how much I owe that great musician… and Clara too…”

Clara Schumann, the faithful companion of nearly his entire life, was already dead. She had passed away the previous year. His father and mother were gone, as were most of his friends. The only one left from their world, from their era, was Johann Strauss!…

Brahms spotted his white head in the front rows. Strauss had also come to his concert. Good old Johann, who came to visit him at home every day. How many memories bound the two of them together! How many aspirations! It was true — they were completely different in temperament and in the music they created, but they genuinely loved each other. And most importantly — they felt deep respect for one another, because both had fought their way through life, risen from its lowest depths, and reached the peaks of fame that life could offer…

Fame? What did fame really mean? Perhaps only the awareness of duty fulfilled could bring a sense of satisfaction! Only the awareness that one’s life had not been lived in vain could make a person unafraid of death…

“Did I do everything I wanted to do?” the old musician asked himself involuntarily.

Some distant inner voice answered:

“Not quite everything! You could have done more…”

He smiled faintly. Of course he could have. But the illness had overtaken him. Now the most important thing was to meet the end calmly. Without panic. The love and respect the people in this hall had shown him tonight was no small thing for an artist. He had managed to enter their hearts. After these people, others would be born. And as long as there are human hearts, there will be music. His music would sound too. Had he then lived in vain?

The applause in the hall once again pulled him from his thoughts.

He stood up and bowed again.

The fourth movement of his symphony began. The last one.

“La commedia è finita, signori!” *

Brahms smiled inwardly and continued listening to his own music. Now, however, it no longer sounded foreign to him. It had become his again…

Exactly one month later — on 3 April 1897 — Johannes Brahms died. Quiet and reconciled with everyone, he left this world. His last letter was addressed to his second mother. In it, the “son” assured her that he was well and would soon be getting out of bed, while asking her to accept the money he was sending.

The news of the great German composer’s death spread across the world with lightning speed. Germany declared national mourning. Hamburg, the city of his childhood and youth, was covered in black flags. Black flags flew from the masts of ships in Hamburg harbor — a sign of respect from the descendants of those sailors whose fathers and grandfathers he had entertained as a child by playing in the taverns.

Vienna bade farewell to Brahms as it had once bidden farewell to Beethoven and Schubert. It paid him homage such as it had given to few others, because the “City of Music” knew that the last of the great musicians of the century — one who had reflected the anxieties and joys, the sorrows and emotions of his contemporaries — had passed away.

Was that not enough for a creator?

Did he not deserve the respect of the city that had become his second homeland?…

*“The comedy is over, gentlemen!” (translated from Italian) — the closing line of the opera Pagliacci by Ruggero Leoncavallo.

SILENCE FULL OF SOUNDS

The question written on the slip of paper that Novotny handed him was the same as in Vienna, Stuttgart, Würzburg, and Frankfurt. Once again, he had to tell the whole story from the beginning, this time to the doctor in Munich.

—Well, I will tell you… — Smetana said slowly in that high, slightly hoarse voice that all deaf people use. — I first noticed that I was hearing high tones differently with my left and right ear at the beginning of July last year, Professor. Naturally, this alarmed me, as it would alarm anyone whose main occupation is music, and I immediately went to consult Dr. Zoufaly in Prague. The doctor examined me and said I had a mild inflammation of the right ear. He prescribed a whole list of medicines. I took them most conscientiously, but in the meantime I began to feel dizzy and my condition grew even worse. Around August, I could no longer hear anything at all with my right ear. And in the autumn—or to be completely precise—on the night of the twentieth of October, the left ear went deaf as well…

The sick composer passed a hand over his forehead, looked straight into Seiler’s eyes, and said resolutely:

— You are the last doctor I am coming to, Professor. I beg you, after the examination, to tell me the truth. Will I be able to hear again, or must I say goodbye to that hope forever!

— I will certainly tell you, Mr. Smetana! — replied the German.

By the movement of his lips, the deaf composer understood the answer.

In Munich, unlike the other cities, Professor Seiler’s examination lasted several days and, to the surprise of Václav Novotný who was accompanying Smetana, ended with an examination of the fundus of his friend’s eyes by a specialist ophthalmologist. Seiler had called him in for consultation, together with a very famous neurologist…

— The deafness of your friend is not due to a disease of the ears, Mr. Novotný, but to a disease of the auditory center in his brain, — Seiler informed him immediately after the consultation. — His case is hopeless. At least for now, medicine still has no means capable of fighting such conditions.

— Will you tell this to my friend? — Novotný asked.

— Undoubtedly! — the professor replied firmly. — I have no right to lie to him.”

As soon as the doctors entered, Smetana understood what they were going to tell him, so he anticipated them with his question:“

— Forever?

— Unfortunately, forever, Mr. Smetana! — Seiler whispered distinctly, and the composer understood him this time too. He thanked him from the bottom of his heart for not deceiving him in order to give him new empty hopes.

As terrible as it was, the truth calmed him somewhat. At last he knew where he stood. He knew what awaited him. Fate was striking him another heavy blow. And once again it was happening in Germany—the same country where, years earlier, his dear Katerina, his first love and first wife, had died while they were returning to their homeland after their exile in Sweden following 1849…

“Home! Home as soon as possible!” — something cried in his heart, and he was overcome by an irresistible desire to embrace Sophia — his only surviving daughter of the four children he had had with Katerina — as quickly as possible. Sophia was the last thread connecting him to his forever-vanished happiness, and he felt a sharp need to stroke her face. In her eyes there was so much of Katerina’s gaze…

The journey from Munich to Prague seemed endless to him, but when he arrived home, Smetana quickly realized he would not be able to stay long in the city. First, he would lack the means; second, he would not be able to endure the proximity of the theater, the meetings with his friends, and everything that would remind him of the past. The only place where he could take refuge was in Jabkenice. There lived his son-in-law Josef Schwarz, the forester of the village, who had married Sophia the previous year. Among them, in the midst of nature, would be his last refuge…

Shortly before the painful 20th of October 1874, when Smetana still harbored some hope that he might recover, he had begun writing a large symphonic poem that he wanted to call My Country. At first he intended to write it to verses by some poet, but then he abandoned the idea and decided it would be better to add his own notes on the content of each of its six parts, so that every conductor would know clearly how the poem should be performed.

Nothing could give him strength during those agonizing hours of doubt and hope more than singing the beauty of his homeland! Nothing could give him the strength to overcome his grief more than its legends. Smetana could no longer hear the tones and noises around him, but in his soul Bohemia continued to sound with its countless voices, and he perceived them clearly. He trembled and lived with them. For he himself had come from the depths of the Czech land like millions of his compatriots, and he would again take his place among them in the endless ranks of the generations of Czechs who had lived and fought for her. But before he left this world, Smetana would sing Bohemia! Because he owed everything to her. Because she was his greatest love. His faith and hope. His strongest support…

In his youth, when he was taking his first steps as a musician, Smetana had known hunger and misery in Bohemia. He had wandered. He had fought for her in 1849. And he had left her afterward, though only temporarily, to earn his bread among foreigners. Yet his true rise, his successes as a musician, his enthusiasm and aspirations were connected only with her—not with wealthy Swedish Gothenburg, where he had everything except a homeland…The misfortune that had befallen him at the height of his creative powers had sharpened his inner sensitivity even more, had charged him with an extraordinary energy, and from Smetana simply “erupted” the first two parts of My Country—“Vyšehrad” and “The Moldau”! He completed them in about three months. Then he and Novotný went to Vienna with the last hope that the Viennese doctors might be able to help him.

Now, having returned home, he no longer had any illusions. He knew that from then on only silence awaited him—a silence in which he would hear every beat of his tormented heart. Nevertheless, countless sounds continued to well up inside him. He had to pour them onto music paper if he did not want to go mad…

On 14^th of March 1875 in Prague, the first performance of Vyšehrad took place, which was a great success. The legends of the ancient Czech fortress on the high bank above the Vltava came to life through his music. The harp of the pagan seer of Vyšehrad’s future sounded; the weapons of the knights clashed; the solemn fanfares of victory rang out; the rhythmic music of the feasts was heard, along with the neighing of tournament horses; and, finally, came the elegiac sorrow for the irrevocably faded glory, the tremors of ruin, the end of Vyšehrad’s power…

The Czech listeners were deeply moved by the power of Smetana’s music. It was part of the history of their own people. The Czech nation was now enslaved, but the hope for the future—when the Czech sun would rise again and better days would come for the homeland—had not died within it. The music of Vyšehrad clearly hinted at this, and the Czechs accepted it with enthusiasm. With open hearts…Vltava (The Moldau) was received with no less enthusiasm when it was performed on 4 April 1875 in Prague under the baton of Smetana’s friend Adolf Čech.

The Moldau begins with the merging of two streams—the warm and the cold. Then the river flows through the Czech mountains and forests. Merry feasts take place on its banks, and on a moonlit night a round dance of water nymphs swirls above the waters of the Vltava, watched in silence by the mute castles along the riverbanks. Farther and farther flows the Vltava, threading through the narrows of the St. John’s Rapids, and then, calmed and spread wide, it heads toward Prague, passes beneath Vyšehrad, and continues its course northward…Although this time Smetana was present in the hall for the performance of The Moldau, he could not hear his own work. Yet from the expressions on people’s faces he understood that they liked it. The ovations that followed the end of the poem were endless, but he could not hear them either. Everything around him reminded him of some incredible, strange pantomime…

“And how will they receive Šárka?” — Smetana thought as he watched the applauding people around him. He had finished this third part of My Country on 20 February. It was much shorter than the other two, and in it Smetana had told the legend of Šárka, the leader of the Czech maidens, who in prehistoric times, together with her companions, managed to crush the band of the knight Ctirad and impose her feminine power over the ancient Czech tribes…

Unfortunately, its first performance before the public could only take place on 18 March 1877. But during those two years between the performances of The Moldau and Šárka, Smetana had not been idle. From his pen came the beautiful piano cycle Dreams, the fourth part of My Country— “From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields,” a new apotheosis of the beauty of Czech nature, and the opera The Kiss, a wonderful musical comedy that Prague first saw on 7 November 1876, performed by the best Czech singers of the National Theatre.

And yet the greatest work the great Czech musician wrote during this time was his quartet From My Life—a work full of intimate feelings and experiences, touching in its depth and humanity, with joy and pain pouring from it. The first movement of the quartet was dedicated to Smetana’s restless youth, the second to his love for Katerina Kolařová, the third to his creative maturity when he composed with thirst, and the fourth to the greatest misfortune of his life—his deafness…

When the composer’s closest friends first heard From My Life, they understood that before them stood a great, brilliant man. This elderly, fifty-two-year-old man, sitting silently on his chair, had managed to overcome himself and express his most intimate feelings with such striking frankness that they were shaken. They thanked fate that they shared his life and his closeness.

Bedřich Smetana himself, however, could not hear a single sound of what was being played before him. In his head a swarm of memories raced—bright and radiant, or murderously heavy and gloomy. Taken together, they were actually his own life so far: the life of a national worker, marked by fate with the grief and happiness of becoming the father of the national music of his people…

The year 1877, which followed the bloody year of 1876 in Bulgaria, began very stormily for Europe as well. Russia was intensively preparing for war in the Balkans. In enslaved Prague, people were wholeheartedly on the side of the Bulgarians. The Czechs—slaves themselves—could understand the sufferings of their Slavic brothers perhaps better than many others and awaited the departure of the Russian army southward with impatience.

Shortly before Russia declared war on Turkey, on 15 March 1877 the Umělecká beseda elected Smetana as its honorary member. It was a small reward for his courage and for his talent, which had given so much to the national self-confidence of the Czechs. Three days later the music of Šárka sounded, which the public greeted with enthusiasm…With every passing month Smetana’s severe headaches grew stronger, but he did not stop working. He composed constantly. His only relaxation during those strenuous years were horseback rides with his son-in-law Josef through the surroundings of Jabkenice and occasional meetings with the local peasants if the two of them stopped at the village inn. Smetana loved the touch of their hard hands when they offered him their right hands. In the eyes of these simple and honest workers, who looked at him kindly, he felt love and respect. Warmth radiated from them. And he understood that they were the true Bohemia. That they were the patriots of his homeland, whose ancestors had fought in the army of Jan Žižka for freedom and justice. He was their brother by blood and by spirit, not with the intriguers from the Prague salons and clubs, and it was for them that his songs were written. For them he also wrote the new poem from My Country, which he called Tábor.Tábor was no longer legend, but history! The history of the glorious Taborites, who had driven the German crusaders out of Czech soil by force of arms in the 15th century. The main motif in it was the motif of their battle song “You Who Are God’s Warriors”…

Yet Tábor could not be the final chord of My Country. Smetana wanted to end his cycle with something even more epic. To place in its final echo the hope for the future days when freedom would surely dawn for his homeland as well. Thus was born the last poem Blaník…

Blaník was a Czech mountain and, according to folk legend, had become the last refuge of the defeated Hussite warriors. They had lain down to rest after their heavy battles with the enemy on its green meadows and had fallen into a deep sleep, waiting for the moment when their homeland would call them again to win its freedom…

The legend of Blaník was a wonderful canvas for an epic ending to My Country! And Smetana retold the legend with inspiration in his expressive musical language, so that the Czechs felt it deeply. Blaník became the banner of their hopes for the future. It turned into a hymn of their dreams of freedom, which Smetana had whispered to them. And they thanked him for this hymn with all their hearts. They rewarded him with nationwide gratitude. And only this gratitude was a true prize for a creator. Only it would outlive all other monuments, because no nation’s heart can ever stop beating in the future…When, a few years ago, I went for the first time to the cemetery at Vyšehrad and saw the grave of Bedřich Smetana, I was moved quite unexpectedly. I had already seen the “Mur des Fédérés” in the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris, I had bowed before the ashes of the titan Michelangelo in the church of Santa Croce in Florence and before the graves of many other famous men who had advanced human culture and freedom, but here the feeling that overwhelmed me was different—because I knew I was standing before the grave of a great man who had managed to turn his own tragic fate into joy for people. And, you will admit, that requires gigantic inner strength and, above all, love for MAN! Man—the beginning and end of existence, for whom Smetana had lived and created…

A sculpture of Smetana by the river Vtlava in Prague, Check Republic, Europe.

The story about Wagner - The Fugitive From Riga - is number 19 in Tenev’s book. As it happens, story number 20 is about Nabucco and Verdi, given that Wagner and Verdi are born the same year. Coincidentally, today May 31, 2026, Nabucco is played at the Teatro alla Scala, Milan, a matinee performance, sold out. It premiered on May 16th and the last performances on 6th and 9th of June 2026 are sold out too. The production is conducted by Riccardo Chailly with Anna Netrebko in the earlier performances; these been in demand and many dates sold out well in advance. Here one can read the Nabucco of each aria with the music.

On top of it, The Gothenburg Opera will open the season in September 2026 with a new full La Traviata production directed by Silvia Paoli, which, as I understand, is the second time in its entire Verdi productions history.

Verdi composed such beautiful music that it is hard to pick one prelude or one aria and say ‘I love this one the most’. You can try by listening to these exquisite notes and voices. I can’t pick. May be the Prelude to La Traviata…

… compares to the tenderness in Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde.

Verdi and Wagner lived and composed during the replacement of kingdoms with nation states in the 1800s Europe, which includes the unifications of Italy in 1861 and of Germany in 1871, a major effort which involved number of wars, but by the time Piero Mascagni’s famous Intermezzo, part of his opera Cavalleria Rusticana, premiered on May 17, 1890, all Europeans were tired of it all, in fact, they are tired of all wars to this day, so tired that they prefer to listen only to Mascagni’s Intermezzo in a 2 hours loop. To see my point, please compare "Dies irae" in Verdi’s Requiem to Mascagni’s Intermezzo.

In his Verdi’s story, the humanist Tenev offers us two playfully presented historic perspectives on state of worldly affairs on the date of Nabucco’s premier - March 9th 1842 - and the same date 100 years later during World War II when Tenev was in Italy (Bulgaria was part of the Axis until September 1944, it joined the Allies later). Tenev was a military intelligence officer, given his encyclopedic erudition and great language skills - he spoke excellent Italian, French and German, not just Russian, Bulgarian, and English. He studied law in Rome before the war (remember Conversations Aboud Sandro) and lived there for years. If we search today for the word ‘carbonari’ we get the meaning 'pasta’, but an intelligence officer back then knew better: Nabucco’s libretto was written by a Masonic ‘activist’, a Carbonaro, but its music was composed by a heartbroken and shy Verdi, who had recently, at age 27, lost his two small children and his beloved wife. Earlier, the Milan Conservatory had rejected Verdi because the adjudicators qualified him as “mediocre” but the ‘chorus’ of his friends and family in his village loved him, celebrated his talent and supported him in difficult times, and he loved them to the last breath. May be this is what Italians heard too when they listened to the famous Nabucco chorus.

AN ALMOST INCREDIBLE STORY...

I experienced this thirty-five years ago!

I experienced it in Milan on March 9, 1942, exactly between 9 and 12 o’clock at night. It was during the Second World War, when all of Europe groaned under the Nazi boot, and from the shores of the Gulf of Finland to the Caucasus the most terrible and bloody battle in human history was raging.

As strange as it may sound to you today, during those terrible days at the beginning of 1942, when the world was shaking, fascist Italy — Hitler’s ally — had still not suffered a single serious blow from the war and continued to live almost exactly as it had in peacetime. The human flow on the streets of its noisy cities never stopped. Despite the hunger and the sacrifices in Greece and Africa, the Apennine Peninsula resembled a true green oasis compared to the countries scorched by the Germans around it.

— And how long will this go on? — Franco asked me, draining the last drops of artificial orangeade from his glass. — How long?

— Until the tide turns in the East, — I replied quietly, so the neighboring tables wouldn’t hear. — I listened to Moscow in Russian and the Russians say that soon…

— To hell with what the Russians, the Germans, and everyone else say! — Franco interrupted me sharply. — Let whatever’s going to happen, happen, just let it happen soon. This is our last year at the University, and then they’ll ship me off to Africa or God knows where!

He fell silent for a moment and then asked unexpectedly:

— Will you come to my place tomorrow?

— I won’t be able to. Tomorrow at eight in the morning I’m leaving for Milan.

— You’re going to Milan? — Franco was surprised. — What will you do in that stupid city? It rains there all the time.

— I’m going to the opera, my boy, — I smiled, amused by his astonishment. — At La Scala they’re celebrating the centenary of the first performance of Verdi’s opera Nabucco, and a friend of the old man from our legation got me a ticket bought months ago. He promised to beat me up if I didn’t go.

— Have you ever been to La Scala?

— No, I haven’t! — I admitted, almost guiltily. — My pockets are too shallow for such an experience, even with student discounts at theaters.

— In that case, you absolutely must go! — Franco encouraged me. — The experience is worth it!

He stood up, glanced at his rectangular watch, and added:

— I’ll be late. I have a date with Gina at nine. Good night!

— Good night! — I replied and, without knowing why, looked at my own watch. The hands showed ten minutes to nine.

Forty-eight hours later, on March 9, 1942, at exactly ten minutes to nine in the evening, I found myself for the first time in my life at La Scala, dressed in an uncomfortable rented tuxedo without which entry into this temple of music at that time was impossible. My seat was in one of the best boxes on the first balcony. When I entered, the other five places were already occupied by an Italian family with a quite pretty daughter and two young Luftwaffe officers. I greeted them politely and sat down behind one of the Germans. The orchestra musicians were already tuning their instruments. I wanted to crane my neck and admire the huge, glittering hall of the world’s most famous opera house, but I restrained myself. I decided to play the role of a man of the world who had been here many times before. Unlike me, the German officers had no such ambitions and openly examined the stalls and neighboring boxes, commenting animatedly, confident that no one around them understood German. The remarks of one of the officers about the Italian women in the neighboring boxes were far from decent, and I was dying to tell him that I understood every word, but I held back. After all, I had not come here to quarrel with some German lout, but to see a grand performance.

Meanwhile, it had to be admitted that the people of Milan had prepared the centenary celebration with great care. The whole city was covered with countless posters for the performance of Nabucco. The original poster for the opera’s premiere — which did not even include Verdi’s name, in order to create even greater interest a hundred years earlier — had been reproduced exactly on the current programs. I read it with curiosity:

“NABUCCO”
lyrical drama in four acts written

by Signor TEMISTOCLE SOLERA,

to be performed at the Imperial-Royal Theater La Scala

during the Carnival season of 1842.

While I was curiously examining the beautifully designed program, which also listed the names of the first performers of Nebuchadnezzar, thunderous applause suddenly erupted in the hall. The conductor had taken his place and the audience was applauding him. Then everything fell silent, and in the half-darkness after the lights went out, the beginning of the overture sounded.

From personal experience I knew that for Italian listeners the overture of an opera meant nothing more than a polite reminder that the opera itself was about to begin, not an introduction to its atmosphere. But this time, to my surprise, everyone listened to the overture of Nabucco in complete silence.

I looked toward the orchestra and with infinite astonishment noticed that on a slightly higher chair to the right of the cellists sat Verdi himself.

“Nonsense, these are hallucinations!” — I told myself and rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them again, the great maestro had not moved from his place. Meanwhile, the man sitting on the chair among the musicians was not the dry, white-haired old Verdi with his old-fashioned top hat whom everyone knew from his last photographs — he was young…

“And how did I recognize that it was Verdi!” — the thought flashed through my mind. But at that moment I involuntarily shifted my gaze from the orchestra to the hall and froze. In the semi-darkness, the people in their seats were no longer the same ones I had seen a little earlier. Or rather, they were the same people, but their clothes had changed beyond recognition, and some distant inner voice told me that they were now dressed in the latest fashion of the early 1840s!

I touched my forehead with my hand. I must have had a fever. But my forehead was completely cold. Then one of the Germans, who had noticed my uneasy gesture, turned to me:

— Don’t you feel well, Kaiserling?

— It’s nothing serious, Major! — I replied, and without knowing why, I heard myself say it all in German with the typical Viennese accent of native Viennese Austrians that distinguished them from all other German speakers in the world.

At that moment, a tall, slender man of about fifty quietly entered the box next to ours. Although he looked tired, he remained standing and did not sit down.

— That is Maestro Gaetano Donizetti, Gotthold! — the younger of the German officers whispered to me. — It is a great fortune to see him so close… — I turned my gaze to the tall man and he nodded to me with a smile.

I smiled back, and at that moment I saw that I and the two German officers in front of me were dressed in the white parade uniforms of Austrian imperial officers.

I felt myself beginning to sweat.

— What the devil is wrong with you, Kaiserling? — said the major.

Suddenly something inside me seemed to snap. I stopped feeling like “myself” and, no longer surprised by what was happening around me, I calmly replied:

— Perhaps the music of this extraordinary overture has moved me a little more than usual, Major. I have never heard anything like it before.

— You are right! — the major readily agreed. — Signor Verdi’s music really sounds quite different from that of the other Italians. I am ready to bet that this young fellow will make a great career. They told me he wrote his Nabucco in just two months!

— On a libretto by the son of a carbonaro, Achille Solera, whom we executed two years ago in Spielberg for high treason! — the lieutenant added with sarcasm. — Amusing, isn’t it?

— That detail is the business of Baron Torresani’s people, not ours, gentlemen! — the major smiled. — We are not policemen! Our duty is to maintain peace in Lombardy; others deal with the carbonari. But let us be quiet now. It seems the overture is ending…

The major was right. The last chords of the extraordinary introductory music to Nabucco were already fading in the hall, and the curtain slowly began to rise. Before our eyes appeared the interior of a Jerusalem temple in which the ancient Jews had taken refuge, seeking shelter from the blows of their enemy within the walls of their strange sanctuary…

— Those are the sets from The Siege of Corinth that we saw two years ago, Mama! — the young Italian woman in the box exclaimed indignantly. — Of course they are!

