Tosca on Video: Kabaivanska (1976) and Gheorghiu (2000)

There are those who object to film-operas on the grounds that when the singers do not sing live, but merely lip-sync to pre-recorded soundtracks, the whole thing is fake. They do have a point, but let’s not make too much of it. Opera is a great deal more mere singing. It is supposed to be “drama per musica”, and drama requires acting. The combination of singing and acting is what makes opera most compelling. Sadly, this also makes it a nearly impossible art. It’s hard enough to do the singing alone, oratorio-like in the concert hall, but to combine it with powerful and convincing acting at the same time is superhuman. Very, very few exceptional singer-actors from the last century, for example Boris Christoff, Mario del Monaco, Maria Callas and Tito Gobbi, have managed to achieve that, and even they weren’t always successful. Sometimes their voices failed them and they had to save the situation with their acting genius. Many others, such as Renata Tebaldi and Ettore Bastianini for instance, did the opposite. They managed to overcome their relatively limited (but by no means absent!) acting skills with glorious voices. Both approaches are fine as long as you don’t have singing statues or anti-musical actors on the stage. To repeat myself, opera is no oratorio, and on other hand great voice and great acting, when unevenly distributed as is always the case, compensate each other only to a certain extent.

Tosca, in fact, is no opera at all. It’s a music drama par excellence. So the acting looms even larger than usual. The great thing about film-operas is that the singers can concentrate on their acting. As these two films show, the results can be stunning. Both come, in their own and very different ways, as close to perfection as possible. You may find certain details better done in other productions, but I think you will be very hard pressed to find another film, let alone a live performance, in which everything – singers, conductor, director, sets, costumes, lighting – combines into a whole so much greater than any of its parts. This bold statement refers just as much to the filmography of Tosca as to that of any other opera/music drama.

The soundtrack for this film was recorded in Walthamstow Hall, London, in August 1976. The shooting took place on location in Rome during the next two months. One of the greatest things about this movie is that the soundtrack can easily stand alone; I don’t think it’s ever been released separately and I do think that’s a pity. The principals are caught in their absolute prime and deliver performances that range from good (Domingo) to excellent (Milnes) to fabulous (Kabaivanska). Bruno Bartoletti conducts the New Philharmonia Orchestra with all the passion and dramatic drive Tosca requires. Since the recording was originally made for DECCA, the sound is as sumptuous as you’d expect.

The visual side is stunning. To begin with, the original locations – the church Sant’Andrea (Act 1), Palazzo Farnese (Act 2) and Castel Sant’Angelo (Act 3) – look terrific on the screen: lavish, spacious, evocative. Gianfranco de Bosio is an excellent director who knows how to make the best of both the gorgeous surroundings and the considerable acting abilities of his cast. His direction is a veritable wealth of insight. To take but one example, as pointed out by Kenneth Chalmers in the liner notes, de Bosio imaginatively combines the opening Scarpia-theme with the looming façade of the Sant’Andrea, thus suggesting from the very beginning that the villain is every bit as unscrupulous and corrupt as the church.

Raina Kabaivanska was one of the greatest Toscas of the 1970s, if not of all time. It is a sad fact that she made (except the soundtrack for this film) only one studio recording, as late as 1982 when her voice was no longer quite that fresh, and with largely undistinguished cast. (It is still a pretty good recording worth searching for, though.) She had a light, smallish voice, but quite adequate to the monstrous demands of the title part. She sings with polish and precision rather than with passion, and her subtle inflection of the text repays careful study. But what she truly excels in, and what matters enormously on film, is acting. Each gesture and each glance have meaning. The complexity of Tosca’s character, a fascinating cocktail of piety, devotion, jealousy, bitchiness and goodness, is conveyed brilliantly. This is not grand acting in the best histrionic traditions of Maria Callas; this was no longer possible in the 1970s, and Kabaivanska’s temperament was not like that anyway. This is an intelligent and superbly accomplished portrayal of a woman who is infinitely more than mere “diva”.

I have never understood the widespread adulation that surrounds Placido Domingo. The man is a good musician in the possession of a good tenor. That’s all he is, or ever was in his prime: just good. He seems to have struck the best balance of the “three tenors”. He has neither Pavarotti’s stupendous voice nor the subtle, refined and original artistry of Jose Carreras, yet he outlasted them both and finally attained the greatest amount of worship from the critics if not from the public. Perfect mediocrity, it seems, is the best that can happen to an opera singer nowadays. Add a little longevity and there you have it: a legend in his own time. Anyway, Domingo sings a very decent Cavaradossi here and compensates for his wooden acting with certain presence. In the third act, he does the best fall on the ground. I will give him that.

