Les Malheurs d’Orphée
Conductor's Notes
When the question arose as to what should follow Il sogno di Scipione for our second production, it did not take a great deal of effort to settle on Dido and Aeneas. Here was an underperformed masterpiece that required an intimate venue for maximum impact, and I knew that we would have no trouble assembling a first-rate cast and design team for it. But what to choose as a companion piece for Dido was another question altogether. It too had to benefit from our intimate theater and be scored for a chamber orchestra, but in addition it somehow had to relate to the Purcell. After rejecting dozens of possibilities, I finally came upon Les Malheurs d'Orphée - and the better acquainted I became with the score, the more convinced I was that it would be the ideal mate for Dido.
On a superficial level, Orphée and Dido have much in common. They both have their roots in antiquity: the Orpheus myth dating to the dawn of Western civilization; the story of the forsaken Dido first laid down by Virgil in the decades immediately preceding the common era. Both of the leading male characters are demigods, Orpheus being the son of Apollo and Aeneas the son of Venus. And perhaps most significantly, in the versions of the stories as set by Milhaud and Purcell, the protagonists die not of natural causes but of grief. Upon losing their respective loves, Orpheus and Dido simply give up the will to live, and with it, their lives. Both operas are therefore stories of people undone not by their worst traits but by their best: their capacity to love deeply.
Purcell and Milhaud approach their themes in ways that say more about the ages in which they lived than about the myths themselves. In the Purcell, Fate is ever-present. Nearly every character sings of it, from Belinda's assertion to Dido that "Fate your wishes does allow" on the first page, to Dido's rejection of her suitor "Fate forbids what you pursue," to his smooth response "Aeneas has no Fate but you," to Dido's final words "Remember me, but ah! forget my Fate." If Fate (like its latter-day incarnation, faith) does not provide comfort, it at least offers an explanation of why bad things happen to good people.
But in the nearly 250 years separating Purcell from Milhaud, world events undermined our perception of both fate and faith. Written in the shadow of the First World War, Les Malheurs d'Orphée gives no such explanation of human loss and suffering. When Orphée loses his power to heal, it is for no apparent reason, and the blameless Eurydice dies. Eurydice's sisters arrive to avenge her death, even though Orphée, too, is totally blameless. Orphée goes mad and eventually expires, though he has only tried to help his beloved, the villagers, and the animals. No reason for any of this is offered. The world is a cruel, unjust place, and humans (as well as demigods) are impotent in the face of such massive injustice.
Where can modern man find solace in such a world? As many have recently discovered, music can take on a much greater significance in difficult times, providing entertainment for those in need of distraction and catharsis for those in need of release. Les Malheurs d'Orphée was originally commissioned by a woman who was fully aware of the importance of art in secular times: Princesse Edmond de Polignac, née Winnaretta Singer. Singer, the sewing machine heiress, was one of history's greatest patrons, responsible for many of the cornerstones of early 20th-century music, including Stravinsky's Renard, Szymanowski's Stabat Mater, Ravel's Chansons Mad�casses, de Falla's El retablo de maese Pedro, and hosts of others. Without her aid, many composers would have been unable to survive.
Thinking of Singer, I would like to take this opportunity to offer my heartfelt thanks to our own generous donors, who have enabled Henry Street Chamber Opera to survive in these difficult times. Perhaps life is not so bleak after all; fate may be unreasonable, but humans can sometimes be unreasonably good. - Neal Goren
Director's Notes
Is there such a thing as too much love? In their own ways, both Les Malheurs d'Orphée and Dido and Aeneas explore that question, situating themselves at the battlefront between passionate abandon and community responsibility. The first of these widely differing works was written in the 1920's (following the devastating events of the Great War) at the suggestion of Parisian salon society, and eventually premiered at the Opera de la Monnaie, Bruxelles. Dido was written in the mid-1680's and probably received its premiere at court before King Charles II, though its first recognized performance occurred at a genteel school for girls in London. Both works take "classical" themes and treat them with considerable freedom, according to the composers' individual artistic needs and social intentions.
The Orphic myth is the basis of this tale of a community's love-hate relationship with one of its most prominent members. In the myth, Orpheus is the ultimate lyric artist; in this rendering, Orphée is a healer. In both cases, it is his marginality that disturbs, and yet his marginality is central to his usefulness, for it is Orphée who protects the community's health and well-being, as well as its animals and crops. But when he absents himself to the mountains, three representatives of the community spread alarm about the risks he takes in caring for ferocious beasts as well.
If they are reassured by Orphée's announcement that he intends to spend more time in the village, that reassurance is temporary; soon they discover that it isn't the town, but his love for a gypsy girl, Eurydice, that has prompted his return. Their hatred of her and her race is calmed when they see that she has been cast out by her own people, who reject her for loving a "foreigner", Orphée. At the villagers' suggestion, the pair leave for the "safety" of the mountains: a surprising change of heart, but there are worse changes to come. Orphée, now happy, begins to lose his healing powers. The wild animals start to suffer, and Eurydice contracts a mysterious illness. Orphée reproaches himself for his inability to save her, and when she dies he returns to his former life. Or does he? In the classical version he falls into madness; in Milhaud's Provençal telling (not so different, perhaps) he is set upon by Eurydice's three reproachful sisters. Like the Furies, they try to destroy him, but they are eventually silenced by Orphée's true love for Eurydice. If that love could not save her, it can at least save him.