— Another of Signor Merelli’s clever tricks to save expenses at our expense! — the major laughed. — I’m sure all the chorus costumes are old too. Just look at the variety of outfits the ‘Jews’ on stage are wearing. It’s a real mishmash from different productions…

— It seems to me that all these details are of no importance, Major! — I objected softly. — Listen rather to the pathos in the chorus that has taken up the theme of the Jewish high priest Zaccaria’s curse*. Listen to the words:... he shall not conquer our land drenched in blood, the cruel oppressor! And he shall perish! And after him no trace shall remain! He shall depart, driven away like darkness by the rays of the sun. And the winds shall scatter his cursed dust to the four corners of the earth…

It poured over the audience. It seized them. The words of the Jewish high priest sounded like a heavy curse against every oppressor. They called for the struggle for freedom. And in the hall, most of the people listening to these words were not free.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw with what hatred the Italians around us were now looking at us. We were Austrian officers, and their beloved Lombardy groaned under our rule as we squeezed out all its vital juices. We crushed its people...“... in exactly the same way the Hitlerites are crushing them now!” a distant voice sounded deep inside me, but I drove it away and continued to watch with curiosity what would happen on stage.

And then — the chorus of Jews besieged by Nabucco withdrew from the temple, and in the sanctuary remained only Ishmael, nephew of the King of Jerusalem, and Fenena, Nabucco’s daughter who was in love with him. The Jews had taken her prisoner and held her as a hostage in their city. But while the two lovers opened their hearts to each other, unnoticed in the huge temple hall appeared Abigaille — Nabucco’s illegitimate daughter, born of a slave. Abigaille was also in love with Ishmael, but the young warrior had rejected her love, blinded by the beauty of her sister Fenena. Then Abigaille swore that she would take cruel revenge on him for her outraged feelings.

This was followed by a wonderful trio of the three singers. Then panic broke out. Frightened Jews began arriving in the temple. Nabucco had managed to break into Jerusalem with his troops, and wherever he passed, rivers of blood flowed. Fires blazed...Suddenly the Jews realized that Ishmael had betrayed his native city to the cruel king out of love for Fenena. Zaccaria cursed him for his treason. The unhappy people cursed him too. On stage — in the temple — Nabucco appeared, mounted on his war horse, and the famous baritone Ronconi, who played the role, sang the great aria “Fall on your knees, O vanquished, from today you are slaves...” He sang beautifully, with a powerful voice, and Zaccaria’s curse, which sounded after his aria, together with the song of the Jewish chorus, gave the finale of the first act great dramatic force. The spectators in the hall could hardly breathe…

The curtain fell amid frenetic applause from the audience. The boxes and the diamond-studded stalls applauded with the same enthusiasm as the top balcony called “Il Loggione,” where students and poorer citizens who could not afford expensive tickets usually went — those who loved music.

I looked at Donizetti. He was applauding and admiration shone in his eyes. Undoubtedly the great artist had felt the grandeur radiating from his colleague’s music better than anyone else. The audience also shouted with delight and demanded that the author of Nabucco appear on stage, but Verdi, embarrassed and confused, did not want to do so for anything in the world. Then the performer of the role of Abigaille, the famous singer Giuseppina Strepponi — who had played no small part in getting his opera staged at La Scala — almost forcibly pushed him onto the proscenium, and the other performers immediately stepped back.

A new storm of enthusiasm broke out in the hall. Shouts of “Bravo!” were heard from all sides. Flowers flew from everywhere.

Never expecting such success, the young Verdi stood as if petrified. His face was pale and tense. He could not move. He could not even bow. When he first heard the audience’s applause, it had seemed to him for a moment that the spectators were booing the opera, and this had confused him so much that he still could not come to his senses...In the box to the left of ours, an elderly gentleman surrounded by several young men and ladies was also applauding vigorously and shouting

— Bravo!

— Who is our neighbor on the left? — I asked. — Kaiserling, is this the first time you’ve seen the all-powerful police director of Milan, Baron Torresani? — the major wondered.

— So that’s him! — I replied, embarrassed. — Don’t you think he is excessively enthusiastic about this patriotic music that has so excited the Italians?

— Torresani understands music, my dear! — the major smiled. — In any case, it is clear to him that the choruses we heard in this act can drive anyone connected with opera music crazy. Remember, Kaiserling, we are witnessing the birth of a great genius. If you live long enough, one day you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you were present at this birth!

— Why shouldn’t I live long enough, Major? — I asked, puzzled. — Because lately many conspiracies have been uncovered in Lombardy, my boy! Who knows when these Italian bandits might stick a dagger in your back while you’re wandering around at night visiting various ladies, like you!

The major’s remark made me end the conversation and turn my gaze back to the stage. There Verdi kept appearing again and again before the audience, who shouted at the top of their lungs:

— Long live Verdi! Long live Maestro Verdi!

This continued almost throughout the entire intermission, until the stagehands changed the sets and the curtain rose for the second act…

The intrigue of the second act was considerably more complex than the first. It began with the appearance of Abigaille in the grand hall of the Babylonian palace. Giuseppina Strepponi, playing the role of the evil and jealous illegitimate daughter of the king, lay on a huge tiger skin, dressed in a shining golden costume embroidered with pearls. Her fantastic hairstyle had been created by the Parisian theater hairdresser Monsieur Antoine, called “the poet of theatrical hairstyles.” He had come to Milan two days before the premiere of Nabucco at the special invitation of Signorina Strepponi, as she had decided to astonish the audience once again. All the opera glasses turned toward the actress lying on the tiger skin. Abigaille’s aria began with a recitative. Strepponi delivered it wonderfully with clear and distinct diction, then rose from her fur couch and sang her great aria with such incredible mastery that the audience was ecstatic. They had not heard her sing so expressively in a long time… “Only a woman very much in love can sing like that!” I thought, but my attention was again drawn to the action on stage. The Babylonian priests of the god Baal had just entered and demanded that all the captured Jews be killed. The priest Bel even suggested that she dethrone her father and become queen of Babylon herself. Intoxicated by this possibility, Abigaille ordered Ishmael, Fenena, and the captive Jews to be thrown into prison in chains. But even in chains, Zaccaria, the leader of the captive Jews, did not cease encouraging his compatriots. As high priest of the people, he did everything possible to instill in them faith in the free future that awaited them. And filled with new hope, the Jews in iron chains sang their song, which once again turned them from slaves into future warriors.

The air in the hall grew heated, and the curtain fell after the second act amid unprecedented applause...Verdi was again pushed onto the stage by the artists. Once again he had to bow countless times to his excited admirers.

I noticed that Torresani signaled to one of his young companions to approach him. He whispered something in the young man’s ear, and the youth immediately left the box.

The moment he left, I forgot about him and continued to watch the hall, which was swaying with excitement, impatiently awaiting the third act of the opera. In fact, it began a little sooner this time because the stagehands had done their best to arrange the new scenery as quickly as possible.

The act began with the solemn chorus of the Babylonian warriors who had destroyed Jerusalem. They sang in the fabulous hanging gardens of Babylon, while far behind them the sands of the desert gleamed yellow. At the front of the stage stood a throne on which Abigaille sat. She had inherited her half-mad father Nabucco, who, intoxicated by his victory over the Jews, had declared himself a god but had been struck by lightning and gone mad. Now all power in his state belonged to Abigaille. And she was celebrating her victory. She rejoiced in the might she possessed. She feasted and made merry.

But then the scene changed.

The banks of the Euphrates appeared. Amid the desert sand, the Jews in chains mourned their lost homeland. Their lost freedom...The chorus of the slaves sounded powerful, even though the words they sang were filled with nostalgia and sorrow:

“... O my beautiful homeland, now destroyed,

O memory, so dear and bitter…”

The main motif repeated continuously, and many spectators in the hall began quietly singing along with the chorus. Then suddenly the entire hall began to sing — something that had never happened before in the famous opera house.

Most of the spectators were crying, unable to withstand the emotion that had seized them. Many sobbed aloud, without shame. On stage, among the Jewish chorus members, the mighty figure of Zaccaria appeared. He raised his chained hands to heaven and asked:

— Who weeps here? Have you despaired? Have you lost hope? — A deathly silence fell over the hall.

And then Zaccaria’s voice thundered again:

— Hear me, my suffering brothers, hear what I will tell you: I see your fate in the dawn of tomorrow. And I tell you — soon, very soon, the shameful chains will fall from your hands…

— What happened next? The entire theater jumped to its feet! Many even climbed onto the silk chairs and let out such deafening shouts that I seriously thought these people had gone mad! Never in my life had I seen such enthusiasm. Such fiery applause. Such cries.

— These are no longer applause, Kaiserling! — the major roared into my ear so I could hear him. — This is a political demonstration. This is a demonstration against us… — The audience continued to roar:

— Bis! Bis! Bis!

They repeated the finale of the act. Then they repeated it a third time.

Verdi was again on the proscenium. Only now I noticed — he had become deathly pale. Not a muscle in his face moved. He stood like a statue...Meanwhile, in Torresani’s box, the young man the baron had sent somewhere returned, and I saw him hand the baron a large blue folder. It was naturally a police file. My curiosity overcame my officer’s dignity and I craned my neck toward the baron’s box. I looked carefully at the open file on Verdi that he had ordered brought to him. Fortunately, the baron was reading the text in a rather loud whisper, and I could hear it relatively well despite the noise around us.

“Verdi, Giuseppe Francesco Fortunato. Year of birth — 1813, month of October. Place of birth — La Roncole, Duchy of Parma. Parents: father Carlo Verdi, innkeeper; mother Luigia Uttini, weaver. Both illiterate. Politically reliable. Giuseppe Verdi has lived in Milan since 1832. Widower. His wife and two children have died. Does not associate with suspicious individuals. Does not frequent cafés or taverns. Studied with private teachers. Lives solitarily. Unsociable and taciturn. Maintains no connections with anti-state elements and does not belong to secret societies. Does not speak against the authorities. Has made no statements against His Majesty the Emperor of Austria. Reliable…”

I drew back into my box and, for some unknown reason, sighed with relief. Verdi’s file was impeccable. They could accuse him of nothing against the existing order. His opera dealt with a biblical subject told even in the Holy Scripture itself...The fourth act began.

Imprisoned in the palace, the mad Nabucco, struck by lightning, learned that Abigaille wanted to destroy her sister Fenena. He turned to the gods for help and a miracle happened — his reason returned. With weapon in hand he rushed to save Fenena, who in the meantime had accepted Ishmael’s faith. At the moment when Abigaille was about to sacrifice her to the Babylonian gods, he saved her. Then he killed the cruel Abigaille and restored freedom to the Jews he had captured, blessing the union of his daughter with Ishmael. He acknowledged the greatness of the new God and abolished the cult of the cruel god Baal...The Jewish chorus sang the hymn glorifying God Jehovah.

This was the grandiose finale of Nabucco, which once again provoked unprecedented enthusiasm in the opera house. I did not wait for the end of the audience’s applause but hurried to grab my cloak from the cloakroom. I had to reach the carriage of the young Countess Manfredi as soon as possible; she was already waiting for me on Via Venanzio Fortunato. I ran across the square in front of La Scala and entered the dark alley, but at that moment several men threw themselves upon me from above and a life-and-death struggle began between us. While I was struggling with all my strength to break free from my attackers, I felt something sharp stab under one of my shoulder blades and could only cry out. Then everything went dark before my eyes...When I opened them, I saw that the train conductor was standing in front of me and smiling at me in a friendly way.

— Wake up, wake up, sir! You must have been having a terrible dream and you were shouting so loudly that you startled me. We’re already in Rome. It’s time to get off. All the other passengers left long ago. They’ll soon start shunting the train. Hurry up, sir. Have a pleasant day.

— Thank you!” I replied with a smile. — Thank God it was all just a dream. Imagine — a little while ago they stabbed me in the back with a dagger after I had attended the premiere of Nabucco at La Scala…

— What can’t happen in a dream, sir! — the conductor smiled. — Sometimes I dream that I’m rich…

— Actually, last night before I boarded the train at midnight, I really was at the opera! I was at the premiere of Nabucco! — I said, but he clearly didn’t believe me. He waved goodbye once more and left.

A little after him, I also got off. I had already woken up from the long night journey by train from Milan to Rome.

* The sonority of the chorus grew steadily.

— May I serve the tea, Madam Baroness?

— Yes, Hilda, — said Baroness von Lobach with a wave of her hand. Then, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, she turned to Frau Runge:

— Who told you all this, my dear?

— My husband, dear Clara! — replied the plump Frau Runge triumphantly. — One of the captains of his ships was personally present at the departure of the Norwegian vessel!

— I haven’t heard a more amusing piece of news in a long time! — sneered the thin, hook-like Fräulein Schwalbe, the oldest spinster in Riga. — Now his creditors will be trembling! From what I’ve heard, our maestro Wagner owes money to almost every baker and butcher in town, not to mention the respectable landlords and grocers! Very amusing, most amusing!

— It is rather sad than amusing that a talented musician like Herr Wagner has been forced to run up debts all over the city! — Countess von Schwan suddenly interjected. Until then she had taken no part in the conversation. — During the three years the maestro spent with us, conducting our opera, we heard beautiful music, dear ladies. We can only regret his loss. As for his debts — in my opinion they are a disgrace to our city. Were they really paying him so little that he was forced to incur them?

— Are you mocking us, Brigitte? — Baroness von Lobach looked at her in astonishment. — Do you fully understand what you have just said?

— Do you doubt it, Frau von Lobach? — replied von Schwan with dignity. She rose from her seat and added — Thank you for your kind hospitality, but I cannot remain any longer in a company that holds such an attitude toward people of the arts, who bring us joy! Farewell, respected ladies…

Countess von Schwan turned sharply and left the room with her head held high. Fortunately for her, she could afford to do so. Her husband was the largest landowner in the entire country…

While the gossiping ladies of Riga were gathered in the home of Baroness von Lobach, the Norwegian ship on which Wagner and his wife had fled was already far from the port of Riga. Carried by a favourable wind, it sailed confidently toward the shores of Norway. Wagner regretted leaving the beautiful city where he had spent nearly three years, but he had no choice. Escape was his only salvation. Otherwise, a scandal awaited him.

— What a fate, Minna! — he said gloomily to his wife, who had nestled beside him on the carefully folded tarpaulin. — Since 1833 I have been constantly on the move. I began in Würzburg, then worked in Magdeburg, then in Königsberg, where we met, then Riga, and now — where to?

— We shall go to Paris, Richard, — smiled Minna, slipping her small warm hand into his. — I think that there, at last, they will be able to appreciate your music.

— Let us hope so, my dear, but I have begun to think that there must be something not quite right in my music. What exactly it is, I cannot understand, but perhaps…

— The greatest flaw in your music is that it differs noticeably from the music of others, Richard, and people least forgive that! I am a dramatic actress; for years I have lived other people’s lives on stage, but from my own experience I have learned one thing — to be different from others is almost a crime! — She released his hand and stood up. — It’s blowing terribly here. I’m cold. And it’s very damp. I’ll go into the cabin…

Wagner rose, walked to the railing, leaned against it, and gazed out over the vast expanse of water. The sea was steel-grey, and its smooth surface reflected the leaden clouds drifting above the ship’s masts.

— The weather is turning bad! — said a deep male voice beside him. — It is not pleasant to be caught in a storm in the North Sea at the end of October.

Wagner turned his gaze to the man who had spoken. His enormous muscular body fully matched his deep bass voice.

— I am travelling by sea for the first time in my life, my friend, and I cannot say anything on the subject! — smiled Wagner.

—I am not asking you to answer! — said the sailor. — There will definitely be a storm! Look at how the high clouds are chasing each other. That is a sure sign we shall be tossed about. I have been at sea for thirty years — I can smell storms with my nostrils, — he added, and suddenly asked — And what do you do?

— I am a musician. I conducted the opera in Riga…

— I have never seen such a thing in my life, though I have heard it exists. Must be very silly for people to sing to each other instead of talking?

— It depends on how one looks at it. Personally, I like it. With music one can say many things — and, believe me, say them a thousand times better than with words!

— I only like the songs in sailors’ taverns. Once I even cried over one of them. It was very sad. And then I felt ashamed. I said to myself: ‘Björnson, you are a complete fool!’

—There, you see — music can move anyone. And opera is a combination of music and text. It can be cheerful or sad. Just like the songs!

— It may be so, if you say it is, but I prefer listening to tales or sailors’ stories. Wonderful sailors’ stories are told around our North Sea! — said the sailor firmly.

— Then tell me one! — Wagner encouraged him. — We may have time before the storm hits us.

— I wasn’t joking about the storm, — growled the sailor, slightly offended. — You’ll see for yourself, and very soon. As for a sea story, I’ll tell you right away about the Dutchman… — He pulled a piece of chewing tobacco from the pocket of his black jacket, bit off a portion, and said — The Dutchman commanded a ghost ship that could never sink, because…

The big sailor launched into a long telling of the ancient Scandinavian saga about the Dutch captain condemned to eternal wandering on the seas. He flew on his ship with red sails and black masts, bringing death to anyone who sighted him, while he himself could not find the peace of death, because…

A terrible thunderclap rang out above the masts of the Norwegian ship sailing calmly through the icy water. Lightning tore through the clouds, and suddenly it grew dark, although it was barely two o’clock in the afternoon.

The sailor spat out the tobacco he had been chewing and stopped talking.

— It’s starting! I told you! — he said calmly. — God help us! You had better go into the cabin. Otherwise the waves may sweep you away here. But if you do stay, don’t forget — be sure to tie yourself down. Otherwise it will go badly for you. And we’ll finish the story of the Dutchman after the storm — if, of course, we don’t drown…

The sailor moved away. Heavy work awaited him.

Minna appeared on deck.

— Richard, come inside. I’m afraid to be alone! — she cried in fright.

— I’m coming, I’m coming now… — Wagner shouted back, trying to make himself heard over the howling wind, which was growing steadily stronger. — Just one more minute and I’ll be with you. Go inside.

Minna went in. Then Wagner quickly tied himself with a rope to a large hook on the deck and fixed his eyes on the elements that were approaching the small ship with a terrible roar. The ship, which had been calm until recently, suddenly began to creak like a wounded animal. It started to emit a thousand voices that mingled with the voices of the storm.

— My God, what a chorus! I have never heard anything like it…

The first enormous wave struck the small ship from the stern and flooded the deck. Then the sky and the water merged into one, and a nightmare began in which everything turned into hell, where the flames of lightning never went out, despite the high waves reaching to the sky.

Wagner felt nausea rising. His stomach could not hold. At that moment a furious wave crashed down on him with full force and he felt himself flying. That was the last thing he remembered…When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was lying in a sailor’s hammock. Above him was Minna’s pale and distressed face. Standing beside her like a mountain was the sailor with the bass voice.

— You got off lightly, Mr Musician! — smiled the sailor. — It’s a good thing the rope held against the blow and that I dragged you here in time, otherwise you might have fed some fish…

— Thank you, my friend…

Wagner barely managed to say, and felt himself sinking again.

— It’s nothing! It’s more from the fright! — said the big sailor soothingly. — In a day or two you’ll be fine. It was truly terrible, madam. We were extremely lucky to escape. It happens once in a hundred times. By God, such a storm could have sunk even the ship of the Dutchman himself…”

Two days later, Wagner had fully recovered. The sea had calmed, and now they were sailing along the Norwegian fjords, whose quiet waters reflected their steep rocky shores covered with pine forests.

— Look at this raw beauty, Minna! — Wagner pointed out. — It’s like a fairy tale, isn’t it?

— It is truly magical! — replied his wife, pressing herself against him. Then he said unexpectedly:

— I shall write an opera about the Dutchman.

— Which Dutchman? — asked Minna in surprise.

— The cursed one the sailor told me about — the one who saved me. You know, during this ‘flight’ of ours I suddenly understood where the mistake in my music so far has been, Minna. I am German, yet I have been constantly composing on foreign subjects. The librettos of all the operas I have written until now have been based on Italian or English sources. This time I shall turn to a folk legend…

He smiled, gazing at the calm of the fjord along which they were sailing with a following wind.

— I shall try to become a true German composer who creates on the basis of what our German writers have produced. The legend of the Dutchman was described by Heine in his wonderful ‘Memoirs of Herr Schnabelewopski’. I had read them long ago and forgotten them, but now, after the sailor’s story, everything has surfaced again in my mind. Since morning I have been thinking intensely about the story of the ghostly captain, and I believe I can add something new to it that will give it an entirely different meaning.

— What is that? — asked Minna, intrigued.

— In my future opera, dedicated to the drama of the Flying Dutchman, the unfortunate man will be able to free himself from the terrible curse of immortality if he manages to find a wife who is faithful unto death. A wife who will bring forgiveness to his sins through her love!

Wagner laughed cheerfully.

— Meanwhile, you know what? I have decided to change the very setting of the action. In my opera it will not be in Scotland, as in Heine, but here!

— Where here? — wondered his wife.

— Here, in that fjord infront of us. In Norway!

— May you succeed, Richard, may you succeed! — said Minna, tenderly pressing herself against him. — You have long deserved success…

After a three-week voyage across the North Sea, the young German composer and his wife finally found themselves in London, and from there they set out for Paris, which was supposed to bring success to Wagner. But Paris received the two foreigners coldly and hostilely. And success once again became something vague and distant. Something outside their small world, filled with the daily struggle for bread. Nevertheless, the budding German composer did not give up. On the contrary, he continued to fight even more stubbornly for his music, even though both he and Minna lived in terrible poverty. Thus, amid deprivation, worry, and the whirlpool of the cosmopolitan city, in 1840 Wagner completed the libretto of the opera “The Flying Dutchman”, which he had conceived during the storm in the North Sea. In the first months of 1841 he wrote its music in seven weeks. Two months later the overture was also finished…

Despite all the efforts of the young German composer who believed boundlessly in his work, and despite the endless ordeals and humiliations to which he was subjected, not a single French opera house agreed to stage his “Dutchman”. It was destined for his opera to see the light of day only in 1843 — when Wagner had already left Paris and moved to Dresden as Kapellmeister at the opera there. It was the first to agree to stage “The Flying Dutchman”.

Unfortunately, the “Dutchman” did not bring fame to its creator even in Germany, although he had eagerly awaited it from the work! It is true that Wagner himself conducted the premiere, and the great German singer Schröder-Devrient sang the role of Senta, but even that did not help. The public failed to understand and truly appreciate “The Dutchman”, although some music critics admitted that this time Wagner had achieved a complete realization of his intention and a perfect unity between his text and his music. Yet despite the verdict of the few experts, the German burghers firmly disliked what they had seen and heard in “The Flying Dutchman”. The opera smelled too much of something new. Something quite outside the framework of the traditions they were accustomed to. And these gentlemen, who could drink two litres of beer in one gulp, were incredibly suspicious of anything new. And unfortunately only a few among them managed to sense that a profound turning point had occurred in Wagner’s work. In vain did the young composer try to convince both his friends and his enemies that he had created “The Dutchman” not to entertain them, but to instil in them the idea that, passing through the storms of life, man ultimately thirsts for the peace of death. That in the figure of his ghostly captain was embodied humanity’s romantic longing for the ideal, and in the figure of the tender Senta — the idea of self-sacrifice and the redemption of sin! In vain! The burgher wall was impenetrable…

Despite the loud disapproval of the Dresden public, however, many progressive minds in Germany felt that in his opera-legend the young Wagner had achieved great success by introducing some completely realistic moments into its entirely fantastic plot.