Sherrill Milnes is a wonderfully baleful Scarpia. He is in terrific voice and more than capable to do justice to the part without resorting, as so many lesser baritones do, to shouting. Dramatically, he is rather restrained, but with his body language and especially with his sinister eyes he works wonders. There is nothing buffoonish in this Scarpia, and that’s saying a great deal because even the finest Scarpias from the previous generation (Gobbi, Taddei, London) were not always free from this unfortunate form of overacting. A very good test is Scarpia’s entrance in the first act. He has to project immense authority to match the music, and he has to do it in a very short time, singing only one brief phrase. It’s a difficult thing to do convincingly. Milnes is perfect: not too fast, not too slow, with ringing voice but without shouting. Or, better still, take his reaction after Tosca’s “Quando… Il prezzo” in Act 2. Many baritones prefer to laugh heartily at the proposition – and they look quite silly. Milnes merely smiles, chillingly, then sits down and leaves the music do the rest.

One can quarrel about minor details if one is inclined to nitpicking. There is an embarrassing lip-sync error during Scarpia’s “Tosca, mi fai dimenticare Iddio” (Milnes comes in much too late for the last word), there is much too little blood in his death scene, occasionally the direction is idiosyncratic and decidedly undramatic, things like that. Never mind. No single interpretation of masterpiece as complex as Tosca can hope to be perfect; and perfectionism, let it be reminded, does not lie in getting right all tiny details, as the common delusion runs, but in recognizing the important details and getting them right. This Tosca is sumptuously shot, very well sung and superbly acted. True, Domingo is not on the same level as the other two principals, but that, too, is a minor detail. As a total experience on film of one of the greatest music dramas, this one is very hard to beat.

Interlude: Malfitano, Domingo, Raimondi (1992)

This was an honest attempt to outdo the 1976 version. It went one better by shooting the whole thing, not just on the original locations, but at the precise times of day and night. This ridiculous striving for realism – as if realism had anything to do with opera! – led to some bizarre situations. Imagine you’re an opera singer. How exactly do you sing the last act of Tosca in four o’clock after midnight? The fascinating thing is that this is a live performance, shot and sung on the spot; apparently it was even broadcast live. It is not a feature film to a pre-recorded soundtrack. Considering this, it is a remarkable technical achievement. The camera work is rather crude and shaky, but there are many fine close-ups of the singers and some excellent panoramic shots of the lavish surroundings. Evidently a lot of effort went into this broadcast. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe how they could achieve the continuity “live” without the cameras getting in the way. I also wonder how the sound was captured so well and where the orchestra was during the shooting.

However, despite the compelling immediacy of the live performance, the singing is rather disappointing. Domingo is strained and wobbly, Malfitano struggles with both the lyrical and the dramatic passages, Raimondi is the only one among the principals who handles his notes with authority. He is in slightly fresher voice than eight years later with Gheorghiu, but his acting live, though impressive, is nowhere near as charismatic. Malfitano’s acting is slightly better than her mediocre singing, but nothing to write home about and often cringe-worthy; her confrontation with Scarpia in Act 2 lacks intensity, while some moments in the outer acts are shamelessly hammed up. Domingo is his usual wooden self, acting-wise. He has, perhaps, become a little more relaxed with age, but he still couldn’t act to save his life.

All in all, this filmed live performance at the original locations is a charming experiment very much worth seeing. But, in the end, it only shows that film-operas have their legitimate place, too. They may look more artificial, but they do compensate for that by being more accomplished visually as well as vocally. This, incidentally, is the case with both film-operas discussed here.

Many reviewers have pointed out several disappointing oddities of this movie. I am willing to join the general indignation by repeating them. First, those black-and-white flashbacks from the recording sessions are decidedly annoying. All they do is to interrupt the action, especially harmful in so action-packed a music drama as Tosca. Second, having the singers speaking some of the lines is simply crass – not to use stronger words. All would have been well if Puccini had written them so in the score, only he didn’t. It is likewise stupid to have other lines presented as thoughts, an ingenious stratagem that has the disadvantage of losing the immediacy and intimacy conferred by singing. The beautiful visual side is marred by some odd choices. Now and then shaky shots in sepia intrude, the footage of Rome and Castel Sant’Angelo in the beginning of the third act looks like a documentary from the dawn of colour television.

However, all these unfortunate innovations are minor quibbles. They certainly don’t fit well with the rest, but they happen but seldom. The speaking is confined, mostly, to several lines in the first love duet, the thinking occurs even less frequently, and the flashbacks are not that prominent either. Although these effects can be embarrassing (e.g. Mario’s recognizing Tosca’s voice in his mind only makes nonsense of Scarpia’s interrupting his own speech), it is foolish to degrade the whole production because of a few minor blemishes. The film has considerable merits.

First of all, the singing and the acting are generally excellent, conveying the drama and the dark overtones with great vividness. So, for that matter, is Pappano’s impassioned conducting. My only complain is that occasionally he tends to rush certain passages; slower, weightier tempi would in my opinion enhance the drama. The sound is splendidly engineered, with depth and clarity you don’t always find in modern recordings. Even in the trickiest ensembles, most notably the “Vittoria” trio from Act 2, the voices blend perfectly and every word is audible. The wealth of orchestral detail behind the voices also comes through with startling clarity. This is especially important in a music drama in which the orchestra constantly comments on the characters and the action.

