It's been nearly a decade since the Metropolitan Opera staged Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky's penultimate opera The Queen of Spades (or Pikavaya Dama in Russian, a literal translation from the French Pique Dame). The lavish Elijah Moshinsky production was first unveiled in 1995 and has served as the house debut for Siberian baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky along with the return of legendary diva Leonie Rysanek.
A plot straight out of Alexander Pushkin, this bold work, with a libretto by the composer's brother Modest, proved to be a darker, bleaker story from the Russian poet's pen, one that Tchaikovsky took to with abandon. His earlier Pushkin effort, Eugene Onegin, was more of a drawing-room drama about a girl's coming of age. In The Queen of Spades, the crux of the matter involves a young man's mad gambling habit.
The opera went on to premiere at the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg on December 7, 1890 (coincidentally, the setting for the work). Its initial Moscow performance took place almost a year later at the Bolshoi Opera, while New York saw it two decades later.
The Russians have always had a soft spot for somber tales involving characters on the edge of mental breakdowns. Certainly the opera's chief protagonist, the minor officer Hermann (sometimes written as Ghermann), is the proverbial odd-man out, an obsessive-compulsive individual whose warped thoughts about improving his lot in life have turned to marriage with the impressionable Lisa, a girl clearly above his social station. To compensate, Hermann tries to learn the secret of a game of chance - a deep, dark mystery that only Lisa's grandmother, the elderly Countess (the literal "Queen of Spades" of the title), has intimate details of.
Venturing forth at night, his secret visitation to the Countess' bedchamber leads to the old lady's death. Later, in a dream sequence in Hermann's quarters, the Countess' ghost appears to him and divulges the secret of the "three cards" (or tri cartii): Three, seven, ace. Thinking that his luck is about to change, the now-emboldened Hermann sets off to win not only the card game but Lisa's hand in marriage. But money doesn't always talk, especially in this circumstance. In fact, little does the crazed officer realize that vengeance awaits him at the gaming table.
Complicating Hermann's plans is the fact that the eligible Prince Yeletsky has asked Lisa to marry him. Of course, Lisa has no interest in the handsome prince, even if he would make a fine catch. For her part, Lisa has fallen hopelessly in love with Hermann, much to her later demise. Hermann's problem is his all-out obsession with winning at cards. At the end of her rope, Lisa throws herself into the Neva River, while Hermann is thwarted in the game by drawing a losing hand: Three, seven ... and the Queen of Spades!
When the Countess' ghost reappears to him at the last, he stabs himself in the heart. Asking Prince Yeletsky to forgive his many trespasses, Hermann expires with Lisa's image on his lips: "My angel, my beauty, my goddess."
Whew! Did somebody say, "Russian tragedy"? Tchaikovsky's compatriot, fellow composer Sergei Prokofiev, tackled similar subject matter with his four-act opera The Gambler, based on a Dostoyevsky story. In that work, the lead character Alexei is left alone at the end when the love of his life, Polina, tosses his winnings in his face.
Ah, love! So difficult to attain, so easily lost.
Casting from Strength (and Language)The December 14, 2019 broadcast, the second in the new Met Opera radio season, must be deemed a success. With a native cast of Russian language speakers and singers, and a debuting Russian maestro, how could it miss? Conductor Vasily Petrenko led the Met Opera Orchestra in a blazing, white-hot interpretation. The orchestra sounded revivified in this repertoire, as if to the manner born. The horns blared out boldly, along with the surging string section, both bringing out the urgency in Tchaikovsky's score.
As many readers are aware, I have a fondness for Russian opera and for Russian composers in general. I find their "heart on sleeve" approach to their country's musical inclinations to be the perfect tonic for a Saturday afternoon round of radio listening.
The big news of the week, and the one most audience members had been anticipating with bated breath, was the broadcast debut of Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsen in the key role of Lisa, Hermann's tortured love interest. Setting aside her apparent nervousness, the 32-year-old diva acquitted herself well. This may not have been the best of circumstances for a young singer to appear in, but Davidsen left her mark on the performance like a veteran trouper. Her scenes with the neurotic Hermann (Azerbaijani tenor Yusif Eyvazov) were hair-raising in their dramatic intensity. Her pleas for understanding, while falling on deaf ears, were plaintively etched and came in strong emotional currents.