“This is no small thing — they argued, — and it already heralds something entirely new in the development of German national opera — something that Weber himself had persistently striven for in ‘Der Freischütz’, in order to combine the fairy-tale with the real world. With the world in which the spectators themselves live. If to this is added Wagner’s evident success as a librettist and musician in creating in ‘The Dutchman’ a continuous musical-dramatic development (thereby delivering a serious blow to the traditional succession of arias, choruses or ensembles with no connection between them, as the Italians do), he could rightly be called an innovator!”

For the burghers of nineteenth-century Germany, the word “innovator” sounded like revolution! Like revolt! Like real heresy! And they firmly pronounced:

— The Dutchman is destined for oblivion!

But time did not agree with the verdict of the German burghers and granted the young Wagner the future! And the future has proven to be an impartial judge, and fortunately no one has yet managed to refute its verdicts. It was time itself that determined Wagner’s place in world music…

Friedrich von Amerling, Portrait of Franz Liszt, Oil on canvas, signed and dated 9 May 1838. Princely Collections of Liechtenstein owned by Prince Hans-Adam II von und zu Liechtenstein.

The old countess curiously raised her elegant lorgnette and directed it toward the light chestnut-haired young man who was handing his cloak to the coatroom attendant. She examined him for a moment and said with a smile:

— For the first time, our tastes coincide, my child. Who is this gentleman?

— I don’t know, Maman. I’ve never seen him before, — her daughter replied softly. — In any case, it would be very pleasant if he would deign to introduce himself to me.

She sighed: — My God, what’s happening! Lately in Paris there are so few handsome and interesting people…

While the mother and daughter were talking, the young man, who could hardly have been more than twenty-two years old, handed his coat to the attendant and with a light, supple gait headed toward the salon door. Just before he entered, the two countesses heard a male voice behind them say in surprise:

— Damn it, Jérôme, but that’s Liszt! If he’s come to tonight’s concert too, by God, we’re really in for something interesting. I don’t know of him ever attending another concert before.

Meanwhile, the young Liszt entered the hall and took his seat. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, but he was already accustomed to them and they made no impression on him. The only thing that struck him as unusual at that moment was that he was not on the podium but sitting in his chair in the orchestra seats as a listener.

A few minutes remained before the concert began, and Liszt cast a fleeting glance over the hall filled with the most select Parisian society. Everyone was awaiting Paganini’s appearance with true impatience. They talked, made noise, and animatedly discussed what was to come.

“I have never had such an impatient audience!” — Liszt thought to himself, and without knowing why, he took out the small gold watch from the pocket of his silk waistcoat. He looked at its hands. It was exactly two minutes to nine. At that moment, as the young pianist gazed at his watch, Paganini appeared on the podium as if out of nowhere. Tall, thin, with raven-black hair, extraordinarily long arms, a pale waxen face, and burning eyes. He was dressed in a poorly tailored tailcoat, with a crooked tie; his patent leather shoes had worn-down heels. Paganini surveyed the hall for a long time with a piercing gaze. Then he froze. Not a muscle on his face twitched.

Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds passed.

A dead silence fell over the hall. People seemed to have stopped breathing. Paganini had gathered all eyes upon him as if in the focus of a magic lantern. Liszt felt that the violinist’s power over the hall was complete. And then the miracle began. The tall, gaunt Italian raised his famous Guarneri del Gesù violin, placed it on his bony shoulder, and with lightning speed drew the bow across its strings.

A shiver ran down Liszt’s spine. His breath stopped. It was as if not one but a thousand violinists had begun to play in the hall. A thousand voices never heard before resounded…

“My God!” — whispered the young Hungarian involuntarily. — “This is impossible! This is inhuman. He is a genius…”

The sounds from Paganini’s violin continued to float over the hushed hall, and he, seeing no one, with his eyes half-closed, played as if in a trance. From his violin came the voices of angels, of people, of Satan himself. Birdsong could be heard, the sound of distant bells, shepherd’s pipes, the whisper of wind, the murmur of water, cries and ecstasy. Invitation and despair. It was as if the voice of the entire universe could be heard…

Liszt felt himself trembling. By nature he was a willful, strong man. He had inherited from his ancestors the manly ability to control himself perfectly, but this time the Hungarian had no power over his feelings. He was entirely under the sway of the four strings of Paganini’s violin and followed their caprices with his whole being. He sang, laughed, or wept with them, even though not a muscle twitched on his face…

At one moment Liszt managed to tear himself free from the captivity into which he had fallen and looked at the people around him. They seemed petrified. They could barely breathe. An extraordinary tension pressed upon their faces…

A second, two, three…

Paganini drew the bow across the strings of his violin for the last time and lowered his hands. He let them drop and suddenly looked like a tree over which a storm had passed. The only fire still burning in him was in his large eyes.

Liszt rose involuntarily and leaned forward. He fixed his gaze on the eyes of his illustrious colleague, and the gazes of the two men met. In that instant the young pianist felt that Paganini sensed the envy burning him like fire, and in his eyes flickered a mockery. A wicked, demonic mockery that seemed to say: “You will never be able to play like this!”

“I will be able!” — a deep inner voice cried suppressed in the Hungarian’s soul, and he held the gaze of the genius violinist, but at that moment the hall erupted in applause and Paganini shifted his gaze from his. He began to bow to the enthusiastic audience…

After Niccolò Paganini’s concert, which took place on November 18, 1831, in Paris, for a long time no one saw Franz Liszt on the concert podium.

Why had he stopped performing?

Had he exhausted himself as an artist?

But then one day posters appeared. Liszt was returning to the public. And strangely enough — after that first concert following his long silence, quite naturally the Parisians said: “By God, he has become the true Paganini of the piano…”

From then on, that nickname stayed with him forever!

The author’s concert on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of Franz Liszt’s activity as a concert pianist, composer, and conductor in Paris passed with triumphant success. Countless wreaths, many orders, expensive gifts, heartfelt embraces, handshakes. The French Republic paid him honors it had not granted to any other foreign artist. He even received the Légion d’honneur! After the presentation of the high distinction, the adjutant of the President of France, General MacMahon, came onto the stage. The President invited the maestro to his box. He wished to personally offer his congratulations.

It was difficult to refuse a president, and despite his reluctance, the old Liszt went, followed by MacMahon’s adjutant.

In the presidential box a brilliant retinue awaited him. Everyone heartily congratulated the great master of the piano. They warmly thanked him for the musical holidays he had given them over the past fifty years.

— What is your greatest wish at the moment, dear maestro? -— MacMahon asked him at one point.

— If I must be completely honest, Your Excellency, — Liszt replied quietly, — my greatest wish is to be left completely alone…”

The general understood. And with the delicacy of a true Frenchman, he ended the further audience.

Liszt went home tired.

But at home a new surprise awaited him. In the drawing room there was some young man. By all appearances he was not a thief but rather an ambitious admirer who had surely decided to greet him at any cost.

Despite his fatigue, Liszt smiled at the dark-eyed youth and, without even asking how he had entered the house, said kindly:

— And what do you wish, young man?

— I have an urgent need for your help, dear maestro! I must answer one question —will I ever be able to become a true musician, or not. I understand this is not the most suitable moment to ask you, but anymore…

— Are you Italian? — the old man asked curiously, misled by his firm French pronunciation.

— No, signore, I am Spanish! — the young man said proudly. — My name is Albéniz. Isaac Albéniz…

— For now it tells me nothing…

— I know, maestro, but allow me to play for you, and on this solemn day for you, tell me honestly: can I hope for something or not!

“Ah, these impatient young people, so thirsty to succeed…” — the kind old Liszt thought good-naturedly, but then he decided to please the young man and listen to him. Today he had received so many gifts. He himself could make a small gift.

— What would you like to play for me, young sir?

— If you permit, maestro, the second part of your Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody, — the Spaniard replied uneasily.

— Excellent! Please!

The young Albéniz spoke French terribly, but he knew how to play the piano. Liszt immediately understood that before him stood not a maniac but a gifted person. Under the young Spaniard’s fingers, the fast and captivating rhythm of the Hungarian dance he had written, enlivened with syncopations in every fourth measure, sounded superb.

— Wonderful! I confess, I didn’t expect so much from you! — the amused old Liszt interrupted him. — And now, sir, move on to the finale of the rhapsody…

The maestro knew that this finale was almost unattainable for most contemporary pianists, and he waited with curiosity to see how it would go, but the Spaniard began confidently and played the finale very well. Liszt was sincerely surprised by his fiery temperament.

— I admit, you have talent, — he said, pleased.

— I didn’t believe anyone could handle the finale of this rhapsody of mine so beautifully. Very good…

Albéniz looked at him as if enchanted, his eyes shining with indescribable joy.Then the old maestro said:

— And now, I believe you will allow me to play the same finale for you. May I?

— Why do you ask, maestro? — the Spaniard whispered, even more confused.

— That’s the custom, my friend! — Liszt said, laughing, and sat down at the piano. He ran his fingers over the yellowed keys. And in that moment something happened that even he himself had not expected. Under the sounds of the old piano, suddenly before him appeared the great meadow in Doborján, where he had been born. The wagons of the Gypsy wanderers were stopped there again. Their clamor could be heard, children wrestled, small fires flared up, and in the falling evening the Gypsies’ violins began to sound.

The sensation of the old meadow that gripped him was so strong that Liszt felt like a child again. He breathed in the scent of mown grass once more, felt again the wild rhythm of the Gypsy dances, saw again the primás in their orchestra with half-closed eyes, who played not for others but for himself! For freedom! For the happiness of the carefree…

A thousand voices sang in the old man’s soul following his fingers on the keys… One chord, another... and the rhapsody and the vision ended. Before the piano stood again the man with hair white as snow, and the child from the meadow had vanished.

At that moment, as if in a dream, Liszt saw that his young guest had knelt beside him and was looking at him with eyes in which immeasurable envy could be read. The envy of an artist who knew he would never achieve what he had just heard.

The old Liszt smiled, placed his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling Albéniz, and said quietly:

— I understand you, young man! I understand you! More than forty years ago I looked at Paganini in the same way when I first heard him play. Believe me, this evening your gaze at this moment is the most beautiful gift I receive for my jubilee. It seems I have not lived in vain…

The old man rose, smiled in a friendly way, and added:

— And now, young sir, it is time for an old man to go to bed. I like you. Welcome back, and I will show you what I can. Good night…

— Good night, maestro! — the happy Albéniz barely whispered, and smiling, slowly left the home of the great musician...

Ferenc Liszt, Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, 1851. Performed by Marc-André Hamelin in Casals Hall, Tokyo, 1997.

Firstly, given that beautiful Robert Schumann composed tender, peaceful, contemplative, and emotionally articulate music,

it is not strange that the only Soldier’s March he wrote, the circumstance of which are described in this story, is not fully his own but a remake of a movement in Beethoven’s Spring Sonata op. 24.

And secondly, although Schumann’s home - honest Saxony - was slaughterhousefived by US & UK forces and, therefore, later became East Germany (GDR), today Saxony is an isle of respite from worldly noise, just like Schumann’s symphonic poems.

THE LAST BARRICADE

May 10, 1849…

The rhythmic thud of hobnailed soldiers’ boots echoed dully along the pavement of Dresden’s ancient streets. The sidewalks were deserted, the windows of every house tightly shut. No one was to be seen—only the marching Prussians, who had come from distant Berlin to save the shaken throne of the Saxon king from the people’s uprising. Dresden was silent and hushed. Yet from the beginning of May until yesterday, it had resembled a stormy sea, where the furious waves of revolution chased one another and crashed against the walls of the royal palace.

“Give us a constitution!!
“Give us civil equality for all!”
“Long live freedom!!”

Now the Prussians had crushed everything, and only here and there amid the quieted city stood a few small barricades—the last islands of freedom, behind which a handful of brave dreamers of justice preferred an honorable death to the shame of royal chains…

One such island of freedom was the barricade on Friedrichstrasse. Behind its overturned carts, piled-up furniture, and sandbags lay four courageous men awaiting the Prussians: the baker’s worker Gottfried Lenz, the student Günther, the bookseller Zimmermann, and the ever-smiling, cheerful shoemaker Heinrich Krone. Clutching their old rifles in their hands, the brave ones had resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible to the invaders who had flooded their native city.

“They’ve already occupied all the side streets!” said Zimmermann at one point, pointing out to Krone the Prussian soldiers who were cautiously advancing toward them. Krone was pale as a sheet, but he smiled and replied:
“No matter what happens, Karl, a man can die only once.”
“Indeed he can’t. Nature has granted us that pleasure only once,” laughed Zimmermann with a sigh, then added: “And yet it’s so wonderful to live... But to live freely, with head held high. Not with a bent neck…”

At last the Prussians tightened their iron ring around the four brave men, who, sheltered behind the street corners, waited. About half an hour passed, filled with tension, but neither side opened fire. Then one of the Prussian officers — Captain von Schwarzenberg — advanced toward the barricade. The Prussian walked slowly, occasionally tapping his tall boots with the elegant riding crop he held in his hand. When he was about fifty paces from the besieged, von Schwarzenberg stopped, spread his bowlegged stance (crooked from long riding), and shouted loudly:

“Dresdeners, you see that you are surrounded. The revolution is over — everyone else has already thrown down their arms. Let us shed no more blood. Surrender, and I promise you the mercy of your king!”

From the barricade came bold laughter. Gottfried Lenz—the baker—rose to his full giant height and shouted at the captain:
“We do not want mercy from the king, but a constitution and equality for all citizens. Long live freedom!...” He raised his rifle and aimed it at Schwarzenberg.
“I give you ten seconds, Captain. Withdraw. After that—I warn you—I will shoot. Whoever needs us can come and capture us himself.”
“Is that so?”

Schwarzenberg looked at Lenz with contempt, angrily pursed his thin, bloodless lips, and slowly walked back. When he reached his soldiers, with a careless motion he raised his elegant riding crop, then sharply brought it down. From all sides came the crack of gunfire. Small clouds of bluish gunpowder smoke filled Friedrichstrasse.

The Dresdeners hidden behind their windows shuddered.

At that moment, a window on the second floor of a nearby house opened, and a young and handsome man appeared, dressed entirely in black. His light hair flashed like a sunspot amid the smoke. He had seen and heard everything that had happened below on the street, and he angrily shook his fist at the Prussians, but his voice mingled with the gunfire and vanished in the general roar.

“I should have been down there, not up here...” the young man thought bitterly, “...but I am a coward! A vile, petty, ordinary coward who trembles for his own skin…”

Tears of powerless rage filled his beautiful eyes. Grief gripped his tender and sensitive heart. Down on the street, some Germans were slaughtering other Germans to restore the old hated order of noble and lordly families, from which both sides suffered equally…

How many insults had he himself—Robert Schumann, the son of an ordinary bookseller—endured from those arrogant and cold aristocrats, who had now summoned foreigners to preserve their hereditary rights and privileges, to enrich themselves endlessly at the expense of other citizens.

The shooting did not stop. Amid the clouds of bluish gunpowder smoke, it seemed to Schumann that his entire life floated before him again. Everything was so vivid and tangible that for a moment the young man forgot what was happening around him and sank into his memories…

There was their old little house in Zwickau. It was nestled in a small, colorful garden enclosed by a green wooden fence. On the garden gate hung a yellow mailbox.

In the house stood an old, somewhat rickety piano, but Robert loved to sit at it and strike the yellowed keys with his small fingers. In the half-darkness of the living room, the sounds told of distant fairy-tale worlds that filled his imagination. Where those worlds were, the little boy did not know, but he was convinced they existed and that one day he would find them. But the happiness of the dreamy child did not last long. His father, who also loved music and encouraged him to play, who regularly provided a music teacher, died suddenly. The small bookstore left little inheritance, and the guardian and family decided that Robert must abandon music and prepare for some solid and secure profession that could ensure him prosperity and happiness. But is there happiness outside of music? Robert enrolled as a law student at the University of Leipzig and continued to play. Later he transferred to Heidelberg. Music filled every free moment, sounded constantly in his thoughts, in everything he touched. He burned with the desire to throw away his thick law textbooks filled with boring Latin quotations and devote himself entirely to his irresistible passion, but he still lacked the strength to go against the wishes of his beloved mother. But then, in one of the first days of May 1830 in Heidelberg, news arrived—the wonder of the century had come to Leipzig—Paganini—and he would give three concerts. Robert left immediately. With difficulty, he managed to find a ticket. The hall was packed. Everyone eagerly awaited Paganini. At last the diabolical violinist stepped onto the podium, looked at the audience, and without even bowing as all other musicians did, suddenly drew the bow across the strings of his violin. A tense introduction. Then the sounds poured forth powerful as a swollen river and seized everyone. To Schumann it seemed that Paganini was not playing on the strings of his violin, but as if drawing the bow across the taut strings of his own soul. He looked at the violinist. His eyes burned like coals, fine beads of sweat stood out on his temples, and his face resembled a paper mask. Schumann listened in amazement, unable to believe his ears. “Can music affect people so powerfully? Can such living sounds be drawn from a dead instrument?”

Deafening applause flooded the hall. To Robert it seemed the ceiling of the great hall would collapse at any moment, and he decided: “Only music!”

Under his fervent insistence, his relatives finally yielded.

At first things went difficultly. Schumann encountered more misunderstanding and stupidity than sympathy and warmth. But his tireless labor and persistence finally bore their first fruits. Germany recognized its great son, who knew how to write beautiful songs full of tenderness and melancholy, to create symphonies…

“But now is not the time for tender songs! Now is the time for struggle, and the people need militant songs that call to arms!”

The young man started. Around him the gunfire sounded again. The visions had vanished…

He quickly went to the piano standing at the other end of the room and with effort pushed it to the window. The exertion tired him a little, but Schumann immediately sat down, and his fingers struck the keys with such fervor and force that even he was slightly surprised by the thunderous sound. It was as if Dresden had risen in arms again, and revolutionary songs and cries of “Freedom... Freedom...” echoed through its streets once more.

The defenders of the small barricade heard the piano. Its sounds cheered them and gave them new strength. They began to sing. And a miracle happened. Many windows of the surrounding houses opened, and people sang with them. The street filled with people who began to pry up the stone blocks from the pavement and hurl them at the Prussians.

At that moment, a young woman entered the room where Schumann was playing, holding a child in her arms. Her eyes looked frightened, and she cried out:
“What are you doing, Robert? Are you mad? They will arrest you!”Schumann paid her no attention. He jumped up from his seat, rushed down the narrow stone staircase, and ran out into the street. The Prussian soldiers had withdrawn behind distant corners and were firing from there. Three of the four defenders of the “little island of freedom” were gone. But the fourth—the young and cheerful shoemaker Heinrich Krone—was there on the pavement, with bullets in his chest. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the boundless blue of the endless May sky.

Schumann knelt beside him and gazed long at his face. Then he whispered:
“Sleep peacefully your eternal sleep, dear brother. May the earth be light upon you. I will remember your great lesson for the rest of my life…”

Schumann’s fingers gently closed the dead man’s eyelids. At that moment the composer heard someone cough behind him. He turned. Before him stood Schwarzenberg.

“Hm, so here is our musician, who so skillfully excited this crowd of commoners with his rebellious music…”

The Prussian’s eyes looked mockingly and arrogantly. One corner of his thin lips was slightly curled upward and twitched.

“And so, whom will I have the honor of arresting, Mr. Rebel?”

“The German composer Robert Schumann, Captain,” Schumann replied coldly, and he saw Schwarzenberg’s eyes widen in surprise as he almost exclaimed:
“Then, Mr. Schumann, it will be a great honor for me to shake your hand. What a strange coincidence…”

Schumann did not let him finish, turned sharply away, and then slowly walked home. The shooting on the street had stopped, and now Dresden was silent again…

Late that evening, seated at his desk, Schumann wrote in his small diary: “How cruelly people must fight for every drop of freedom. Will the day never come when all people are equal?” Suddenly something occurred to him, and he rose and went to the piano. He ran his fingers over its keys. Then he sat on the small stool and began to work. At dawn, when the candles above the piano had completely burned down and faint morning light crept into the room, the composer’s work was finished. He took his pen and wrote at the top:

“First Revolutionary March. In memory of Heinrich Krone, the last defender of the last barricade in Dresden. May 11, 1849.”

Young Robert Schumann.

“Does this come from my father’s ancestors or perhaps from my mother’s?” Chopin thought sadly at the memory of his deceased sister, and he listened to the measured rhythmic sounds of the horses’ hooves striking the pavement of the quiet London street. He had not seen any of his loved ones for a long time. What was happening with them now? Were they healthy? Were they getting by well now that Father Mikołaj was already old and could hardly teach his French lessons with his former energy…

Chopin heard the coachman shout to the horses. The carriage stopped. They had arrived at his home. He raised the leather collar of his fur coat and stepped down, while Daniel, waiting at the open door, moved to lift him and carry him up the high staircase. But at that moment, a voice rang out through the fog:

— Pan Chopin, Pan Chopin…

Chopin turned. A few steps away stood a tall man, poorly dressed. He was unshaven and it was clear he had gone hungry for a long time, for his eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets.

— Good evening, my friend! — Chopin replied in Polish, and despite the great exhaustion he felt, he smiled.

— Who are you? What can I do for you?

— The only thing I will ask of you, most illustrious sir, is to feed me and allow me to sleep under your roof. I haven’t a single penny!

— Come in, my dear fellow!

Chopin invited him, then let himself collapse into Daniel’s arms, who carried him up the steep staircase to the second floor, followed by the ragged Pole. It was impossible for him to climb the stairs on his own. In the large hall of Chopin’s residence, the fireplace spread pleasant warmth. It smelled of resin. In the half-darkness, the shadows of the flames danced on the walls opposite the fireplace. Chopin sank into a deep armchair and said to his uninvited guest:

— Come, sit down. Rest yourself. Daniel will bring you something to eat now…

He began to cough, and the ragged Pole saw how the white handkerchief he brought to his mouth became stained with blood.

— The sight of blood doesn’t frighten you, does it? — Chopin said almost guiltily. — I am very ill…

— I have seen much blood, Pan Chopin! — said the big man opposite him. — I was in the Polish army in eighteen thirty-one. I took part in many battles and the eighth of September found me in Warsaw when Prince Paskevich entered it with his Cossacks…

The Pole’s face seemed to turn to stone, and he said through clenched lips:

— They were one hundred and fifteen thousand and we were left with barely thirty... That was the end…

— I learned of it precisely when I had just arrived in Stuttgart, — Chopin replied quietly, feeling the tearing grief in the heart of his compatriot, which he himself had experienced in its time.

Nearly a minute of silence passed.

— Where have you wandered in these years since leaving Poland? — Chopin asked.

— At first, I was in Vienna, then I went to Paris, — said the former soldier. — I hoped the French would treat me humanely, but I was mistaken. Everyone sought to exploit my labour and toss me miserable pennies for it. The French turned out to be scoundrels toward our Poland! In those years, we were all certain they would come to our aid, but their help remained only in words! Words and nothing more…

He passed his large hand over his face and added:

— Hard is the fate of a man without a homeland!

— Are you telling me that … — Chopin smiled sadly. — Me, who for seventeen years now has been far from Poland and from my loved ones.

— At least you have been rich, famous, Pan Chopin… — the big Pole smiled. — While we who are poor were like dogs. Dogs without a master and without a home…

— What do you plan to do now? — Chopin inquired.

— They promised to take me on a ship going to America, — the Pole smiled. — If they don’t deceive me, I will say goodbye to Europe forever. I’m tired of living on handouts. Because, believe me, Pan Chopin, to a poor man even when they pay him for his labour, it still feels like charity.

— I know that! — Chopin replied, gazing into the flames of the burning fireplace. — I too received my fees from my wealthy pupils in the same way.

He laughed.

— You know, once some rich people invited me to a lavish lunch. There were wonderful delicacies but I ate barely anything. I felt ill. I had a fever. Of course, after the meal my host asked me to play for his guests. I felt offended. Would no one ever invite me just for myself and not because I play the piano and am a fashionable musician? And then, unexpectedly, I said to him: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t play. I ate very little!’

— Well said! — laughed the midnight guest. — That’s how one should deal with those gentlemen. Do they know what slavery is and what emigration is? Their purses are full of money, but their hearts are full of tallow. Only among their poor did I meet real people…

— All the poor people in the world are brothers, my brother!

Chopin smiled — he had grown more animated from the encounter with his ragged compatriot — and called softly:

— Daniel, what’s taking the food so long?

Daniel brought it. The starving Pole’s eyes fixed on the dishes on the large silver tray that Chopin’s faithful servant placed on one of the little tables in the hall, yet he did not even stir from his seat. Then Chopin rose and himself pushed the little table in front of him.

— Eat, eat heartily! — he smiled kindly. — And while you eat, I will play for you. Would you like that? I’ll play our native songs for you. Our native melodies. Where are you from?

— I am from Mazovia, Pan Chopin, — the Pole sighed. — From Mazovia…

Saliva so filled the hungry guest’s mouth that he could no longer restrain himself and greedily fell upon the offered food. Watching him, Chopin went to the piano and with difficulty lifted the lid. He sat down. Then his fingers glided over the keyboard.

Soft music filled the entire hall. It slipped into its darkened corners, trembled around the flames of the lit candles, and slid along the walls. The greedily eating Pole heard the leaves of the poplars along the road by his native village rustle, heard a distant song of maidens drift by, then merge into the rhythm of a mazurka, and before him came alive the flushed faces of the lads and lasses dancing wildly, intoxicated by their swift movements.

But then the mazurka faded and an elusive sadness flooded the room. For some reason, the Pole remembered how once as a child he had watched the moon reflected in the river that flowed past his village and he felt sorrow for that distant, happy time when he had a family and a homeland…

Angelo Villani, Frederic Chopin, Nocturne in C-sharp minor Opus Posthumously. Live in London, November 2025.

Though he was terribly hungry, the Pole stopped eating. The music of the man with the frail shoulders seated at the piano had completely captivated him, and he had surrendered himself to its waves. He had given himself over entirely…

Chopin played for a long time. And when he finished, the sole listener of this impromptu nocturnal concert unexpectedly said:

— You know, Pan Chopin, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Poland, but tonight you took me back home! I was there. I saw again everything that is dear and precious to me. And, for some reason, faith stirred in my soul that one day our homeland will be free and our descendants will live in it happy and blessed. They will not be forced, like us, to wander the world. Yes, that time will come one day. And then my children, who will be born in America, will return home, because... because, Pan Chopin... there is nothing on this Earth more precious than the soil of one’s native land…

— I know it with all my heart, my brother! — Chopin nodded, pleased that he had given the unfortunate man a “Polish hour”, and then, when he wiped his hands with his linen handkerchief, he added:

— Eat, eat! Your food has already gone cold...

So, as it happens, year 2025 ends, on this Substack, with Dragan Tenev’s story about the first world known Russian opera composer Mikhail Glinka, who wrote many songs and valses inspired by Russian folklore but is mainly known for his patriotic “Ivan Susanin” opera, which premiered at the end of year 1836, plus for “Valse Fantasie” and “Rusland and Lyudmila” .

The present story captures the unexpected moment and the feeling, which inspired Glinka to write “Жизнь за царя́”. I hope You enjoy it! The libretto was written by a German Baron, Egor Rosen. Russians and Germans had good and close relations back then, apparently.

Glinka inspired the group of composers, called the Big Five - Balakirev, Cui, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Borodin - to form classical music and to bring us “the voice of Russia”. I chose to post here the great Boris Christoff’s performance of the Ivan Susanin Aria not only because it is profound but also as a hint to our future projects here: we will continue with stories about great opera singers once we finish the book about great composers. I don’t know which story begins the next year, it is the 16th story in the book. But I will find out tomorrow and let You know in January 2026. With that I wish You a

Happy New Year, dear reader!

Thank You for traveling with me in 2025 through the history of opera!

Let us hope the love of beauty, great fine arts, classical music, harmony, and peace prevails in 2026 and forever!

Glinka, Ivan Susanin’s Aria, A Life for the Tsar. Live recording of Boris Christoff, 1953.

THE VOICE OF RUSSIA

The grand entrance door of the tall portico of the Monteforte Palace in Milan stood wide open, and every minute elegant carriages pulled up in front of it. The invited guests, adorned in finery for the reception, stepped down from their coaches, cast an arrogant glance at the curious citizens gathered around, and proceeded up the wide stone staircase. On both sides, servants stood lined up holding torches in their hands. In their smoky, red light, the fantastical gowns of the ladies resembled some fairy-tale multicolored stream of velvet, silk, and brocade, amid which only here and there gleamed the snow-white spots of the men’s starched shirt fronts.

It was already approaching midnight, and the reception of Count Di Monteforte was in full swing, when his majordomo noticed that two late gentlemen had entered the palace vestibule. He recognized one of them—the elegant and brilliant maestro Donizetti—but the other he was seeing for the first time. His practiced eye immediately discerned that he was a foreigner. When the two approached, the majordomo struck his staff on the parquet floor and announced loudly:

- Maestro Gaetano Donizetti.

Then he leaned toward the unknown guest and asked respectfully and quietly:

- Whom shall I have the honor of announcing, signore?

- Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka, my dear, - said the foreigner, amused by the embarrassment that appeared on the face of the pompous etiquette official, and smiled cheerfully.

The majordomo, however, did not lose his composure. In just a second he recovered, puffed himself up like a turkey, and striking his staff on the floor, shouted Glinka’s name so altered and incorrectly that if Glinka himself had not told it to him moments before, he hardly would have recognized that it referred to him.

No one paid attention to the majordomo or to the unusual, unfamiliar name. All the guests had crowded around Donizetti and were noisily greeting him. Even four beauties were already pulling him toward the piano. Donizetti knew he would not escape and obediently sat down on the little stool. But before that, he managed to snatch a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray, glance for a moment at the sparkling wine against the light of hundreds of candles, and drink it down in one gulp. Then, with such enthusiasm, he played fragments from his new opera that the entire hall thundered with applause. Clearly pleased with the effect, Donizetti bowed in all directions, and as soon as the noise died down, he said loudly:

- Esteemed ladies and gentlemen, I am touched by your attention, but unwittingly, you have made me appear quite rude toward a good friend whom I have brought among you. Since I can no longer introduce Mr. Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka from St. Petersburg to you personally, allow me, on your behalf, to ask him to sit at the piano and introduce himself. He too is a musician and composer.

Donizetti began applauding. Others followed with a few weak and polite claps. Glinka felt quite unpleasantly surprised by this unusual manner of introduction, and the thought flashed through his mind: “How these Italians love noise!” But he composed himself, bowed immediately to the guests, and, urged by Donizetti, slowly walked toward the piano.

- Well, my friend, what will you play for us? - Donizetti joked, placing a hand on his shoulder. - Something Russian, or . . .

- Russian, definitely something Russian! - cried insistently a lady who was sitting close to the two musicians.

Mikhail Ivanovich sat down on the stool in front of the piano and rubbed his hands together.

He wondered what to play—the music composed by his countrymen was so scarce that nothing came to mind. While he hesitated over where to begin, Glinka felt his fingers almost sliding on their own across the white keys and dancing upon them. The melody he was playing seemed strangely familiar, but no matter how he strained his memory, he could not recall where he knew it from. He repeated its main theme. One, two, three, four measures . . .

“But this is the song that the washerwomen used to sing back home!” flashed like lightning in his mind, and suddenly he saw his father’s estate in Novospasskoye emerging on the black polished lid of the piano before him. There were the women, bent over washing by the small river that sparkled across the spacious courtyard. Their song trembled in the clear air and merged with the whisper of leaves from the nearby birch grove. Glinka quickly ran his hand across the keyboard and heard the spring wind rustling and threading through the treetops of the birches.

He looked at the glittering hall and the people—the vision vanished immediately.

“There, always there has my heart been!” he thought, and the old nostalgia overwhelmed him once more. Here, in the midst of the magnificent city of music, he could never feel completely happy. He wandered for days among the noisy crowds and met not a single familiar face—all were strangers.

“But at home, even strangers are somehow your own, somehow dear. As if you’ve known them since childhood.”

At this thought, his heart beat quickly, and its nervously pulsing beats flowed into the beats of his fingers on the keys. Then everything clarified into the ringing of some cheerful little bells that suddenly sounded amid the hushed hall.

How wonderful it was when, in winter, he and the serf Ivan flew along the snow-covered roads in the troika! Ivan would take him up front with him, wrap him in his big warm fur coat, and Mikhail would only repeat: “Faster, Ivanushka, faster . . .” And the bells on the harness sang, sang . . . In his ears rang the crack of the whip on the sweating backs of the madly galloping horses. Then the field vanished, everything calmed, and the tender lullabies of his nurse began to sound. Glinka raised his eyes and met the intent gaze of an elderly lady. Her eyes greatly resembled the always smiling eyes of his nurse.

“What is she doing now? And Ivanushka? Semyon, the others?”

He greatly loved Semyon, the old serf hunter, with whom he once went hunting for grouse in the wild forests. In the evenings, they would light big fires in the woods, sit around them, and Semyon would begin telling legends about Russian bogatyrs. Neither of them noticed how the long spring nights passed.

Glinka sank into memories. And there, the bogatyrs from the old hunter’s tales appeared now. He saw them—strong, brave, with fiery eyes. In his ears sounded the warm, melodious voice of Semyon, mingled with the crackling of dry branches snapping in the fire. A distant, solitary owl’s cry echoed. And again silence—only Semyon’s melodious voice remained, and the shadows of the bogatyrs.

Ah, those memories! Those childhood days . . .

1812! Napoleon had taken Smolensk. Part of his troops advanced north, toward their estate. The French cavalry could appear at any moment. There was no time to lose. They harnessed the master’s carriage and several other wagons. They set off quickly along the old road through the forest. It was a gloomy and cold day. It had rained that morning. The wagons often sank in the muddy road. With difficulty, they pulled the wheels out and continued north. At one point, the old carriage sank so deeply that no matter how they tried, they could not pull it from the mud. They had already decided to abandon it when they noticed a large group of ragged peasants emerging from the forest. Mikhail saw them through the little window. They were armed with long, old rifles, axes, and pitchforks. He could not restrain himself. He leaned out to get a better look. One of the partisans, an old man with a long white beard, approached him and said kindly:

- Are you afraid, barchuk*? Don’t be scared, we’ll beat the French and return to our native homes again. We won’t easily give up old Rus to them.

The old man pinched his cheek and asked:

- What’s your name?

- Mikhail, grandpa. And what’s yours?

- Ivan, barchuk, Ivan—the blacksmith from Mikhailovka.

The old man spat and wiped his beard with his hand.

- Eh, Mishka, if you were older, we’d take you with us to beat the French together, but you’re still small . . . very small, barchuk. . .

Meanwhile, the peasant-partisans had managed to pull the carriage from the mud. The coachman unexpectedly whipped the horses, and they sped forward quickly. And Mikhail remained at the window, gazing long at the old man standing in the middle of the muddy road with rifle in hand, until he completely vanished from sight. Then he slumped onto the seat and began to cry. He cried because he was small and could not go with the partisans, could not fight for Russia . . .

- ...Russia, my dear mother, only in you can one be happy. Only among your people can one find peace . . . - whispered Glinka softly, and he felt how deep in his soul suddenly resounded the mighty and majestic voice of his homeland.

“My songs must tell of her, of her people, and not of these overdressed foreign aristocrats who surround me.”

Glinka rose abruptly from the piano. As if through a fog, he saw Donizetti standing directly opposite him. The Italian composer was pale as linen, and now his mustache looked even blacker. The faces of the other guests were also disturbed by the unusual music of the foreigner. For a moment, dead silence fell, and then the hall erupted in a storm of applause, but Mikhail Ivanovich did not hear them and ran out of the palace. The Milanese streets were quiet and empty. He walked along them, overwhelmed by the mighty voice of Russia. He had felt it here, on foreign soil, and knew that from now on, all his songs would be for her.

The strikes of a distant city clock reached his ears. It was three o’clock in the morning. Not a living soul stirred on the deserted street. Glinka walked slowly, absorbed in thoughts of what he would create, and in his soul already sounded the chords of the first Russian national opera, Ivan Susanin, which was being born that night far from Russian soil . . .

* Little master (a term of endearment for a young gentleman).

The book I translated into English - Small Stories About Great Artists - exists only in paperback from 1981. It is hard to find copies. I, finally, put together the Content of the book with links to each of the 28th stories about each of the great spirits and artists from the Renaissance to Picasso. We have now the entire book ready and easy to access from this single Substack page which makes things easier for the reader.

Thank you to Substack and to each of you for supporting this project about eternity in great fine art and beauty despite the mortality of the artist.

I double-checked all the facts, names, dates, and data mentioned in it and found that Tenev is correct and even more knowledgable and precise than many other contemporary art historians and sources online. The original book in Bulgarian is beautifully illustrated with small but high quality reproductions. In the online English version here one can post many more images and even more are available to us instantly online. I often wonder how Tenev would have written and formulated himself now, when all digital images of fine art are so easily available and even sold as digital copies. May be he would have created a Substack like this one…

Small Stories About Great Artists

by Dragan Tenev.

Bulgarian Painter Publishing, Sofia, Bulgaria, 1981.

Translation by Bilyana Martinovsky, 2024.

CONTENT

PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR

PREFACE BY THE TRANSLATOR

1. THE SHEPHERD BOY OF VESPIGNANO

(Giotto di Bondone 1266 – 1337)

2. THE METEOR WHO ILLUMINATED AN ENTIRE CENTURY

(Masaccio 1401-1428)

3. CONVERSATIONS ABOUT SANDRO AFTER HIS DEATH AND WHILE HE WAS ALIVE

(Sandro Botticelli 1444 – 1510)

4.MAN AMONG MEN

(Leonardo da Vinci 1452 – 1519)

5. MIDNIGHT ORDER ON THE PHONE

(Michelangelo Buonarroti 1475 – 1567)

6. THE LUTE PLAYER ZORZE OF CASTELFRANCO

(Giorgione 1478 – 1510)

7. DARLING OF THE GODS

(Raffaelo Santi 1483 -– 1520)

8. NIGHT ON THE LAST VOYAGE OF ORIENT EXPRESS

(Tintoretto 1518 – 1594)

9. THE CITIZEN OF THE GOOD CITY OF NUREMBERG WHO REFUSED TO BECOME A GOLDSMITH

(Albrecht Dürer 1471 – 1520)

10. AUGSBURG – BASEL – LONDON

(Hans Holbein The Younger 1497 – 1543)

11. SATIRIST WITHOUT A GRAVE OR A LETTER TO VLADIK FROM BRUSSELS

(Peter Bruegel 1525 – 1569)

12. TV QUIZ COMPETITION

(El Greco 1541– 1614)

13. PAINTER OF THE KING

(Diego Velázquez 1599 – 1660)

14. ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FRANKFURT AND KÖLN

(Peter Paul Rubens 1577 – 1644)

15. THE FLEMISH WHO BECAME AN ENGLISH KNIGHT

(Anthony van Dyck 1599 – 1641)

16. THE PAINTER WHO TURNED MOMENTS INTO ETERNITY

(Frans Hals – 1580 – 1666)

17. WRITTEN IN BATAVIA ON JAVA ISLAND, PERSONALLY FROM THE CORNELIA VAN SUYTHOF

(Rembrandt van Rijn 1606 – 1669)

18. THE RIVAL

(Thomas Gainsborough 1727 – 1788)

19. UNDER THE DOME OF “SAN ANTONIO DE LA FLORIDA”

(Francisco Goya 1746 – 1828)

20. ONE TO ZERO FOR BULGARIA, MR. DURAN!

(Eugène Delacroix 1798 – 1863)

21. THE CONSCIENCE OF FRANCE

(Onore Daumier 1808 – 1879)

22. “ANGELUS”

(Jean François Millet 1814 – 1875)

23. THE LAST ONE

(Claude Monet 1840 – 1926)

24. ON SHIPKA ALL IS QUIET

(Vasilj Vereshchagin 1842 – 1904)

25. PORTRAIT IN FOUR SESSIONS

(Ilya Repin 1844 – 1930)

26. THE FORMER SOLDIER AND THE FORMER PRIEST

(Vincent van Gogh 1853 – 1890)

27. TOUGH FLIGHT TO NEW HEAVENS

(Paul Gaugin 1848 – 1903)

28. PAGES FROM A DIARY

(Pablo Picasso 1881 – 1978)

Honore Daumier. The Orchestra while a tragedy is being played. Croquis musicaux series, Le Charivari. Lithography. 1852. France.

YES, THAT WAS TRULY A BEAUTIFUL GESTURE!

Beauregard entered the room and placed the newspapers on the table cluttered with books.
— Here! I only found these! They bought up almost everything early this morning...
— Well? — asked Berlioz, trying to appear as calm as possible. — Are the reviews terrible?
— There are some positive ones. Certain critics claim we shouldn’t rush judgments on “Benvenuto Cellini”. And Théophile Gautier is squarely on your side!
— I’m interested in the bad reviews — Berlioz snapped. — From experience, I know they’re always more honest than those from our friends.
— Alright then: In “Charivari”, some pest mocks that your “Benvenuto Cellini” was imposed on the “Grand Opera” by order of the Minister of the Interior and “His Majesty Bertrand I”, the director of “Journal des débats”, where you yourself contribute.
— And then?
— In “Caricature Provisoire”, there’s a vile caricature by Roubaud. He depicts you as a fairground puppeteer under the name “Malvenuto” staging a clown called “Grand Opera”.
— The wit in Roubaud’s whole joke is only in twisting my hero’s name. From “welcome” he made “unwelcome”. Next?
— In the theater paper “Pschutt”, they wrote not only the shortest, but the most venomous of all critiques against your opera.
— And what do they say?
— Under the title “Benvenuto Cellini”, they wrote just one word: “Alas!” — said Beauregard almost guiltily and fell silent.

Silence filled the room.
— Would you like to have a coffee at Père Sorel’s? — Berlioz asked after a moment. — I have nothing at home!
— With pleasure! — Beauregard agreed, and the two went out, walking along Rue de Vaugirard, then turning onto Boulevard Saint-Michel.
— I won’t give up so easily! — Berlioz said after they had walked in silence for a few minutes. — They won’t knock me down with one blow. Despite everything, my music will triumph!
— What do you plan to do? — asked Beauregard, intrigued by his friend’s plans.
— I’ll immediately organize my own author’s concert. I’ll conduct “Harold in Italy” and “Fantastic Symphony”. I’ve seen so few successes in my life that failures have made me tough. I suppose the hand that tries to strike me again will this time break against me...

Two weeks after the conversation with Beauregard, Berlioz stood erect before the large orchestra, baton in hand. The musicians awaited his first downbeat with impatience. And he raised his hand. In the hushed concert hall, the first measures of “Harold” resounded. The silence filled with the footsteps of pilgrims marching along the Apennine roads toward Rome. Then the sounds of those footsteps flowed into the sounds of their evening prayer; distant shepherd pipes rang out; in the twilight, a tender serenade was heard, which at its finale was swallowed by the noisy revelry of free brigands singing around their fire in the darkness of the descending night... The audience fell into rapture over the music of “Harold” and rewarded the trembling Berlioz with stormy and sincere applause. With no less rapture, it received his “Fantastic Symphony”, colored by the stamp of his unique talent, which this time sounded entirely different from all its previous performances. The audience’s clapping had no end. Berlioz bowed several times, deeply moved, then headed toward the conductor’s room, but at that moment, a thin man dressed entirely in black climbed onto the stage and roughly pushed through the musicians to catch up with him. Berlioz’s friends jumped up, ready to protect him from any possible insult, but at that moment, one of the horn players recognized the man in black and shouted at the top of his voice:
— Paganini! It’s Paganini!

Suddenly, the audience and the musicians fell silent and waited curiously to see what would happen. But nothing particularly extraordinary occurred. Paganini simply approached Berlioz, took him by the arm, and despite his resistance, brought him back to the front of the stage. When the two were already before the orchestra, Paganini stopped and said almost in a whisper with his hoarse voice, sick for several years:
— I am overflowing with emotion and enthusiasm! You have surpassed even Beethoven!!!

Berlioz could not believe his ears. This was Paganini talking! Paganini himself! The greatest violinist of the century! The composer stood as if struck by lightning and did not know what to say or do. Paganini looked at him for a moment with his piercing gaze, then bowed his head before him, and Berlioz and the entire hall saw with astonishment how the phenomenal violinist knelt before the young composer...
— Remember this moment, François, when one genius bows before another genius! — whispered the old timpanist to the young drummer beside him. — Such a thing...

The timpanist’s voice vanished amid the storm of applause and shouts that erupted in the hall. It did not stop for a long time. The next day, Berlioz received a letter from Paganini. It was delivered personally by his son Achille. The composer was about to open it, but the young man stopped him:
— My father does not want you to reply! — and he vanished from the room before the host could say anything at all.

Berlioz tore open the envelope, overcome with excitement, and saw that the great violinist’s letter was written in Italian. He began reading it slowly. Though he had lived in Rome for quite a long time, he did not know Dante’s language all that well.

“Dear friend!” — Paganini began. — “Beethoven is dead, and only Berlioz can resurrect him. For the delight I received from your divine compositions, worthy of such a genius as you, I consider it my duty to ask you to accept, as a token of my esteem, the twenty thousand francs that will be paid to you by Baron de Rothschild immediately upon presentation of the enclosed note. Please consider me your most sincere Friend. Niccolò Paganini. Paris, 18 December 1838.”

Berlioz felt his breath stop from excitement. Paganini was once again calling him a genius musician. And one could believe a Paganini more than various embittered critics who wrote against his music, often driven by the basest motives. Moreover, the “devilish violinist” was giving him the opportunity to live for some time without worrying about bread for his family. To devote himself entirely to his work as a composer.
— Harriet, Harriet! — Berlioz cried out, mad with joy. His wife, who was in the other room with their son, immediately ran in. Seeing him so agitated, she grew frightened and cried:
— Courage, Hector, courage! Everything will be all right! You are strong; you will overcome everything... — Berlioz handed her Paganini’s letter.
— But I don’t know a word of Italian — his wife replied. — What does he write to you?

He read the letter to her. Harriet was English. Moreover, she was a dramatic actress and knew how to control herself, but even she could not hold back. Her heart pounded wildly with delight at the great violinist’s gesture.
— But he is a true gentleman, this Italian! — she said in a voice slightly hoarse from the excitement that had seized her. — What a nice gesture... A very, very great gesture, worthy only of a great man like him...

Harriet fell silent for a moment, then suddenly added, now in English:
— Worthy only of a truly great human heart!...

“French pianist Eric Ferrand-N’Kaoua plays Liszt’s transcription of “A Ball” from Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, 2nd movementt, Live at the 2009 Berlioz Festival in Berlioz’‘s birthplace La Côte-Saint-André in France.”