The best scene in the opera for soprano is the third act aria and confrontation. The cold winter wind whips the lovers into a frenzy of anticipation, which Hermann shatters by his compulsive gambling addiction. Having abandoned love for success in cards (so he thinks), Hermann runs off to challenge his opponents, leaving the despairing Lisa behind to face the water's edge. Both singers were equally matched in depth of passion, with Davidsen holding the advantage in volume and acting ability. Her career bears further watching.
No slouch in the performing department, Eyvazov, a trifle light in timbre for this hefty assignment, nevertheless attacked the part with every fiber of his being. He hit all the high notes squarely, even if he never quite dispelled the notion of being a pushed-up lyric instead of a legitimate spinto tenor. No matter, his darkly tailored outfits (your basic black) and swarthy visage were perfectly in tune with this production's notion of a wayward "outcast" operating under his own power and on the sidelines of life.
The other male leads - both baritones -played somewhat minor but related parts in the evolving drama. Russian-born Alexey Markov made for an imposingly mellow and sufficiently motivated Count Tomsky, the fellow who tells his curious friends, Tchekalinsky (tenor Paul Groves) and Surin (bass Raymond Aceto), about the so-called "three cards," the mysterious motif of which is repeatedly spelled out throughout the opera in a rising and falling triad ("Tri cartii, tri cartii, tri cartii"). Hermann overhears the story and takes its message too much to heart.
Debuting Russian baritone Igor Golovatenko sang the haughty Prince Yeletsky. If he came up a trifle short in the lyrical aspects of this (basically) secondary role, then blame must be placed on the Tchaikovsky brothers' shoulders: Yeletsky does not appear in Pushkin's story, but rather is a musical invention for dramatic purposes. Still, let's face facts: How could anyone challenge the solidity and nobility of the late Dmitri Hvorostovsky in this part?
Billed as the most famous air in the opera, the number "Ya vas lyublyu, lyublyu bezmyerno" ("I love you without measure") is both a baritone's dream and his own worst nightmare. Starting on a low B flat and rising up to a high G, it takes an artist of the first rank to pull this one off. The recorded likes of Pavel Lisitsian, Yuri Mazurok, and the aforementioned Hvorostovsky are all models of their kind. If you want to go further, we can also discuss the various recorded merits and/or live interpretations of Hermann: from Alexander Davidov and Dmitri Smirnov to Joseph Rogatchewsky, from Nicolai Gedda and Vladimir Atlantov to Ben Heppner, Vladimir Popov and Vladimir Galouzine.
But what would be the purpose? Yes, Lise Davidsen fulfilled every expectation (and then some!). And, yes, Yusif Eyvazov made it through the grueling part with voice to spare. It should be noted that Latvian tenor Alexandrs Antonenko had originally been penciled in for Hermann. However, due to continuous vocal problems, Antonenko was replaced by Eyvazov and Lithuanian artist Kristian Benedikt.
As for the numerous mezzos in the radio cast (and in Russian opera in general), we would be doing this contingent a disservice if we failed to mention the lovely work of Elena Maximova as Pauline, Jill Grove as a plummy-toned Governess, and, of course, the veteran Larissa Diadkova as the elderly Countess. Diadkova's death throttle and her late-in-the-day reemergence as the spectral Queen of Spades sent shivers down the audience's backs.
Mr. Moshinsky's production was surrounded by a wonderful picture-book frame, which encased the stage in a memorable Grimm Brothers outline. The period costumes and authentic looking sets were all marvelous to look at and were the work of Mark Thompson. Paul Pyant provided the lighting designs and the choreography was by John Meehan. The Met Chorus under Donald Palumbo's direction, outdid themselves (one felt they relished the opportunity of singing those remarkable Russian lines), as did the children's chorus (in a tribute to Georges Bizet, one of Tchaikovsky's favorites). The little urchin shouting commands in fairly decent Russian was a singular delight.
To our mind, The Queen of Spades is Tchaikovsky's boldest theatrical experiment, if not his most successful one. Surely, his Eugene Onegin is the more frequently performed piece and, melodically speaking, more accessible to listeners. Still, barring some extraneous musical material as well as ineffective choral episodes (i.e., the so-called "Pastorale" which, to some critics, serves to dilute the drama instead of adding to the overall texture), the opera has been well served this season at the Met.
Anyone for a game of cards? Three-card monte, maybe...? Not a chance!
Copyright © 2019 by Josmar F. Lopes