But let me start from the beginning! The story I’m about to tell you happened quite a long time ago—in nineteen fifty-eight. The place where it unfolded was the square in front of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, which the Viennese simply call ‘Stephanskirche.’ It was sometime around the end of May, when Vienna is still very pleasant, and the violets in Schönbrunn continue to spread their delicate fragrance far and wide. I had finished all my official business, for which I had been sent to Austria, the day before, and I was set to fly back to Bulgaria the next day, so the entire Sunday was mine. Since I was already familiar with Vienna’s museums and galleries, I decided to visit some of them in the afternoon. But around ten in the morning, on the advice of my Austrian friends, I headed to Stephanskirche to listen to the wonderful organ music during the liturgy and, above all, to hear the famous boys’ choir of the cathedral perform live. According to an announcement at the church entrance, they were finally going to sing Schubert’s famous Ave Maria that day. I had already heard some recordings of these ‘Vienna boys,’ and since I was in Vienna, I couldn’t let such an opportunity slip away.

The sounds of the organ in Stephanskirche and the singing of the boys’ choir showed me how forward-thinking the Catholic Church’s ‘Propaganda Department’ had been when it introduced music into its Sunday liturgies as far back as the Middle Ages, thus turning its countless ‘houses of prayer’ across the continent into some of the most pleasant places in the old European cities. Those priests really knew what they were doing! The best artists and sculptors, the best musicians, the finest music…

I stepped out from the coolness of the vast cathedral, hoping to catch a bit of May sunshine, but right at the portal of St. Stephen’s, I heard Italian being spoken. It was an Italian priest with a distinctly southern accent, which betrayed that he was born somewhere between Naples and Reggio di Calabria. I listened closely and, to my surprise, heard him say:

- Schubert was a good son of our holy church, my children, and that’s why his song is dedicated to the Holy Virgin, performed by…

- Schubert was never a good son of the church, Father! - I said good-naturedly in Italian. - He is one of the greatest poets of earthly joy, tenderness, and love, and his art, if I may say so, has nothing to do with religion! As for Ave Maria…

- Sir, who invited you to interfere in our conversation! - the priest snapped, glaring at me. - I’m not speaking to you, but to my companions!

Instead of turning my back and walking away, I didn’t back down either and said provocatively:

- I was invited by the truth!

- The truth? - the old priest hissed. - And who claims that Schubert wasn’t a good son of our church? Who gave you the right to take him away from the religion he belonged to?’

- I repeat, Father, the facts give me that right! The truth gives it to me! Because I’ll tell you that if you were a little more informed about certain details of the life of the great Austrian musician and his music, you’d know that he never wrote a single line of religious music! Is that evidence of devotion to the faith?

- And Ave Maria? - the priest retorted, though there was already a hint of hesitation in his voice. - Surely it…

- Even that wasn’t written for religious purposes; it’s simply a song, like the hundreds of other wonderful songs by Schubert.

- Prove it! - the devout Catholic bristled, unwilling to let me steal his crown of omniscience.

- I’ll prove it. But only on the condition that you have two minutes of patience and don’t interrupt me. By the way, perhaps our conversation has become boring for your companions?

- On the contrary, sir! - one of the older Italian women said with a smile. - One can always learn something new about the world.

- Very well then. Here’s the story of Ave Maria, ladies and gentlemen, - I said as calmly as I could. - This wonderful song was written by the great master of Romantic music, Franz Schubert, in the Austrian town of Gmunden during a tour he undertook with his friend, the court singer Vogel, to earn a bit of money for his livelihood. This happened around eighteen twenty-four. Around that time, Schubert happened to come across a poem by Walter Scott—The Lady of the Lake…

- But who is this Walter Scott? - several voices asked.

I wasn’t surprised. I was dealing with people who clearly weren’t very familiar with European literature, and beyond the Italian classics studied in Italian schools, they had a rather vague idea of European poetry and prose. So I said as politely as possible:

- Walter Scott is a great Scottish writer, ladies and gentlemen. He is the author of famous chivalric novels like Quentin Durward, Ivanhoe, Rob Roy, and so on, but he also wrote poems and poetry that were hugely popular among readers in the last century. It was from this very poem by Sir Walter Scott that I mentioned that Franz Schubert took the text for his famous Ave Maria and the other six songs in the cycle, to which he later added three more, also based on texts by the same author…

- Sir, - the older Italian woman who had first spoken to me said, - tell us some details about the poem you mentioned. What attracted Schubert to it?

- Above all, its romanticism, signora, - I said, proud that I had sparked their interest. - The setting of the events in the poem The Lady of the Lake is the wild and mysterious nature of Scotland, where, during the reign of James V in the sixteenth century, there were sharp conflicts between him and the Scottish feudal lords. In those turbulent times, during which many injustices were committed, the honorable Sir Douglas, a brave warrior and honest nobleman, was slandered before the king. Deceived by the lies of his enemies, the king banished him, so Sir Douglas had to hide in the inaccessible forests of Scotland to escape persecution. In his exile, he took with him his beautiful daughter Ellen and his loyal servant Allan. For their refuge, the three fugitives chose a remote cave by a large lake, called the ‘Goblin Cave,’ where no living soul dared to approach. And so, in this fearsome but undoubtedly romantic place, Ellen, accompanied by Allan’s harp, begins to sing her song-prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking not so much for protection from the ‘goblins’ in the cave but rather from people and their cruelty…

- And what happened to the three fugitives afterward? - several voices asked in unison.

- Afterward, it so happened that Sir Douglas was captured by the king, and his worthy daughter left her quiet refuge and appeared alone in the camp of the royal troops, where, thanks to her determination and dignified demeanor, she managed to secure not only her father’s release but also that of her beloved, the young warrior Malcolm… - I chuckled a little. - By the way, your great composer Rossini wrote an entire opera based on the plot of this poem, ladies and gentlemen!

- You’re not Italian, are you? - the ‘shepherd’ of the Italian group suddenly asked me.

- No, Father, - I replied calmly.

- But you’re not Austrian either, are you?

- You’re right again, Father, - I said, amused. - But I’d bet a hundred to one that you couldn’t guess my nationality!

- I admit, I can’t, - the priest mumbled. - There’s something in your accent that makes me think you might be… No, it can’t be… It can’t be…

- Why not, Father? - I teased, sensing his suspicion. - I really am a Slav. I’m Bulgarian!

- A Bulgarian? A man from beyond the Iron Curtain! - several people exclaimed in astonishment.

- But that’s impossible. Aren’t the people there…

- All people on Earth are the same, ladies and gentlemen! The only difference between them is their language and whether they are good or bad, - I said. - In the meantime, I think I myself am proof of that, aren’t I?

- That’s right! That’s right! - some of the Italians agreed, and one of them even added,

- And we Catholics, like you, fight to make people give one shirt off their back to their neighbor if they have two.

- And that’s exactly where our struggles differ, sir! - I said with a smile. - Because we fight not for someone to give one shirt off their back if they have two, but for every person in the world to have at least ten shirts of their own! But we’ll talk about these matters at our next meeting, of course. For now, goodbye, signori. It was a great pleasure to meet Italians. By the way, I myself was educated in Italy…

As usual, Tenev stages the story about the great musical talent in his last days on Earth. He did so also in his small stories about great painters. Since I started translating Tenev’s books on January 1st, 2023, I lost my closest friends, one after the other. I was talking to each one of them the last hours of their lives, not realizing what is to follow. As if, Tenev had prepared me for it. As I ‘saw’, in my imagination, the final moments of Botticelli, Raphael, Giorgione, Rossini, Beethoven, etc., I experienced, in reality, the final days and hours of my life long and best friends and each was accompanied by something extraordinary. I was, suddenly, invited to an early Christmas musical where everybody was shining of joy when the sudden news about the death of my friend and uncle Ogi arrived on my phone. Only loud music, lights, smiles, and joy around me! How can I cry in this celebratory moment? I can’t disturb others’ joy! This is how he was, he always made me feel safe and had a famous sweet smile that never left his Alain Delon face. The day when my saint friend and doctor Boris died, he had joked with me warmly, as he usually did. The next morning, before I got the news about his sudden unexpected death, I woke up unusually early, couldn’t sleep, went out for a walk on empty streets and, suddenly, a cute dog came out of nowhere and started walking after me like a tail, didn’t leave my side the entire day, which had never happened before… On her early deathbed, my best girlfriend since high school Maria called me and asked me to stay alone beside her and entrusted me with her 40 small stories about great Bulgarians… There we were, two of us, facing her greatest fear by dreaming, reading and editing. Just hours before our lovely friend Buddy died, suddenly, he and I were admiring together a white dove that had, suddenly, entered my home, which had never ever happened before… It sat on my study room chair… as if there is something more than the material.

Luigi Deleidi, Donizetti and His Friends. Museo Donizettiano, 1840. (From left, Luigi Bettinelli, Gaetano Donizetti, Antonio Dolci, Simot Mayr, and the artist in Bergamo, 1840.)

Letter from Istanbul

The young maid opened the front door.

- Good afternoon, miss! - greeted the coachman who had knocked, removing his glossy top hat adorned with a yellow ribbon. - I have a letter for Maestro Gaetano Donizetti, but I’ve been instructed by the ambassador to deliver it to him personally.

- The Maestro is unwell, but wait, I’ll ask if he’ll receive you.

The maid returned after a minute.

- Come in! - she said haughtily. - You can deliver the letter to him personally since you don’t trust me.

- It’s not a matter of trust, miss, - the coachman began to explain, wiping his boots. - Those are my orders.

He followed the young woman, stepping as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing anyone.

When they entered the spacious drawing room where the Maestro was, the messenger saw the composer seated in a large armchair by the window. A warm Scottish blanket was draped over his knees, and the coachman was struck by the pallor of the handsome face of the renowned Italian composer.

- Good afternoon, Maestro! - he greeted respectfully. - I bring you this letter on behalf of His Excellency, the Ambassador of the Ottoman Empire, Arif Pasha. I was instructed to deliver it to you personally.

He handed the large envelope with wax seals to Donizetti and ventured to add:

- I hope I’ve brought you good news…

- I hope so! - Donizetti smiled wearily, handing him a silver franc. - Thank you for your trouble. Goodbye. And convey my regards to the ambassador. Thank him for his attention on my behalf…

Donizetti waited for the two servants to leave and opened the letter only when he was alone. His face lit up. He knew—the letter was from his brother Giuseppe, who lived in Constantinople and served as the court kapellmeister to the Sultan. The Turks had invited Giuseppe to this position long ago, in 1828, and his practical brother had accepted, securing a prosperous life for himself. True, he didn’t have the fame of Gaetano, applauded by all of Europe, but in return, his brother had composed the Turkish national anthem “Mahmudiye,” modernized Turkish military orchestras by giving them a European style, and written many musical pieces commissioned by the Sultan, performed during festivities in the Turkish monarch’s palaces. That was no small career! After all, both were sons of a night watchman and a simple, illiterate weaver, yet both had risen thousands of times above many of their peers in origin…

“Dear brother,” Giuseppe Donizetti’s letter began, “I write to you with concern and beg you to reply immediately, telling me whether everything I heard from the English ambassador here in Istanbul is true. According to him, you’ve been very ill, suffering from a severe nervous breakdown, which, though he politely called ‘overexertion’ in my presence, I know contains a great deal of truth. We know each other well enough, dear Gaetano, and knowing your ambition and relentless thirst for success and sensation, I have no reason to doubt his words. You know, after our father’s death, as the eldest, I became the head of our family, and though we are separated and live far apart, I cannot help but worry about you and reproach you for your prolonged silence. Nearly two years have passed since your last letter, when you were still working at the Naples Conservatory, and since then, not a word from you! What’s going on? I heard from the ambassador that you wrote your latest opera, Don Pasquale, which was a huge success in Paris, in just eight days! If that’s true, you’re truly out of your mind! To write an opera in eight days! That’s superhuman effort, my dear, and no human body can withstand it without paying a heavy price. You’ve often written to me, reproaching me for becoming an ‘Oriental’ in spirit and not understanding life in Europe, but I’m experienced enough—eight years older than you—and I know that one must also think about one’s health. Even back when you studied at the law lyceum in Bologna, taking music and harmony lessons with Padre Mattei, and later when you were fully accepted into the conservatory, you knew no rest, brother, composing symphonies, masses, quartets, and what not. Remember—I advised you not to rush so much. There’s time for everything. You didn’t listen to me. Nor did you listen to our father, who wanted you to become a lawyer instead of a musician, and to pursue your dreams, you even enlisted voluntarily in that damned Austrian regiment, an unworthy act for an Italian like you, but none of us could stop you. Now I admit—we were wrong back then, and if you recall, I acknowledged it as early as 1818, after the premiere of your first opera, Enrico, Count of Burgundy, at the San Luca Theater in Venice. But since then, you’ve been working like a madman! You imitated Rossini, competed with Bellini, thirsted for success, and now—here it is. Today, in the middle of the century, you are the foremost among living Italian composers! Isn’t that enough, that you still rush so? Where are you hurrying to, brother Gaetano? Rossini stopped writing long ago, your greatest rival Vincenzo Bellini is dead—may God grant peace to his great soul—and you remain the only Italian maestro whose fame shines undimmed from Madrid to Petersburg! What more do you want? Your life is secure, you are wealthy, your fame immense. In the name of our brotherhood—stop working so much! If my memory serves me, your operas over the past twenty years number more than sixty. I know many of them and must say I’m proud of you. You’ve written superb comic operas that rival those of the great Rossini, and your Lucia di Lammermoor and La Favorita are in no way inferior to Bellini’s music. I know—you don’t consider me an authority to be trusted, but know this—I’m sincere. I neither flatter nor overestimate you. Life has been very cruel to you, taking your wife and daughter. Yet you overcame your pain and continued working. But don’t forget, brother—so many emotional burdens, so much grief, and so much creative strain can bring down even a titan. Our family has generally been healthy, but you remember how nervous our mother was in her final years and how she suffered from constant headaches. Now, when Sir Malcolm told me about you, I couldn’t help but think of her, and that’s why I beg you—stop! I hope to receive a long leave from the Sultan in a few months and will certainly come with my wife and children to Paris to see you. My greatest wish is to find you healthy then. I hope what the ambassador told me isn’t true. In any case, take care, Gaetano, and follow the doctors’ advice. I wish you health and embrace you tenderly. Your brother, Giuseppe. Constantinople, January 18, 1843.”

Donizetti lowered his hands. His brother’s letter fell onto the carpet. His vacant gaze fixed on the bare branches of the trees in the garden outside the window.

“Lord, how many memories a single letter can stir…” flickered through the clouded thoughts of the ailing maestro, and something in him trembled. It was as if it woke him from a deep sleep. Memories of his childhood home in Bergamo surfaced, the stern face of his father, the image of his kind and gentle mother, the faces of his brothers and sisters.

“Now they’re all dead… dead…”

Distant screams echoed in his head, and the trees in the garden outside began to spin in a wild dance. Their bare branches resembled long, menacing arms reaching out to seize him, to drag him… where?

“To the abyss…?” Donizetti jumped up, terrified, and turned his back to the window. But at that moment, he saw a man standing before him, dressed entirely in black, staring at him with wide, piercing eyes!

- Who are you? - Donizetti cried out.

The figure laughed wildly, its face contorting into horrible grimaces, and Donizetti could bear no more.

- Gaston, Marie, help! Help! He wants to kill me… - the composer screamed, trembling with fear.

The two servants rushed into the room along with the attendant from the Ivry asylum and found the maestro lying unconscious on the thick Persian carpet.

- There’s nothing to worry about! - the attendant said. - He probably saw his own reflection in the large mirror and mistook it for someone else. He got scared!

He cursed under his breath, then added:

- Damned job, earning a living by caring for lunatics! Thrice-damned job! We’ll need to call Dr. Leblond. One of you, go get him. I’ll stay here just in case.

- I’ll go right away! - sobbed Marie, tears streaming down her face, and she quickly left the room.

Despite the care of the doctors at the Ivry asylum, Donizetti never fully recovered. He rallied after the seizure he suffered in January 1843 and even began work on his new opera, Caterina Cornaro, based on the drama The Queen of Cyprus, but he couldn’t complete it. The merciless illness broke him completely. Donizetti was lost forever. The man who had brought so much joy and emotion to people through his music felt nothing anymore…

He was moved to Bergamo, where he lived under the care of a few loyal servants.

What thoughts swirled in that still-beautiful head of his during those dark years, a head that even illness couldn’t disfigure? So much music had been born beneath that lofty brow. So many joys and sorrows, triumphs and despairs had trembled beneath it.

The sick musician didn’t disturb anyone. He didn’t act out. And when they took him for walks through the city, everyone who passed him in Bergamo respectfully tipped their hats and didn’t take offense if he didn’t respond. They knew—Maestro Gaetano Donizetti, their maestro, who had carried the fame of their city across the world, was ill. Very ill…

His agony began in early April and lasted a long time, as Donizetti still had a strong heart. He didn’t even realize when he passed away on April 8, 1848. He didn’t know he was dying, nor that a rebellion was rising in Italy, led by another compatriot named Giuseppe Garibaldi, who, though much later—in 1870—would bring freedom to their suffering homeland…

The final page of his tumultuous life had been turned.

Luciano Pavarotti. Una Furtiva Lagrima, L’ Elisir d’ Amore by Gaetano Donizetti, and Nessun Dorma, Turandot by Giacomo Puccini. London, 1982.

Gioachino Antonio Rossini, The Barber of Seville - Overture, 1816, Rome.

BY THE WINDOW

From the high window, the sea was visible as if on the palm of a hand. It resembled a vast, lightly rippled light-green silk cloth, stirred by the wind, with silvery patches here and there from the shadows of a few solitary clouds...Gazing at the boundless expanse of the sea, the old man seated in the armchair by the window thought sadly to himself: “The sea and the shore are still the same as they were in my childhood, but I am no longer the same, and soon...” A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

- Come in! - the old man said softly. - Come in!

The door opened. Giacomo, the gardener, stood at the threshold.

- Forgive me for disturbing your rest, Maestro, but this letter just arrived for you, and I thought perhaps...

- Well done for thinking so, my dear! - the old maestro smiled, and the smile suddenly rejuvenated his wrinkled face.

- Very well. Thank you.

- No mention, master... - Giacomo handed over the letter and slipped out of the room.

The old man tore open the envelope with his dry fingers and began to read: “Deeply respected Maestro Rossini,” it began, “yesterday I completed the final notes of my new opera The Barber of Seville. It is written based on the same libretto you used forty years ago to create your immortal Figaro. As I hold the utmost devotion and admiration for your musical genius, I humbly request, dear Maestro, your permission to dedicate my opera to you, the creator of the first Barber of Seville. Hoping for your gracious consent, I bow to you and remain your devoted Carlo Dal Argine. Turin, May 18, 1864.”

The old man slowly folded the white sheet of paper and smiled. The attention from the budding composer warmed his heart. It stirred many memories of long-faded years. There it was—the end of 1815 came to his mind! That beautiful, warm December of the southern winter, when he had fled the intense work at Naples’ San Carlo Theater and hid in Rome. He had hoped to rest and enjoy the upcoming carnival festivities in the papal capital. Unfortunately, neither rest nor merriment came to pass, for on the second morning, Count Francesco Sforza-Cesarini, the owner of the Argentina Opera Theater, arrived at his lodging. Businesslike as always, without much preamble, he offered Rossini a substantial sum to compose an opera for his theater based on the libretto Torvaldo and Dorliska. Although already quite famous, Rossini was not yet a wealthy man. Without much hesitation, he signed the contract the count had brought and received the advance. He would need plenty of money to enjoy the carnival properly...

To Rossini’s own horror—and even more so to the count’s—the work on the new opera did not go well. After spending the entire advance with his many friends, who drank only the finest wines, the maestro sat at the piano but soon realized he couldn’t write a single note for the libretto Cesarini had given him. Several days of fruitless attempts passed. Finally, Rossini went to the count and declared he could not fulfill the contract.

- What? You won’t write the opera?

- No, my dear count. No matter how hard I try, nothing comes out!

- But that’s impossible! I’ve already engaged the singers! The premiere is set for February 20! There’s still a whole month left...

The count began tearing at his hair.

- Holy Virgin Mary, you’re ruining me! You’re no musician! You’re a bandit, a vagabond, you’re—

- It’s possible I’m all that you say, dear count, - Rossini said sardonically, - but stop pulling your hair out, or soon there won’t be a single strand left, and you’ll become the baldest theater director on the Apennine Peninsula!

- Out! - the count roared, furious. - Out! If you don’t return the advance within three days, I’ll report you to the police! Out, you damned swindler!

Rossini slipped out of the count’s office and wandered the streets of Rome. How would he repay the money? By writing the agreed-upon opera? For now, that seemed utterly impossible! As he crossed the Piazza di Spagna, someone called his name. Turning, he saw the well-known librettist Cesare Sterbini smiling at him.

- Good day, Maestro. It is a pleasure to meet you! It’s been a while. How are you, dear friend? - Sterbini said cheerfully.

- Terrible, just terrible, dear Sterbini, - the maestro replied. - I’ve taken on a commission to write a tragic opera for Cesarini’s theater, but nothing’s coming. Now, I must repay the advance, but I’ve spent it all with my friends...

- Sadly, I don’t have a penny in my pocket either, but I can help you with something else! - Sterbini said with a smile. - Here’s a libretto I’ve just finished. I wrote it based on Beaumarchais’ comedy and called it "The Barber of Seville. If it interests you...

A spark of hope flickered in Rossini’s heart.

- Give it to me, quick! - he exclaimed.

Sterbini pulled a neatly written scroll from his coat pocket and handed it to the young composer. Rossini began reading at once. The content quickly captivated him, and he sat on the wide steps of the Piazza di Spagna. He didn’t rise until he had read it all.

- Well? - Sterbini asked. - Will there be music?

- There will be! I’ve already started it! Listen to Figaro’s opening aria...

Rossini softly hummed what he had just improvised and then asked,

- Do you like it?

- I think it’ll be a marvelous opera!

Rossini wrote The Barber of Seville with lightning speed—in less than a month. It was unheard of. A true sensation. It excited the public so much that all tickets for the February 16, 1816, premiere sold out instantly. But horror struck! Two days before the premiere, the opera’s overture vanished, as if it had fallen into the earth.

- You never wrote it! - Cesarini bellowed. - You didn’t write it! Nothing ever gets lost here!”

- But it was lost this time! - Rossini replied calmly. - I did write the overture, and the tenor Signor Garcia even helped me by singing Spanish folk songs to guide me in their style...

To Cesarini’s surprise, Garcia confirmed this. There was no choice but for Rossini to write a new overture. The count locked him in a hotel room, declaring he’d only be released with the overture in hand—or for his funeral. When the door closed behind Rossini, he hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then he smiled and pulled out his suitcase stuffed with sheet music. After rummaging through the chaos, he found a few sheets and sat on the bed, focused on reading them. They contained the overture to one of his earliest operas, Queen Elizabeth. He had also used it for another opera, Aureliano. No one had noticed back then! And in Rome, fortunately, the audience was unfamiliar with both operas. Could he use the old overture now?

Rossini lay back on the bed, took a good nap, and three days later handed the overture to the waiting copyists. They quickly prepared the parts for the instruments. By February 16, 1816, everything was ready...

To Cesarini’s horror, the premiere of The Barber of Seville was a complete disaster for its composer! The wealthy aristocratic audience filling the stalls of the Argentina Theater found the music too crude, too folksy, and it failed to satisfy their “refined” tastes. The curtain fell to icy silence.

Leaving the theater, Rossini felt crushed, but the old theater doorman, Lanci, stopped him and said kindly,

- Don’t lose heart, dear Maestro! Tonight, your music was too beautiful for such an audience to understand. You’re a great innovator. You’ll see what happens tomorrow night when the audience who can’t afford premiere prices but knows good from bad arrives...”

“And indeed, it happened just so...” the old man by the window recalled, and in his ears, the thunderous applause of the audience that discovered the genius of his Barber of Seville at its second performance seemed to ring again. It continued until it blended with the noise of the sea and the old man stopped hearing it. He had subtly fallen asleep…

Carl Maria von Weber, another great talent who died young of exhaustion due to overworking while conducting, in London, his romantic opera Der Freischütz, which this story is about. It was enjoyable, for me, to listen to von Weber’s Invitation to the Dance while reading Tenev’s humor (with the help of a brand new machine).

Carl Maria von Weber. Invitation to the Dance. Dresden, Germany. 1819.

WOLF VALLEY

I crossed the border between the German Democratic Republic and Czechoslovakia around two o’clock in the afternoon. It was a warm September day, and I was in a great mood because I was returning to Bulgaria. By my rough calculations, I would be in Prague in no more than three or four hours, even if I didn’t drive too fast. The road was excellent—wide and straight—the weather was perfect, and the music from the car radio was delightful. All I had to do was press the gas pedal and “swallow” the kilometers to end up under the shower in a Prague hotel. In the meantime, I would surely have made it to that shower if, at the first intersection, I hadn’t taken a secondary road that also led to Prague. It seemed much calmer than the main highway, where traffic was relatively heavy. Moreover, according to the map, the road I chose passed through a rugged area covered with pine forests, which would surely be far more beautiful than the straight, monotonous motorway. And I knew from experience—Czechoslovakia had some of the most beautiful forests in all of Europe. Why not enjoy them? After all, it didn’t matter whether I showered at six or nine that evening. I wasn’t continuing to Sofia until the next morning anyway.

So, I took the secondary road toward Prague. Its first few kilometers rewarded me with an extraordinarily beautiful mountainous landscape, filled with the thousands of colors of early autumn, which had already begun to gild the broadleaf trees here and there, while the pines remained as green as ever, as they would even when winter storms and snow swept over the mountains. The road wound through valleys and heights, descended into darkened ravines, and then climbed through meadows that were starting to turn slightly yellow, dotted with patches of flowers painted in rich pastel tones. I began ascending a steep slope. “Pencho,” as I call my old Moskvich, started to “pant,” but I shifted gears, which eased its burden a bit. It picked up speed, and when I pressed the gas pedal more firmly, we soon reached the top of the steep ridge. From there, dizzying asphalt switchbacks began, descending into a deep valley before starting another climb. I disengaged Pencho’s gear and, with my foot on the brake, spun through the slalom-like road. The rear tires let out that pleasant “squeal” on sharp turns, and I couldn’t even imagine for a moment what awaited me at the bottom of the slope…

What happened, though, was something that has happened to millions of drivers around the world. At the bottom of the valley, when I reached level ground just before the next climb began, Pencho refused to start. I turned the key several times, pressed the gas—nothing! The engine wouldn’t budge. I got out and opened the hood. I carefully inspected the engine, but there was no visible damage. Everything seemed perfectly fine. Then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me: “I forgot to fill up with gas at the border!” The moment had come to pay the price for my absent-mindedness. No one had forced me to chat for a full ten minutes with the border guards, who were indeed very friendly and witty guys, but they couldn’t have known that my car’s gas tank was nearly empty.

“Someone will pass by and give me some fuel, and I’ll get out of here!” I decided, sitting next to Pencho to wait for a fellow driver who had been a bit more foresightful than me and at least carried a spare can of gas.

More than an hour passed. It started to get slightly dark, but no car appeared from either direction. I was like a prisoner with handcuffs, unable to escape the shadowy valley.

“Goodbye, Prague shower! Goodbye, soft hotel bed!”

A night on the rubber mattress in the car awaited me. At least I had a few sandwiches and cigarettes. And, of course, the car radio, which made me a “citizen of the world,” as its tiny speaker truly carried the voice of the entire world…

It was eight o’clock—still no one! A light mist fell over the valley where I was stranded, and the giant pines seemed to move in the darkness. I slipped into the car, closed the windows, and waited again, but still, no one came. Resigned, I pulled out the sandwiches, turned on the radio, and decided it would be best to eat. The pleasant music calmed me a bit. The tasty ham and butter sandwiches also contributed to improving my mood. It was now clear that I would spend the night in the valley amidst the Czech forests, but tomorrow—“A new day, new luck!” as my grandmother used to say. And that wasn’t a bad motto! It held some promise…

I prepared the seat for sleeping, inflated the rubber mattress, and settled comfortably on it, but it was still too early to sleep. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. At exactly nine, with the radio’s signal, I realized I was listening to the second program of the East Berlin radio station, and that today was June 18, 1976, a day when average temperatures ranged between 14 and 19 degrees Celsius, with atmospheric pressure slightly below normal.

Then the latest news broadcast began.

June 18! To pass the time, I tried to recall if anything significant had happened in history on this date, aside from my “stranding” in the Czech valley, but nothing came to mind. I strained my memory a bit more, and suddenly it clicked: “On June 18, 1815, the fateful Battle of Waterloo took place for Napoleon, when Grouchy was delayed, lost in the mud, and the arrival of the German marshal Blücher with his hussars…”

“Dear listeners,” the pleasant voice of a German announcer interrupted my thoughts, replacing the male voice reading the news, “to mark the 155th anniversary of the first performance of Carl Maria von Weber’s opera The Magic Marksman, tonight we will broadcast a recording of the same opera performed by the soloists, choir, and orchestra of the Berlin State Opera under the direction of Happe Spabel. Many of you, dear radio listeners, may not know that The Magic Marksman was first performed at the newly built Berlin Opera on June 18, 1821, under the direction of its own composer, on the very day when the German people celebrated the sixth anniversary of the victory over Napoleon at Waterloo. It would have been hard to find a more fitting day to present an opera written by a German composer, one that stirred the patriotism of our ancestors at the beginning of the 19th century, who fought against the despotic rule of the Corsican emperor. However, it must be added, dear listeners, that the success of The Magic Marksman was not only due to the connection between its plot and the historical moment, but above all due to the melodiousness and democratic spirit of its music, written by the founder of German national opera, Carl Maria von Weber. Captivated by the Italian art of opera throughout the previous century, Germany eagerly awaited an opera that would reflect its own life and its own people through the characters on stage. This long and just national nostalgia was finally fulfilled by Weber, who paved the way for the next generation of German opera composers. And to conclude our brief note, dear listeners, as a curiosity, I’ll add that the premiere of The Magic Marksman in Berlin in 1821 was attended by the poet-composer Hoffmann, the young Heinrich Heine, and the very young Felix Mendelssohn. And now, the names of the performers in alphabetical order. In the role of Agathe…”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was about to listen to The Magic Marksman at the bottom of a Czech valley, which might actually be the very “Wolf Valley” where part of the opera’s action takes place. After all, according to the composer, the events of his opera were set in Bohemia in the 17th century! Somewhere right after the end of the Thirty Years’ War, which ended in 1648…

“With which peace?” I puzzled for a moment, but then smiled again. “The Peace of Erfurt!” That was one of my exam questions in Constitutional Law at university…

Meanwhile, the first chords of the overture to The Marksman rang out in the Moskvich’s cabin. I opened both car doors to hear it clearly and stepped outside. The mist had lifted, and the moon now gazed at me from high above the treetops, bathing the dense pine forest around me in ghostly light. On one of the pines, I spotted the glowing eyes of an owl, which soon hooted. Everything around me truly resembled a giant stage set—one that no opera house in the world could replicate. I pulled the mattress out of the car, spread it on the soft grass, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat quietly, listening to Weber’s music…

Carl Maria von Weber! What did I know about you, my friend, who did so much for the musical awakening of your country and was now gifting me with your music? I remember seeing an engraving of you in the old Brockhaus encyclopedia at home. It seemed the artist had been a bit too precise in capturing your likeness, and even back then, I couldn’t consider you handsome with that long nose. He should have drawn you from a different angle, that rascal! And if I recall correctly, you were also lame. Short and frail. It must not have been easy for you, right? As a person, I mean, not as a musician. Because no matter how many times I hear your Dance Invitation, I like it more and more. I always think, when I listen to it, that you must have woven into it your dreams of being able to dance someday, but it seems you couldn’t. Because if you could have, you would never have written it. You would have just danced, brother. You would have skipped it entirely and not turned it into a joy of trembling sounds for us, even though it must have been a burning pain for you…

The overture to The Magic Marksman ended! Loud applause erupted, but the sound engineer cut it off, and the first act of the opera began immediately. I lit a cigarette. The owl hooted again, and its mournful call echoed far into the distance, blending with the music pouring from the radio’s tiny speaker.

Though it was long ago, I had once seen The Magic Marksman in Germany. Sung and performed by German singers, directed by a German director, and conducted by a German conductor.

“By the way, the Italians could never perform this opera as well as the Germans!” the thought crossed my mind as I took a deep drag from my strong cigarette. “It’s too inherently German to be sincerely felt by another nation!”

I tried to recall what was written in the program for that performance of The Marksman I had seen back then.

“Oh, yes… Its libretto was created by a colleague of mine, a lawyer named Friedrich Kind, who was also an excellent poet. The basis for his libretto was The Book of Ghosts by… What were the authors’ names? Oh, I remember—Apel and Laun! Weber settled on the plot of their legend about the ‘Black Hunter’ as the basis for an opera as early as 1810, but it wasn’t until 1817, when he met Kind, that the libretto for The Magic Marksman could be written by his new friend. Meanwhile, as Weber composed the music for the ancient legend of the Black Marksman, whose ending Kind significantly altered by adding a ‘happy ending’ like in an American movie, the opera was initially called The Test Shot, then became The Hunter’s Mill, and finally received its current title, The Magic Marksman.”

As I listened to the first act of the opera, I gradually began to visualize its content…

Here—before my eyes, in the moonlit clearing in the valley—appeared the village square where all the villagers had gathered. Among them were the hunters, practicing their shooting for the next day’s competition. Of course, the hunter Kaspar was there, but people avoided him. It was whispered that he was connected to the devil. In the impromptu shooting contest held in the square, the winner was not the young hunter Max, as everyone expected, but the wealthy farmer Kilian, even though Max was a thousand times better than him. While the villagers praised Kilian, declared the “King of Marksmen,” and mocked Max for his failure, Prince Ottokar of Bohemia appeared and announced the decisive shooting contest for the next day. The prize would be the right for the winner to marry the daughter of the prince’s forester, Kuno, the beautiful Agathe, and later to inherit her father’s position. Max, who had long been in love with Agathe, fell into despair. On the now-empty village square, he remained alone with his doubts about winning the next day. But then, Kaspar, who had been hiding nearby, quietly approached him and suggested they go to “Wolf Valley” to cast magic bullets that never miss their target. To convince him he wasn’t lying, Kaspar handed Max his rifle, and Max instantly shot down an eagle soaring high in the sky, which fell at his feet. Despite this, Max still hesitated to head to “Wolf Valley,” where the Black Marksman reigned…

Here, the curtain fell! The audience’s enthusiastic applause rang out, but the sound engineer mercilessly cut it off again, and the second act began immediately…

It had two scenes. The first was in Agathe’s room, where she waited for her beloved Max to appear under her balcony. Anxiety raged in the girl’s soul, and her cheerful friend Annchen tried in vain to distract her with her songs. But how could Agathe be calm when, at Max’s shot at the eagle, her portrait had fallen from the wall?

Agathe stepped out onto the balcony and saw Max. He was flustered by her appearance. He lied, saying he was going to “Wolf Valley” to chase a deer he had wounded. “But the Black Hunter roams there, Max!” Agathe tried to stop him, but to the horror of both girls, the young hunter headed toward the realm of his ghostly counterpart…

The second scene of the act took place in “Wolf Valley” itself. As for the set, I no longer needed imagination, because I was actually at its very bottom.

I looked up at the sky. The moon had hidden behind a large cloud. A wind began to blow, perhaps foreshadowing a storm that night. I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders and peered into the darkness. At that moment, the cursed hunter Kaspar appeared and began calling for Samiel. Samiel arrived quickly, reminding him that tomorrow his pact with the devil would expire, and Kaspar’s soul would go to hell unless he replaced it with another mortal’s soul. Desperately, Kaspar pleaded for a reprieve, promising Max’s soul if Samiel gave the young hunter his magic bullets. Max arrived, hesitantly asking for bullets from the Black Hunter, but at that moment, the ghost of his mother appeared to stop him from taking the fatal step. Against her pleas for Max to refuse the bullets, Samiel summoned the image of Agathe. That settled everything—Max said he would take the bullets. The condition? Six would be at his disposal, but the seventh shot would be directed by Samiel wherever he wished! Max agreed and shook hands. Amid the roar of lightning, Samiel began casting the seven bullets…

The curtain fell again. The third and final act began, almost without applause. There was a set time for the broadcast, and the radio didn’t allow for extensions. Perhaps after Weber, Duke Ellington’s orchestra was next…

Agathe’s room appeared again. The girl was preparing for her wedding with the winner. Yet, heavy forebodings tormented her, triggered by a bad dream she had the previous night. She had dreamed she was a white dove that Max shot at. In vain, Annchen tried to convince her not to believe in dreams. Meanwhile, the village girls arrived to present Agathe with the wedding wreath, but when she opened their box, she saw it contained a funeral wreath, not a bridal one…

The next scene of the act was set in a forest clearing, where hunters reveled with Prince Ottokar on the green meadow. Everyone marveled at Max’s magnificent shooting that day. He had uncanny luck, hitting every target. Ottokar asked him for one final shot—at a white dove perched on a nearby tree. Max aimed at the dove and pulled the trigger, but at that moment, he saw Agathe in its place among the branches. And he shot her. The girl fell to the ground. Everyone rushed to her. Fortunately, she was unharmed, but beside her lay Kaspar, mortally wounded by Max’s shot. As Kaspar cursed, invisible to the others, Samiel swooped down and carried his soul to hell. Overjoyed that Agathe was alive, Max confessed his deception to everyone. Of course, Prince Ottokar of Bohemia was furious and, despite the pleas of the forester and Agathe, refused to forgive Max. He forbade him from marrying the girl. At that moment, however, an old hermit who lived in the forest stepped out from the crowd. A protector of Agathe, who had sought his help, he had redirected Max’s magic bullet from her to the heart of Kaspar, who had sold his soul to the devil. The hermit urged Ottokar to abolish the cruel custom that the happiness of local youths depended not on their love but on the success of their shot. Thanks to the imagination of my colleague Kind, everything was heading toward a happy ending! Max and Agathe’s wedding was postponed to the following year. And the people sang, praising the wise hermit…

The curtain fell again. This time for good. A new voice came through the speaker, saying: “And now, dear radio listeners, thirty minutes with the soloists and the great dance orchestra of Radio Berlin, conducted by Max Schulz, which will begin its program with ‘Serenade.’”

I jumped up and quickly turned off the radio. What I had just heard was so beautiful that it didn’t deserve to be replaced in the proposed way. I stretched out on the rubber mattress again and thought contentedly:

“Surely many people have listened to The Magic Marksman in various opera houses, but at the bottom of ‘Wolf Valley’ itself, no one has heard it but me!” With the sense of this small privilege, I returned to Pencho’s cabin, pleased that my gas had run out right here, at the bottom of the valley, allowing me to experience this unforgettable pleasure, and I slept wonderfully…

Early the next morning, a huge diesel truck towed me to the first gas station on the road, and I continued toward home. You might ask why it towed me instead of giving me some fuel? I’ll answer right away: Because, to this day, there’s still no diesel engine for a Moskvich…

“Won’t we arrive too late, Father? What if the maestro has gone out or isn’t in the city?”

“Don’t worry, my son! Everything will work out. At most, we’ll be in Parma in an hour, and it’s only…”—his father reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a large watch—“four o’clock. There’s still plenty of time!”

When they arrived at the city’s mail station, no one was expecting the two Paganinis. They rented a room at the inn “At the Three Hunchbacks” and immediately set off to find Maestro Rolla’s house. They found it easily—the maestro lived near the station.

Old Paganini pulled the doorbell. Father and son heard its pleasant chime echo through the house. A young woman opened the door:

“Whom are the gentlemen looking for?”

“Maestro Rolla, signorina. We must see him on important business!”

“I’m very sorry, signori. It’s clear you’re not from Parma. Otherwise, you’d know that when it’s raining and damp, the maestro doesn’t receive anyone—his legs hurt him. Everyone in the city knows this, which is why no one comes. But even if he does see you,” she said with a smile, “he’s unlikely to want to listen to you. Today he’s very…”

“Please ask him, signorina. We’ve come from far away—all the way from Genoa!”

“If you insist, I’ll try. Wait a moment!” the woman said and disappeared. She returned only after a few minutes.

“The maestro will see you, but on one condition—that you be as brief as possible.” She opened the door wide. “Please, come in!”

They entered a large hall. Sheet music, notebooks, books, and a variety of musical instruments were scattered everywhere. In the center stood a large wooden stand, piled high with scores. To the right, through an open door, they could see a small, dimly lit room where a fireplace glowed. The shadows of its flames danced on the walls.

“Wait for me here, Piccolo!” said the father, stepping into the room. The maestro was reclining in a large chair by the fireplace, warming his aching legs.

“What do you want, sir…” he said, not particularly politely, as Antonio Paganini stood before him.

“Paganini, Antonio Paganini, maestro! From Genoa! I’ve come to ask you to hear my son and take him under your wing to study.” The father quickly reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a white envelope with a crest in one corner. “Here’s a short letter of recommendation from your friend and admirer in Genoa, Marquis Di Negro. My son is very talented; he’s already given several solo concerts and plays at the Church of Sant’Ambrogio, but…”

The maestro felt a sharp pain in his leg, which might explain why he replied rather brusquely:

“If you’re here for such a matter, Mr. Paganini, you’ll have to come back in five or six days. As you can see, I’m unwell and can’t do anything right now…”

“Please, make an exception, maestro! We’ve come all the way from Genoa. We even visited Maestro Salvatore Tinto in Florence. He heard my son and said, ‘Go to Parma to Rolla—only he can teach the boy something new!’”

The cunning Paganini flattered the great musician skillfully, but Rolla remained unmoved.

As the two argued, suddenly someone in the hall began playing the violin. It was the sonata left on the stand, which the maestro had composed just a few days earlier, and it was being played beautifully. Until that moment, Rolla would have bet one to a hundred that no violinist had yet been born who could play it without long, diligent practice. He had poured all his mastery into that sonata, and now its sounds soared freely—coming and going in an instant, now high, now rich and mournful, then rising again to dizzying heights. To the maestro, it seemed as though they danced atop the flames burning in the fireplace before him. Rolla couldn’t believe his ears. But something even more astonishing happened. When the written piece ended, the unseen violinist began improvising on the main theme, drawing forth marvelous variations from the strings—far more complex and difficult than the sonata itself.

The old man suddenly forgot his aching legs, stood up, and, leaning on Antonio Paganini’s arm, went into the hall, consumed with curiosity to see who was playing.

When he saw him, Niccolò abruptly lowered the violin, embarrassed.

“Come, let me embrace you, my boy!” cried the astonished old man. “You’re a true miracle, and if you’re the one they’ve brought to me, I don’t know what more I could teach you. But mark my words—one day, the whole world will bow before your violin.”

He kissed the boy on the forehead and stroked his hair.

“You deserve the finest Amati or Stradivarius that exists! Only something like that is worthy of fingers like yours! What violin is this?”

“A Guarneri del Gesù,” said Niccolò Paganini, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Well, that’s not bad either… Here, let me have it for a moment!”

Rolla took the violin and drew the bow across its strings, but something irritated his ear, and he played it again.

“But this violin is tuned a half-tone lower!” the maestro exclaimed, even more astonished. “What a wonder I’ve lived to see! My boy, you’re a genius!” said the old man, flustered. “I bow to you. You can stay in this house whenever and for as long as you wish. It will be an honor for me to have known you and that one day people might mention my name alongside yours.”

And he bowed his white-haired head low.

Niccolò stayed in Parma for a full year. And later, when his fame spread across the world, people did not forget old Maestro Rolla, the first to recognize the genius of the great Paganini.

Niccolò Paganini

Mozart, loved and adored by his family, and Beethoven, brutalised at home, were contemporaries. They were both very close to their loving subordanate mothers. We could compare “A Little Night Music”, written when Amaadeus was 21 years old, 14 years before he died in misery,

and the “The Moon Light Sonata” composed when Beethoven was age 31, 26 years before he died in misery, and notice how family life affects the music of a great composer. I imagine that one may resonate with Mozart’s night music in the morning and with Beethoven’s moonlight in mourning. Almost nobody came to Mozart’s funeral but 2000 people came to Beethoven’s, the schools in Vienna closed for the event, yet, Ludwig wasn’t even Austrian.

Although Beethoven never married, had only one love, unrequited, had no children, and supported the anti-romantic bestial terror in France, he is called “The Father of the Romantic Era”. Not clear whose definition of romance this expression refers to.

In this story, Dragan Tenev meets us with Beethoven after his funeral, similar to the story about Botticelli and his truly romantic and r-evolutionary Birth of Spring. But Dragan Tenev wasn’t just writing about famous composers from the past. He donated to the renovation of the house-museum of the first Bulgarian composer, Pancho Vladigerov, who started the first Bulgarian Symphony Orchestra in the city of Shumen, Bulgaria, and contributed greatly to the choirs, theatres and orchestras in Bulgaria, given that even the first Bulgarian theatre was started in that ancient city by playwright Dobri Voynikov. That was possible thanks to people like Tenev’s grandfather, a Bulgarian volunteer fighter for freedom, who participated in the Russo-Turkish War, which liberated Bulgaria from the Ottoman Empire and restarted it as an independent European country after 500 years oriental rule.

Photo of Dragan Stoyanov, Opalchenez, Dragan Tenev’s mathernal grandfather, Shumen, Bulgaria.

Although Dragan Tenev was born in Sofia, he spent valuable time in Shumen - the cultural cradle of the 3rd Bulgarian Kingdom. In fact, the only bust of Dragan Tenev as a young boy is placed next to a window in Voynikov’s Library of the Folk High School (Chitalishte) in Shumen.

Ivan Lazarov, Dragan Tenev As a Child, plaster bust. The Vojnikov Library of the Vojnikov Folk High School, Shumen, Bulgaria.

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BEETHOVEN'S YOUTH

Unusually cold for early November, the autumn wind furiously battered the closed windows of the Viennese houses, and under its force, the rusty, moisture-worn hooks of their shutters groaned pitifully.
- What disgusting weather! - thought Karl Binding, a court clerk hurrying along “Josefstraße”. - It hasn’t been this cold in ages…”
- Oh, Mr. Binding, Mr. Binding, where have you been? - greeted his distressed landlady, Mrs. Mickowitz, as he entered the well-heated common room of the boarding house, where the other tenants had already gathered. - Has something bad happened to you? As far as I recall, you’ve never missed dinner in the twenty-five years you’ve lived with me.
- Please forgive me for causing you worry, dear madam, - Binding replied, flustered. - I had a lot of work. Today was the second auction at the late Beethoven’s house, and the sale dragged on. Judge Burgmayer disposed of all his scores and personal letters. You can’t imagine, gentlemen, what piles of handwritten music sheets by Beethoven himself were snapped up for next to nothing…
- Who bought them? - asked Max Moser, a retired horn player from the opera, in a grim tone. - Some rich aristocrats?
- Good heavens, what are you saying, Max! - the old clerk smiled sadly. - The buyers were all music publishers or speculators. They grabbed genuine musical treasures for pennies. And lest you think I’m exaggerating, take a look at what I recorded in the protocol.

Binding pulled several sheets filled with elegant handwriting, tied with a red cord, from his bag and handed them to the horn player.
- Here, read this! - he said pointing to the sheets.

The horn player put on his glasses. His eyes scanned the lines.
- Manuscript of the Fifth Symphony. Complete. With notes from the author. Original, written personally by the late Ludwig van Beethoven. Awarded to Mr. Alfred Aschlinger, publisher, who offered the highest bid—6 florins. Part of the Pastoral Symphony in original manuscript, written personally by the late Ludwig van Beethoven, with author’s notes. Transferred to Mr. Baumgarten, a bookseller from Vienna, for 3 florins…
Max Moser adjusted his glasses.
- Three preliminary sketches for a mass—totalling 2 florins; a separate sheet from ‘Egmont’—handwritten by the late Ludwig van Beethoven—33 kreutzers and 20 pfennigs, awarded to Mr.
- Damn it all! - cursed the old horn player. - This is sacrilege! It’s the greatest mockery of a great musician’s memory! What a shame we’ve lived to see, gentlemen…
- Truly shameful! - hissed old lawyer Krause through his teeth, another resident of Mrs. Mickowitz’s boarding house. - One day, our descendants will blush at all this!
- Oh, they’ll blush alright! - Moser said skeptically. - If their fathers aren’t blushing today, their children will blush even less tomorrow!
- But we’re already in the first half of the nineteenth century, dear Moser, - Krause countered gently. - The Middle Ages are gone. The world is marching toward progress. People are mastering new knowledge, life is advancing. That will inevitably refine the human spirit too!
- Pardon me for intruding on your gentlemanly conversation, - said Mrs. Mickowitz with a smile, calmly continuing her knitting, - but I’m convinced people change very little, no matter what happens! I’ve lived long enough to know that from experience…
- And what happened to Beethoven’s famous violins, Karl? - Moser asked abruptly.
- The two—‘Amati’ and ‘Guarneri’—along with Vincenzo Rugeri’s viola and Andrea Guarneri’s cello were sold at the first auction last summer, Max… - Binding replied, staring at the ceiling. - They were sold off with the furniture and some other items.
- Did they at least fetch a good price? - inquired Krause, who had lit his long Bavarian pipe. - Such instruments are true rarities.
- To be honest, Mr. Krause, they sold them cheap, - Binding said with a bitter smile. - You know how it is—those auctions are mostly attended by shrewd dealers. They’re skilled at keeping prices low. We live in a world full of swindlers!

- But why didn’t some of Beethoven’s wealthy admirers, who applauded him in life, buy them up? - Moser flared up again. - They could’ve paid a bit more than the hagglers and saved them from their grubby hands. One day, those items could’ve been gathered in a museum dedicated to Beethoven…
- Sadly, Max, - Binding sighed, - the only friend of Beethoven who showed up to bid was Mr. Stephan von Breuning! He managed to buy just two miniature portraits that no one else wanted—one of Miss Giulietta Guicciardi and one of Countess Erdődy—plus a copy of the Odyssey with Beethoven’s margin notes, and a few other trifles, but that was nothing, of course. The lion’s share went to the speculators…
- What a disgrace for Vienna! - chimed in Alfred Altenberg, a chorister from St. Stephen’s Cathedral, who had been quietly listening until now. - Beethoven lived here for over twenty-five years!”
- What, Mr. Beethoven wasn’t a Viennese by birth? - Mrs. Mickowitz asked, surprised. - I always thought he was one of us. True, his name sounded a bit odd, but so what! We’ve got all sorts of names in Vienna.
- Beethoven was born in Bonn, but by heritage, he’s a Fleming, Mrs. Mickowitz, - Max Moser explained. - His ancestors lived in Flanders and were farmers or tailors. His grandfather was the first Beethoven to break that family tradition. I heard from the composer himself that before moving to Bonn in 1733, his grandfather sang as a chorister in the cathedral in Liège…
- What a story! - Mrs. Mickowitz marvelled. - Are you sure of all this, Mr. Moser?
- Of course, dear madam. I know some details of Beethoven’s life, - the horn player replied, amused. - After all, though on different scales, Mr. Beethoven and I were colleagues, so to speak. And you know how it is among colleagues—everyone usually knows everything about everyone else.
- Then, Mr. Moser, tell us more about Beethoven’s youth, - Krause encouraged him. - I’m sure it’ll be fascinating for all of us to hear some facts.
- Alright, gentlemen, I’ll tell you what I know about the early years of my great colleague, - Moser agreed readily, - but I warn you—it’s not a lot.
- Before that, though, gentlemen, let Magda bring something for Mr. Binding to eat, - Mrs. Mickowitz interjected. - We completely forgot he hasn’t had dinner!

She stood, went to the kitchen, gave her instructions, and returned to her seat, saying,

- Mr. Moser, we’re listening!

- From what I heard Beethoven say about himself and what others have told me, dear ladies and gentlemen, - Moser began, - I can say with certainty that the great composer was born in the attic of baker Egon Fischer’s house in Bonn on December 16, 1770. His father, Johann van Beethoven, a court musician in the chapel of the Elector of Bonn, named him Ludwig—after his grandfather—hoping to mend his long-strained relationship with the old man…
- And why were the father and son at odds? - Krause asked.
- Because Johann was a heavy drinker, Mr. Krause, and brought shame to his father, a respectable citizen and former kapellmeister of the princely orchestra in Bonn. But, of course, there was another reason too — the old Beethoven hadn’t approved of his son’s marriage to the daughter of a court brewer from Koblenz, a woman named Keverich. It irked him that his daughter-in-law was not only of lower birth than their family but also a widow!
- Perhaps the old Beethoven had some justification, - Mrs. Mickowitz chimed in. - If he was kapellmeister of a princely chapel, his son surely could’ve married a much better match.
- I won’t argue against that, - the horn player smiled, - but you forget, dear madam, that Johann van Beethoven was a notorious drunkard, and as you know, no respectable family would accept such a son-in-law.
- Of course, Mr. Moser, you’re right. Please continue, - Krause urged. - You’ve started off intriguingly.
- As I said, gentlemen, Ludwig’s birth became an occasion for his father and grandfather to reconcile, which benefited them both. By the way, I forgot to mention something important at the start—Beethoven’s grandfather was also involved in winemaking besides music. He owned two cellars. I suppose it’s not hard to guess now why his son became so fond of wine.
- Clear enough! - Krause said, puffing a ring of smoke. - Clear enough…
- According to accounts from contemporaries, - Moser continued, - little Ludwig showed his love for music as early as age five. Noticing this passion, his father decided to turn him into a ‘child prodigy’ and began teaching him piano the following year. To the child’s horror, though — his little hands still too short to reach the piano’s outer keys — every lesson ended with a beating, so progress was slow. Then Beethoven’s father brought in Tobias Pfeiffer as a second teacher for the boy, who also lived in Fischer’s house. Pfeiffer turned out to be an even bigger scoundrel than Johann van Beethoven, and often in the evenings, when the two returned home drunk, they’d drag a sleeping Ludwig out of bed and force him to play his lesson, beating him with a stick for the slightest mistake…
- What brutes! - Mrs. Mickowitz exclaimed sincerely. - Didn’t his mother intervene to spare him the beatings?
- She couldn’t, Mrs. Mickowitz, - the old horn player sighed. - She had weak lungs and was worn out from work. She didn’t have the strength to stand up to her drunken husband. Besides Ludwig, Mrs. van Beethoven had to care for his six siblings, who depended mostly on her…
- And how did this wretched story unfold later? - Krause inquired curiously.
- Later, - Moser smiled sadly, - music lessons became a nightmare for the young pupil. But around that time, Pfeiffer started drinking so heavily that the Elector eventually expelled him from Bonn. Then they sent Ludwig to study organ with a Franciscan monk, Willibald Koch. A bit later, Franz Rovantini, a distant relative of Beethoven’s mother, became his violin teacher…

Moser took a breath and continued:
- When Ludwig turned eight, his father decided he was ready to perform publicly and organized a concert for him in nearby Cologne. To stir up a sensation, he falsely advertised that his son was six years old, but to his surprise, the audience didn’t proclaim the young musician a ‘child prodigy,’ and the concert flopped, despite featuring the court singer Helena von Gordonk. This led Johann van Beethoven to abandon his ambitions and stop pushing Ludwig.
- Thank heavens! - Mrs. Mickowitz sighed with relief. - At last, the poor child could go to school in peace.
- That’s exactly what happened, dear madam, - Moser confirmed, - but fate had decided to make Beethoven a musician at all costs. The next year, a new figure entered his life—Christian Gottlob Neefe, who took over the musical direction of the princely chapel in Bonn.
- Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Moser, - Krause smiled, - but by a twist of chance, this same Christian Gottlob Neefe was my colleague at the University of Leipzig!
- He studied law? - Moser asked, surprised. - I didn’t know that detail about his life.
- Yes, he did! - Krause confirmed. - We were in the same class. I should add, though, that even back then, Christian dreamed of music, but his father, a wealthy tailor, wouldn’t hear of it and insisted his son train to become a ‘privy counselor’ at all costs! - Krause took a puff from his pipe. - What a character Neefe was! Though hunchbacked, he had worldly manners, constantly read, delved into philosophical treatises, and — believe it or not — was an outstanding lawyer. His dissertation stunned everyone. The whole university applauded him. I’ve kept the fondest memories of him, - Krause added.
- Fortunately, - Moser said, - it was Neefe who took charge of young Beethoven’s musical education and introduced him to literature, giving him all sorts of books to read…
- I suppose the freethinking that the late Beethoven so vividly displayed was largely a product of my old colleague’s upbringing! - Krause said mysteriously, smiling. - He was a republican and an admirer of the French Encyclopedists even in our student days, that Neefe…
- Your observation is spot on, Mr. Krause! - the horn player confirmed. - I heard with my own ears from Beethoven himself that he owed his development as a person and musician primarily to the hunchbacked Neefe, whom he always remembered with filial affection.
- He had to direct his filial feelings somewhere! - Mrs. Mickowitz said firmly. - I believe, gentlemen, every little boy needs to love and admire his father. But from what I gather, Johann van Beethoven couldn’t inspire either love or respect in his son…
- Perhaps that very fact from Beethoven’s childhood explains some of the darker traits in his character, gentlemen! - young chorister Alfred Altenberg interjected again. - Bad childhood memories can damage a person for life. Don’t you agree?

- You’re right, young man! - Krause supported him. - But let’s give the floor back to Mr. Moser. So, what happens next?
- Next, - Moser smiled, - young Beethoven quickly developed his extraordinary talent. By age twelve, he could capably substitute for his teacher at the organ when Neefe was absent. Around that time, though still very young, Beethoven began composing. With Neefe’s help, a publisher in Mannheim even printed his ‘Variations on a March by Dressler.’ Soon after, the young composer wrote three piano sonatas, which he performed publicly. On that occasion, Neefe wrote in the Musical Gazette that one day his pupil would become a second Mozart…
- Not a bad prophet! - clerk Binding joked. - It’s a pity he couldn’t live to see his genius pupil’s true triumph.
- Still, he lived long enough to take pride in Beethoven’s fame, Mr. Binding, because his pupil achieved great success while Neefe was still alive! - Altenberg pointed out. - It seems to me that was fair reward for his efforts. As far as I know, Neefe was largely the one who made Beethoven a virtuoso pianist, right, Mr. Moser?
- Absolutely correct, my boy! - Moser nodded. - To back up your words, it’s worth noting that Neefe himself proposed that fourteen-year-old Ludwig van Beethoven be appointed his official deputy in managing Bonn’s musical life. By then, the Elector Max Franz, one of the most progressive princes in Germany from the late last century — both in thought and deed — was in charge…
- I assume, - Krause said, - that his lenient rule provided fertile ground for Beethoven’s spiritual growth. There’s nothing more beneficial for people than an enlightened ruler…
- I agree with you, Mr. Krause! - Moser nodded. - But I’ll add that Beethoven was fertile seed for that soil. And let’s not forget, gentlemen, that the maturation of this great musician coincided with the buildup to a major event that we older folks still vividly recall!
- What event do you mean, Max? - Binding asked.
- Have you forgotten the French Revolution and the Battle of Valmy, Karl? - the horn player looked at him in surprise.
- I serve the emperor, Max! - Binding smiled. - I’m not allowed to remember such events!
- Well, I’m a pensioner, and I’ll say that those very events and the intellectual ferment that preceded them made our Beethoven a republican! If you recall, gentlemen, all of Vienna turned out for his funeral, but not a single member of the imperial family attended. None of them even sent a representative to bid farewell to the man who brought Austria worldwide fame.
- That’s how it was, - Altenberg blushed. - I suggest we leave our great musician’s political ideas in peace, gentlemen, and return to the facts of his life in Bonn. What happened to the hero of your story after his appointment as Neefe’s deputy, Mr. Moser?
- When Beethoven was appointed Neefe’s paid assistant, the doors of many homes in Bonn opened to him. One house where he found friendship was that of Madame Helene von Breuning, where the cream of Bonn’s scholars, poets, musicians, and artists gathered at the time. It was there, among that family, that Beethoven forged a lasting friendship with young Stephan von Breuning — whom Karl mentioned earlier — and it was there too that the young composer experienced his first romantic infatuation, with Stephan’s sister, Eleonore von Breuning. I should note, gentlemen, that the young lady played a huge role in Beethoven’s intellectual maturation. She read him Shakespeare’s sonnets, introduced him to Goethe’s poetry and the poets of the ‘Sturm und Drang’ movement, and opened up the world of Homer to him…

The old horn player rubbed his forehead.
- And yet, despite the successes he reaped at every step, Beethoven wasn’t fully happy. He dreamed of something else that drew him like a magnet!
- What could that have been? - Mrs. Mickowitz wondered.
- Our Vienna, madam! Our Vienna! - Moser laughed. - Beethoven dreamed of coming here and studying with Mozart or Haydn.
- And did he manage to fulfil that dream? - Krause asked.
- Yes, he did, - Moser replied. - Thanks to the help of Count Ernst Waldstein, a close associate of the Elector in Bonn, Beethoven received a long paid leave. With the little money he’d saved from giving piano lessons, in the spring of 1789, he arrived in our city…

Moser paused briefly, thought for a moment, and said:
- Whether it’s legend or fact, I don’t know, but I’ve heard that during his first visit to Vienna, young Beethoven visited Mozart and improvised on the piano on a theme set by the maestro. Some of my older colleagues even claimed that on that occasion, Mozart said to the guests in his home: “Pay attention to this boy, friends! One day, he’ll make the world talk about him!” Anyway, - Moser added, - I myself had the chance to hear Beethoven improvise on the piano before he went deaf, and I’m convinced that if Mozart heard him play the same way, he’d surely have said the words attributed to him.
- Indeed! - Krause supported him. - More than anyone, Mozart could have recognized Beethoven’s extraordinary genius. Still, how do things unfold from there, Mr. Moser?
- Unfortunately, after wandering around Vienna for a while, Beethoven unexpectedly received word that his mother was gravely ill. He had to rush back to Bonn. God willed that he find her still alive and say his goodbyes.

A shadow crossed Moser’s face.
- After the death of Maria Magdalena, as his mother was called, Johann van Beethoven fell completely into drink and was expelled from Bonn. Suddenly, young Ludwig found himself the head of his family. Despite the dire financial straits he was in, Beethoven managed to pull through. During that time, he enrolled in the newly founded University in Bonn, teaching himself ancient Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, while never abandoning his musical development for a moment. He tirelessly studied scores by Bach, Handel, Mozart, and Haydn…

Moser licked his parched lips and continued.
- And then came July 14, 1789. The Parisians stormed the Bastille, and the echo of the French Revolution spread across Europe. Truth be told, Beethoven greeted it with enthusiasm. The events in France resonated deeply in his soul, awakening thousands of hopes. For once, Beethoven felt truly happy…
- He wasn’t the only one happy in those days! - Krause said vaguely, looking over the others’ heads. - Many had long awaited that revolution…
- Sadly, gentlemen, - Moser went on, - you know how everything in France degenerated after the revolution’s early years. Deeply disillusioned by what followed, Beethoven stubbornly kept working. When Haydn passed through Bonn on his way back from London to Vienna, Beethoven gathered his courage and showed him the manuscript of his ‘Funeral Cantata on the Death of Joseph II’ for soloists, choir, and orchestra. Amazed by the young man’s talent, Haydn promised to take him as a student but asked Beethoven to move to Vienna to join him.
- That settled it, didn’t it? - Krause said.

- You guessed it, Mr. Krause! - Moser nodded. - Beethoven made his decision at once, and that autumn, he set off for Vienna, leaving Bonn forever…
- I read in one of Beethoven’s albums we sold today, - Binding interjected, - a dedication written for the occasion by a certain Count Waldstein. If I’m not mistaken, it went something like this: “Dear Beethoven, your long-held wish to go to Vienna has come true. Mozart’s genius is still in mourning, lamenting the death of its favorite. That genius has found refuge with old Haydn. Work diligently, and you will surely inherit Mozart’s spirit through Haydn’s hands.” - The old clerk added, pleased he’d recalled the text exactly.
- Fortunately, that prediction came true, gentlemen! - Krause said, and to everyone’s surprise, he rose from his seat and sat at the old piano in Mrs. Mickowitz’s living room.
- You know how to play the piano? - Moser asked, astonished.
- I did once! - Krause replied. Without turning, he ran his fingers over the keys. Then, to the amazement of his fellow boarders, he began playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
- My God, you play beautifully! - Moser exclaimed. - Why didn’t you become a musician?
- Because a man doesn’t always choose his own fate, dear sir! - Krause answered, continuing to play. - Sometimes other forces intervene in a person’s life, forces he can’t fight unless he’s a genius…

He fell silent and, after a few measures, said quietly:
- And I, thank God, realized in time that I’m no genius…

No one replied, and in the hushed living room, only the sounds of the famous sonata remained, joined unexpectedly by the soft crackle of a candle burning down…

Franz von Stuck, Ludwig van Beethoven, 1900. Plaster relief, detail. Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

Dragan Tenev, April 12, 1919, Shumen - September 27, 1999, Sofia, Bulgaria.

The author of the short stories about great painters and composers posted here in translation from Bulgarian, Dragan Tenev, was born in Shumen, Bulgaria on April 12th, 1919. In 2025, this is Lazarus Saturday, when Orthodox Bulgarian Christians celebrate that “Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, because he is the King of the living”. Coincidentally, the last photo of Tenev is also from April, taken on 27th of April 1999 during an interview, shortly after his 80th birthday. He passed away on 27th of September that same year. Besides being a great art historian, he was an officer, a multilingual lawyer, a writer, a journalist, and a dancer. Strange enough, after his death, his ashes were never found. May be Jesus raised him from the dead?

As it happens, his story about the French composer Rouget de Lisle comes directly after his lovely story about Mozart and, as it happens, La Marseillaise was written shortly after “the Legislative Assembly in Paris declared war on Austria and Prussia on April 25th, 1792”, i.e. four months after the early passing of the brilliant German composer in Vienna. What a stark contrast between the shining beauty of the young German’s music and the raw French Freemason Jacobin Terror roar. de Lisle didn’t even use a metaphor, he and his comrades were, literally, cutting throats:

“Arise, children of the Fatherland, The day of glory has arrived! Against us, of tyranny the blood-stained standard is raised. Do you hear in the countryside, those blood-thirsty soldiers ablare? They're coming right into your arms to tear the throats of your sons, your wives!”

And, what a sad irony: the French anti-royalists immediately installed themselves on thrones once they had manipulated and slaughtered their co-citizens, including children. Napoleon’s General Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte was installed by force as the King of Sweden, after the brutal assassination of the great Swedish King Gustav III in March that same 1792 and after that later forced exile of his heir. Bernadotte and his wife from Marseille never even learned Swedish. That French “line” of the common from southwestern France is still on the throne in Sweden.

And yet, in the long run, Mozart and his “A Little Night Music" won the hearts of the future generations world wide.

ALLONS, ENFANTS DE LA PATRIE…

On April 25, 1792, news arrived in Strasbourg that stirred the entire city: the Legislative Assembly in Paris had declared war on Austria and Prussia.
The enthusiasm that erupted among the citizens was like a storm. Men, youths, old folks—even the women—all rose as one. They were ready to fight to the last drop of blood to defend the revolution and repel the invaders who sought to restore the old, hated order of the masters in France.
The tricolor flag waved above all houses.

To mark this great event, the city’s new mayor, Citizen Dietrich, decided to host a reception at the town hall for those who would soon depart for their regiments to defend the endangered fatherland. He immediately set about fulfilling this intention, and the very next evening, the windows of the grand hall in the municipal building shone brightly, solemnly lit.

The reception was going splendidly. When the guests’ spirits were sufficiently lifted and they had reached the bottles of fizzy champagne, one of them struck up a patriotic song that was in vogue at the time. Everyone present joined in, and the hall thundered with their voices.
“This one’s just like the others coming from Paris!” Dietrich said to the general standing to his left, who was eagerly devouring a large piece of cake. “I can’t believe that such a song would inspire soldiers heading to the battlefield.”
“There’s some truth in what you say, Mr. Mayor,” the general replied, “but until we have something better, we’ll sing what we’ve got. Besides, listen—it’s not as bad as you think.”

To prove his point, the general began humming along, though it was clear he didn’t know the lyrics.
Dietrich listened again. Suddenly, an idea struck him:
“What if I announce a contest for a march for the Rhine Army? Couldn’t something better come of it?”

He scanned the room, and his eyes happened to fall on the unassuming pioneer captain, Rouget de Lisle. The mayor reconsidered his plan.
“This fellow plays the violin well and writes bad poetry. Instead of a contest, I’ll ask him to compose a march. Let him try. Who knows—something decent, maybe even good, might come of it. Miracles happen sometimes!”

Dietrich signalled the captain to come closer.
“Dear de Lisle,” he said warmly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I have a special request for you. You understand the language of the muses, and Orpheus’s songs are no mystery to you. Promise me you’ll soon try to write a fine patriotic song. Our Rhine Army is ragged and underfed, but I’d love for it to have something that outshines all other armies—a wonderful song to lead it into battle. Listen to what they’re singing now. Can you call that good?”

De Lisle halfheartedly promised to try, unable to refuse outright, but as soon as he rejoined his friends, he forgot all about it.
He only remembered his promise when he was already on the street, heading home. The night was quiet. The spring sky glimmered silver above him, dotted here and there with small white clouds. At the end of the empty street loomed the majestic, enormous silhouette of the cathedral and the black rooftops of sleeping Alsatian houses, bathed in pale moonlight. Peace and calm reigned.
“And all this will vanish in an instant if the enemy comes here!” de Lisle thought involuntarily, quickening his pace without realizing it. He reached home almost at a run, grabbed his violin, and tuned it quickly. He ran his fingers over the strings and picked up the bow. Whether it was the excitement and emotion of the day or perhaps the glasses of champagne he’d drunk—captain de Lisle couldn’t tell—but the very first measures he drew from the strings pleased him. He immediately took a squeaky quill and jotted them down on a sheet of music paper. Then he kept playing. Before his eyes, landscapes of rivers and plains, mountains and valleys flashed by at a dizzying speed. This was his homeland—France of the French, not the France of the hated king. The storm of uprising towns and villages roared in his ears. He heard Paris thundering with cannon fire—he saw its barricades. And as he translated these visions into tones, the words seemed to come on their own. He wrote them down with a trembling hand and then spoke them aloud, clear and sharp:
“How beautiful it is!” he thought, satisfied, and continued working feverishly, seized by a strange inspiration he’d never felt before.

When he finished the song, the timid light of morning was already creeping into his modest little room. Then, utterly exhausted, de Lisle threw himself onto the bed, still in his uniform, and fell into a deep sleep.

He opened his eyes only at two in the afternoon. He quickly gathered the sheets scattered across the floor and, paying no attention to his crumpled uniform, ran to Dietrich.
“Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, the march is ready! If you’ll allow me, I’ll play it for you right now!”

Stunned by the speed with which the captain had fulfilled his request, Dietrich was captivated by the melody and the lyrics. There was something powerful and compelling in them, something no one could resist.
The mayor’s delight knew no bounds. He took the sheet music from the captain’s hands and sat at the clavichord himself. After playing the song once, he began to sing, and de Lisle joined him. The march sounded magnificent.
“There’ll be a fine surprise tonight!” Dietrich said, thrilled, and immediately sent for his wife.
“Citizen,” he said with a smile and a bow as she entered the room, “I humbly ask you to invite last night’s guests back for dinner tonight. I’m preparing a big surprise for them and counting on your help, yes?”

That evening, the guests once again took their old seats around the table. When dinner ended, they were so eager to see what would happen that they shouted in unison:
“The surprise! The surprise!”
“A little more patience, dear friends!” Dietrich calmed them, ordering champagne to be brought. Then he stood, approached his niece, and with a ceremonial bow, said:
“Now, Renée, I trust you won’t refuse to sit at the clavichord and play our guests the awaited surprise.”

Dietrich offered his hand to the girl and led her to the small stool. Everyone gathered around with full glasses in hand. Renée glanced at them for a moment, then struck the keys boldly and confidently. The first measures of the melody rang out, solemn and captivating. Dietrich and de Lisle sang together: Allons, enfants de la patrie…

A spark seemed to sweep through the room. The song sounded spirited. Its notes flew out the open window, mingling with the warm April breeze outside, which carried them to the four corners of revolutionary France.

A few months later, a battalion of five hundred Marseilles set out from Marseille toward the Rhine. They marched to die for freedom. All along the road to Paris, the Marseilles sang the “Rhine March” without cease. People in the villages and towns they passed cheered with enthusiasm:
“Listen, listen to how beautifully these Marseilles sing!”
“The song of the Marseilles! The song of the Marseilles!”

They reached Paris. Some nameless citizen of the revolution dubbed their song “La Marseillaise,” and that name stuck forever.
Allons, enfants de la patrie…—thousands of Frenchmen sang under the waving tricolor flag, falling in the fight for freedom. The song faded on their dead lips, but others took it up at once, and it traveled from barricade to barricade.

No one remembered anymore who had written it, who had created it. And what did the author matter to them? Whoever he was, his song belonged to everyone—to the entire people.

Many years later, when the modest captain Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle sat by the lit fireplace in his home in the evenings, he loved to recall his youth. And whenever he remembered that distant April night in 1792, the white-haired old man knew that what had beaten in his chest then was not his own heart, but the vast, great heart of the French people, who had taken up arms in those heroic days to defend fraternity, equality, and liberty…

Note: ALLONS, ENFANTS DE LA PATRIE - COME ON, CHILDREN OF THE FATHERLAND…

Luckily, Mozart did have a best friend. Despite a big age difference, Mozart and Haydn loved musical humor and became very close. Mozart considered Haydn to be his spiritual father.

I hope you enjoy the kind wisdom of Tenev’s take on Mozart, that’s all we need to know about the composer as a person and it makes sense as we listen to his delightful mind.

On March 25th, 2025, right as I was preparing the story about Mozart, my best childhood friend died suddenly, quickly and young, hours after we laughed together. Buddy, as we called him, was the most hearted, kind, loyal, sunny, and cheerful person one can meet and a legendary yet most humble self-learned graphic designer in Bulgaria with encyclopedic knowledge in rock music, singing more than talking. The last song he sent me the day he passed away (he wasn’t ill), was “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles. It expresses his lovely person perfectly. Buddy designed many magazines and newspapers, often worked late hours, and yet, he found time to prepare together “the composers” for translation, because it was always great fun when we did things together. He copied on a printer the entire book "40 Stories About Famous Composers" by Dragan Tenev, and made this project possible, for us all to enjoy. I biked by his workplace to deliver and then quickly return the book to a library. It was hard to find this book, it is old, out of print, the thin yellow pages fade away.

This is our book, Buddy! Thank you for the music, forever, my dearest friend!

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1781, Serenade No. 10 for 2 oboes, 2 flutes, 2 bassoons, 2 clarinets , 2 basset horns, 2 French horns and either double bass or contrabassoon.

THE GIFT OF LITTLE MOZART

It was May 1762. A cheerful spring sun shone over the ancient houses of the small town. Seated at the harpsichord by an open window, Leopold Mozart, a composer and member of the orchestra of His Eminence the Archbishop of Salzburg, was composing a short minuet. The archbishop himself had commissioned it for the birthday of one of his numerous nieces. It seemed his work was going well, for the maestro looked very pleased. When he finished, he played through the piece entirely, made a few small corrections here and there, copied it onto a fresh sheet, and called out the window:
“Wolfgang, come up here at once!”

Little six-year-old Mozart reluctantly left the two boys he was playing with in the courtyard and slowly climbed the tall staircase.
“Listen, my boy,” said his father when he entered the room, “you need to take these notes to the palace right away. Hurry, don’t stop anywhere, and hand them straight to the steward, Mr. von Danwitz!”

Old Mozart reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small copper coin.
“Here’s a little something so you can buy yourself a candied apple on the way back.”

The father paused for a moment, then hugged little Wolfgang and said gently:
“Listen, my boy, I’ll let you in on a secret. With the money I’ll get from this minuet, we’ll buy Mama a new dress for her birthday. But not a word to anyone, understand? It’s a surprise—just you and I know about it.”

Little Mozart stepped out onto the street, overjoyed. He was thrilled and happy to carry out a task that would get his mother a new dress and make her happy.

He set off quickly toward the palace. When he reached the bridge over the little river, he stopped and curiously watched the geese swimming and diving in the water. They seemed so funny and entertaining that Wolfgang, caught up in their play, didn’t notice as he dropped the sheet of music into the river. By the time he realized what had happened, it was too late—the paper was floating downstream with the current.

He made several attempts to retrieve it, but soon realized it was hopeless—the water had blurred the ink. Desperate, Mozart sat on the steep bank and began to cry, though it quickly dawned on him that tears wouldn’t help much. He wiped his eyes and confidently headed toward the little bookstore owned by Mallwitz, located on the quiet, dead-end street “Erinerungsgasse”.

“Good day, Herr Mallwitz,” Wolfgang said with a bow, not forgetting to take off his cap. He handed over the copper coin he’d meant to use for a candied apple and added, “Could you give me some music paper for this?”

Mallwitz smiled.
“Of course, Herr Mozart!” he said, amused.
“And may I use your pen and ink, Herr Mallwitz?”
“What’s he up to?” the bookseller wondered to himself, but he waved a hand and said:
“Of course, dear boy! Go into my little room in the back and write whatever you like. There’s a whole stack of sharpened quills.”

Wolfgang didn’t wait for another invitation. He slipped into the small room and immediately sat at the little desk. About an hour later, the fresh sheet of music paper was covered with a multitude of crooked, awkwardly written notes. Mozart sprinkled it with blotting powder, folded the sheet in four, thanked the bookseller politely, and hurried off to the palace.

The next day, after the celebration, the archbishop summoned Leopold Mozart to his lavishly decorated office and said:
“Dear Maestro Leopold, you wrote a wonderful minuet, just as I commissioned, but I don’t understand—and I’d ask you to explain—why it was necessary to have your son copy it?”
“My son, Your Eminence?” stammered old Mozart. “There must be some misunderstanding. Would you permit me to see the notes?”

The archbishop ordered them brought in. The father took them with curiosity, and as soon as he looked, he saw that the notes were indeed written by Wolfgang.

He stared at the sheet and, to his astonishment, realized the music wasn’t even his own. And yet, it was beautiful. Leopold Mozart carefully folded the sheet and tucked it into his pocket.
“Your High Eminence,” he said, visibly moved, “you’ll have the minuet cleanly copied by tomorrow. Please don’t ask me anything more, and forgive my carelessness.”

The archbishop stood—a sign the conversation was over—and said:
“Listen, Leopold, whatever the reason, I’m very pleased. And to prove my satisfaction, instead of the promised thaler, I’ll pay you two thalers for the minuet. You can collect them from my cashier today.”

When Leopold Mozart returned home for lunch, he found his wife and Wolfgang already seated at the table. He pretended to be very angry and, without even saying “good day,” declared:
“I was going to get you a new dress, my dear, but now…”

Leopold Mozart fell silent and glared darkly at the table.

Little Wolfgang froze, stood up, and tears filled his eyes. Whether they’d punish him now didn’t matter—what mattered more was that his mother would go without a dress because of him. He started to say something, but his father motioned for him to be quiet. Then, suddenly, a wide smile lit up Leopold Mozart’s face, and the maestro exclaimed proudly:
“…but now your son will give it to you, for today he earned his first two thalers with honest work!”

And he hugged little Wolfgang and kissed him warmly.

MASTER, A FRENCH OFFICER IS LOOKING FOR YOU

In November 1808, Napoleon attacked Spain.

Spain met his blow but could not withstand the pressure of the mighty army, commanded personally by the emperor, for long. Wherever the French passed, fires flared up. The Spain of the king and the Spanish grandees was brought to its knees. But the Spanish people were not subdued, and, filled with hatred for the invading enemies, they rose up in arms. In the history of Europe, the first guerrilla struggle of life and death began...

Encouraged by the emperor’s setbacks on the Iberian Peninsula, Austria allied with England and once again declared war on France. But Napoleon’s army swept over it like a whirlwind, crushed the Austrian forces, and on May 13, 1809, captured Vienna. Along the streets of ancient “Vindobona,” where music had recently resounded, the hooves of French cavalry now clattered.

Standing by the window, old Haydn watched the gleaming helmets of the French cuirassiers passing along the street, and his heart tightened with sorrow. Vienna, which he loved so tenderly, was once again in the hands of the hated enemies, but Haydn was too old to go out into the street and throw himself at them.

The heart of the helpless old man contracted painfully. Despair began to sound within it. And what other music could still resound in that old, weary heart, which had beaten ceaselessly for seventy-seven years?

The iron-shod hooves of the French horses continued to clatter on the pavement, and, despite himself, the old man began to listen to their monotonous rhythm.
“Tap-tap-tap-tap…”

Suddenly, amid the echo of this dull rhythm reverberating off the facades of the street’s houses, an English horn sounded in the old man’s mind, then violins took up its theme and gradually began passing it to the cellos…

There was a knock at the door.
“Yes!” Haydn replied, without taking his eyes from the window.

By the footsteps and the way the door opened, he recognized that it was Franz, his servant, who had entered.
“Master,” said the young man, “a French officer is looking for you.”
“A French officer? What does he want?”
“He didn’t tell me, Master. He only asked politely to be received.”
“Very well, tell him to come in!” replied old Haydn, turning around. “Did he tell you his name?”
“Yes—he calls himself Henri Beyle… Lieutenant Henri Beyle… I think.”
“The name means nothing to me. Show him in!”

A few seconds later, the French lieutenant entered the room. He was of medium height, not particularly slender, with a round, open face. His chestnut hair was curly, and the curls peeked out even from under the tall cap, which the Frenchman immediately removed respectfully.
“Forgive me, Maestro, for disturbing you on such a day, which I assume is hardly pleasant for Viennese, but… Allow me to introduce myself—Lieutenant Henri Beyle.”

The lieutenant spoke German correctly. Clearly, he had studied it diligently, for Haydn noticed he didn’t make a single mistake.
“How can I be of service, sir?” replied the old composer rather coolly, though he almost instantly felt an unexpected fondness for the young “French enemy” who had intruded into his home.
“I only wished to pay my respects, esteemed Maestro. I love your music and sincerely admire it. I’ll be in Vienna for just one day and couldn’t resist the temptation to see you, though I know…”
“What do you know, sir?” Haydn smiled.
“That no citizen of Vienna would gladly welcome a French officer at this hour.”
“You’re right!” the old maestro admitted frankly. “But I honor candor and respect anyone who possesses it. So, young sir, please sit down. Pay me your respects,” Haydn joked. “I think it’ll be easier if you’re seated!”
“May we continue our conversation in Italian, Maestro?” asked the French lieutenant. “I doubt I could do it as well in German as I’d like.”
“You’re not lacking in wit either!” Haydn replied in Italian. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I must say you’ve become likable to me, young man. Where in France are you from?”
“I’m from Grenoble. If it weren’t for the border with Switzerland, I could easily call myself a neighbor of Monsieur Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who’s from Geneva, but what can you do—we still live in times when we’re divided by borders.”
“I see your neighbor hasn’t left you uninfluenced!” laughed the old Austrian composer. “As far as I know, Emperor Napoleon no longer cares much for this Monsieur Rousseau!”
“And does your emperor like him?” the Frenchman smiled.
“May I not answer that question?”
“Forgive me,” said the young officer respectfully. “I meant no harm. By the way, I…”—he seemed at a loss—“I just don’t know how to properly express my respects, which is why I came…”
“You’ve already expressed them, young sir!” Haydn assisted him. “The very fact that you, the enemy, visited me for this purpose is enough. Lately, you know, I’ve been rather lonely. Human memory is too short for someone who can’t constantly feed it with new deeds… And I haven’t written anything new in a long time…”
“But you’ve created so much music!” the Frenchman said with enthusiasm. “It’s played all over the world, and your fame rivals that of Handel and Mozart.”
“You shouldn’t compare me to those two genius masters, young sir. I’ll admit—it’s pleasant to hear such words, but I’m a decent enough musician to distinguish better than you between my modest achievements and the music of my peers you mentioned. Don’t speak like that, or I won’t believe you’re sincere. I know my strengths perfectly well…”

The old composer looked out the window and added:
“The only one equal to Handel and Mozart in the world right now is one of my former students…”
“And who is he, Maestro?”
“His name is Ludwig van Beethoven, my boy!” said the old man. “He’s a genius and will renew music in this new century that’s begun so badly for my homeland…”
“Do you love your homeland dearly, sir?” asked the young lieutenant.
“How could one not love the land where they were born?” the old man smiled gently. “It’s the only thing, my son, worth fighting and dying for in this world… I’m entirely bound to Austria! It resounds in my music with its thousands of voices, it echoes in me with the rustle of its forests and fields, it sings and moans in my heart with all its joys and sorrows…”

A remarkable tenderness appeared in the old man’s slightly narrowed eyes. His face seemed to grow younger, and the French lieutenant was surprised to notice that the composer’s large nose, which had seemed rather ugly to him at first, was actually the only nose that suited this extraordinarily soulful face. He was struck by how clean and neatly dressed Haydn was. There was none of that laxity so typical of most elderly people; he resembled a hereditary nobleman more than the simple Austrian peasant he actually was. His demeanor carried dignity, but without a trace of arrogance, making him even more likable.

Lieutenant Henri Beyle had heard the wildest stories about Haydn’s marriage and some of his “eccentricities,” but now he suddenly felt they were all gossip. With the innate perceptiveness that would later prove invaluable in his writing career, he instinctively knew he was in the presence of a man endowed by nature not only with immense talent but also with many other fine qualities.

“Excuse me…” said Haydn. “I forgot about you for a moment. My thoughts drifted elsewhere.”
“I noticed,” confirmed the Frenchman.
“What would you like to drink?” asked the old composer. “I have a decent collection of wines.”
“I leave it to your taste to offer the enemy the wine you think he deserves!” the Frenchman said, rising slightly from his seat.

Haydn called Franz and, to his great surprise, ordered him to bring a bottle of Weinbrand from 1801. Then he turned to his guest and unexpectedly added:
“Life’s a funny thing! Now, when I need so little, I have far more than I require, yet in this very city, as a young man, I starved like a dog. If a friend hadn’t taken pity on me when I was thrown out of the choir at St. Stephen’s, I’d probably have died of hunger… Have you ever gone hungry in your life?”
“I’m the son of a lawyer, Maestro,” the Frenchman smiled. “And a very good lawyer at that.”
“Then it’d be hard for you to understand what it means to be born the son of a wheelwright, and in the countryside no less…” replied Haydn.

“I admit—I can’t!” nodded the young man. “Or rather, I can, but only theoretically. Would you think me indiscreet if I asked you to tell me something about your youth? It surely wasn’t easy.”
“How should I put it—looking back now, I ought to say it wasn’t easy, but honestly, it didn’t seem so hard at the time because everyone else around me from my lot didn’t have a better or merrier youth than mine. Can you imagine—at home in Rohrau, we were seventeen children!”
“Seventeen!” the Frenchman’s eyebrows shot up.
“We had neighbors with nineteen!” said the old composer. “And yet, my father’s house was always cheerful. We often sang and played, and my father played the harp. Of course, he was self-taught, but I never heard anyone play better than him afterward…”
“You must love the harp dearly?”
“To be honest, I prefer the timpani.”
“The timpani?”
“Yes, they’re my great weakness among musical instruments. By the way, I’ll tell you something about them, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Please do!” said the Frenchman politely.
“It was a long time ago,” the old man began eagerly, “seventy-one years ago. I was just six years old when a cousin of my father’s came to visit us in Rohrau. He was a teacher and choir director in the nearby town of Hainburg, exhausted from work, and wanted to rest for a few days in the fresh air. Naturally, Papa Matthias organized a big home concert in his honor, which left Cousin Frank quite astonished.
‘You know, Matthias,’ he said when we finished our concert, ‘your little Zapperl has real gold in his throat! I haven’t heard a child sing so beautifully in a long time.’”
“And who was this Zapperl?” asked the Frenchman. “One of your brothers?”
“Zapperl was me, young sir. That’s what they used to call me at home…” sighed the old man, “…though my christened name was Franz Joseph…”

Joseph Haydn, Surprise Symphony Nr. 94, premiered in London on March 23th 1792.

Haydn drifted into some distant memory.
“And what happened next?” the French officer asked tactfully after a few seconds, bringing Haydn back to his story.
“After that, sir, things unfolded like this: Uncle Frank took me with him to Hainburg to study under him and sing in the choir he led. I lived with his family as his ward, and one of my greatest joys back then was attending rehearsals of the little orchestra he’d formed in the town. At those rehearsals—how it happened, I still don’t know to this day—I gradually taught myself to play many instruments, even though I was a tiny little thing. Uncle Frank, a rare and kind teacher, encouraged me and delighted in my progress. He never forbade me from playing as much as I wanted. The only instrument they wouldn’t let me touch was the timpani. An old, crotchety cobbler played them and guarded them from me like an eagle. But then the cobbler died unexpectedly, and the timpani suddenly became mine. Believe me, as long as I live, I’ll never forget the thrill I felt when I struck them for the first time. They became my favorite toy forever—my passion.
Of course, Uncle Frank noticed this, and though I was only seven, he let me play them to my heart’s content. A few months later, I was the orchestra’s timpanist…”
“Not a bad start for a musical career!” laughed Henri Beyle.
“I must tell you, the timpani were truly the best start I could’ve hoped for, because I loved their sound with an irresistible tenderness. Much later, when I was already a well-known musician, in 1791, I composed a special ‘Symphony with Timpani,’ and four years later came my new symphony in E-flat major, which I called the ‘Symphony with Tremolo and Timpani.’”

The old man laughed heartily.
“In London, at one of my concerts where the ‘Symphony with Timpani’ was performed, to everyone’s surprise, I personally played the timpanist’s part, and it made a staggering impression on the islanders…”
“Did they applaud you as a timpanist-performer?” asked the French officer curiously.
“By God, I had unprecedented success!” said the old man with unabashed pride in his voice. “As a composer, I never achieved anything like it, and I didn’t regret it…”

He paused briefly.
“But let me finish the story. We’ll go back to Hainburg for a moment. Around that time, the composer Georg Reutter arrived in the town from Vienna. He was traveling through Austria, searching for new choristers for his boys’ choir at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. He liked my voice, and the following year, Reutter took me to the capital. I was already eight years old—the age required to join the choir. In Vienna, I lived for nine years in the boarding school attached to St. Stephen’s. Our choir sang at all the church services, and when we weren’t singing, they stuffed our heads with God’s law and Latin or made us serve at receptions in wealthy noble homes, where I first heard music performed by a large professional orchestra. At those serving gigs, I was always a preferred lackey because I was nimble and never spilled a thing.”

The old man sighed.
“I stayed in the gloomy boarding school at St. Stephen’s until I was seventeen. By then, my voice had begun to change—quite late—and Reutter suggested I be castrated to preserve my soprano and stay in Vienna…”
“Did you really agree to such a thing?”
“In those days—yes!” admitted Haydn. “We’d even set a date for the operation with Reutter, but just a few hours before, my father arrived in Vienna and, thankfully, stopped me from that fatal step. He nearly beat Reutter in his outrage…”
“He had every right to!”
“Of course. Right after that scandal, I was expelled from the boarding school and found myself on the streets of Vienna without a penny in my pocket. In those tough moments, a former choir friend, Spangler, came to my rescue. He took me in, letting me stay in his attic and feeding me at first. Later, I ended up in another house where the famous poet and librettist Metastasio lived. With his help, I got a job as a servant in the home of the composer Porpora, a dreadful boor who still taught me Italian and gave me a few music lessons. He was filthy, like most southerners, and from him I got my aversion to uncleanliness. Maybe that’s why, once I got on my feet later, I never sat at the table or the piano to work without being washed, neatly dressed, and wearing my carefully combed wig.
Of course, while serving Porpora, I played at various festivities, serenades under the windows of pretty young ladies, weddings, and wherever else, earning a coin or two. I must admit, thanks to my service with Porpora, I connected with several prominent music connoisseurs. To my great joy, they appreciated my modest musical abilities, and in 1759, I finally got a job as kapellmeister in Count Morzin’s orchestra. That was the beginning. The rest you may know—I worked for nearly thirty years with the Esterházy family, traveled to England twice, where I spent about three years, and throughout my life, I worked, worked, and only worked. I had to write constantly, either for my patrons or for the impresarios who organized my concerts. And each one demanded I cater to their taste.”
“Did you manage?” asked the young French officer.
“I don’t know if I succeeded, but my undeniable knack for convincing everyone that what I wrote to my taste was exactly what they wanted was beyond doubt. Like any poor man in my youth, sir, I’d learned to live—and that’s a great art, believe me. Perhaps one of the greatest, which, sadly, no academy teaches…” laughed the old man heartily.

Franz entered the room with a tray and the bottle of Weinbrand from 1801.
“Leave it on the table!” Haydn ordered him.

Then the old composer rose from his seat, filled two crystal glasses with sparkling wine from Prince Metternich’s estate with elegant grace, and, handing one to his young guest, said:
“Thank you for coming to me on a day like this. Our meeting might seem very strange to many, but now I see it with different eyes. Let’s drink to the day when people no longer hate each other.”

“To that day, Maestro!” Henri Beyle raised his glass, and the two men clinked them together.

The fading musician and the rising writer drank their wine to the bottom. Outside, the hooves of the French horses continued to clatter on the pavement of the ancient Viennese street, but now their sound no longer rang so ominously in Haydn’s ears. He had crossed the boundaries of hatred…

Franz Joseph Haydn’s house in Vienna where he lived when the French cavalry occupied Vienna and where he and Stendhal drank wine “to the day when people no longer hate each other”.