The only exception from the general excellence is Roberto Alagna. Even at his best he is no more than decent. But one should be grateful: live on the stage he isn’t even that. Angela Gheorghiu is totally gorgeous. She has the looks, the voice, the versatility, and the temperament to do full justice to Tosca’s not exactly simple make-up, not to mention vocally daunting part. Ruggero Raimondi is way past his prime, but his frightening face and superb acting more than compensate for his mild vocal problems. I have never seen Scarpia’s consuming lust presented with such shattering force. This is an important part of the drama. Scarpia is a man who worships power. He wants to be in control of everything, himself firmly included. Tosca is probably the first and only case when his carnal lust (as opposed to his lust for power) has ever got the better of him.

Visually the movie boasts lavish historical sets and costumes as well as imaginative lighting and direction. Many moments are both memorable and illuminating. For instance, staging the whole second act against a background of profound blackness is a very effective way to suggest Scarpia’s evil nature. In a way, thanks to his complete lack of moral scruples, everything beyond his study dissolves in nothingness. By the way, the same method works rather nicely in the other two acts as well. To me it is a powerful reminder about the villain’s controlling the action. Tosca’s delivering “Vissi d’arte” against the fireside is both beautiful and dramatically relevant. In this aria she addresses God directly, and a fireside is as good a symbol of Him as any. Tosca’s development from very pious woman in the first act to one who all but accuses the “Good” Lord in the second is often neglected. The direction makes a wonderful use of close-ups that give you the opportunity to appreciate the great acting of Gheorghiu and Raimondi as you can never do in the opera house. Bird’s-eye views are also used to great effect. Wonderful examples include the end of the love duet in Act 3, showing the platform of Castel Sant’Angelo flooded with moonlight but floating in darkness, and Tosca’s gorgeous red dress in the second act. These are striking, unforgettable images.

The film is such a visual tour de force that to find faults in this respect looks like sheer nit-picking. Nor, save Alagna’s mediocre performance, is there anything to complain of as far as the soundtrack goes. On the whole, this is a terribly fascinating surreal alternative to the more naturalistic version with Kabaivanska, Domingo and Milnes. More importantly, the film of Benoit Jacquot stands well as a masterpiece on its own. Fans of Tosca should on no account miss it. Newcomers to Puccini’s most dramatic score could do much worse for their visual introduction.

PS. Two of the films appear to be available complete on YouTube. If there are none of those idiotic copyright restrictions for your country, have a look.

Tebaldi on Video: Tosca (1961), Forza (1958), A Portrait (1956-67)

Renata Tebaldi: A Portrait (1956-67)

This set of two DVDs contains mostly previously released material, but much of it has long been out-of-print and hard-to-find. Only the Butterfly bonus tracks, due to their inferior picture quality, have never been released before, and it is fascinating to compare them with the “official” versions from 1959. All these are, to put it in a decidedly confused way, live performances recorded in studio. In other words, the excerpts from operas are staged, sung and shot on the spot, more or less as if they were given in front of live audience; the few songs in between are concert performances. By modern standards, the production values may look old-fashioned and even ludicrous. Many reviewers have remarked on the hideous dress and make-up used for “Vissi d’arte” and, alas, I have to agree. Nevertheless, these television appearances are a fine tribute to Renata’s art.

The first disc is almost exclusively dedicated to Tebaldi in her dazzling prime. The two excerpts from Butterfly, joined together with a short narrative that summarises the intervening plot, are shot in ravishing colour and performed with Tebaldi’s customary passion, less smoother than a Freni, for example, but no less compelling. Note, also, that for a rather big woman with large hands Tebaldi’s movements are remarkably graceful. (Unfortunately, Pinkerton’s entry and the orchestral explosion in the finale are cut.) The famous excerpt from La Boheme, which includes not just the love duet that concludes the first act but also the two arias that precede it, suffers badly from grainy picture. But who cares? The singing is divine! I’m saying this as a non-fan of Bjoerling. The same performance can also be found on The Art of Singing DVD with improved picture quality, but slightly cut at the beginning (Mimi’s entrance and the search for the key).   

The rest of the first disc is not quite so entrancing, but everybody not indifferent to Renata’s voice would find it delightful. The selections from Tosca, the love duet and part of the meeting with Scarpia in Act 1, are exceptional because they don’t come from the archives of Bell Telephone Hour but from the 1961 live performance of the opera in Stuttgart also released on DVD (see below). The arias from Mascagni and Ponchielli are notable for the austere and atmospheric sets. They were recorded in 1967 when Renata was 45 and slightly past her prime, having been on the opera stage for more than twenty years. The top notes are slightly strained, but the sweetness of the middle and low registers is intact.

The second disc is the complete “Concerto Italiano” from 1965, hosted by the dour Dr Boyd Neal and with the pleasant participation of the young baritone Louis Quilico; his rendition of Michele’s soliloquy is terrific, but he is neither London nor Guelfi. Consequently, the Act 2 finale of Tosca is not among Tebaldi’s most high-profile collaborations. It is nicely shot from several angles, though, and you have several wonderful opportunities to appreciate one of the most under-appreciated sides of Tebaldi’s artistry: the acting she does with her face. She does a lot of it, and it repays careful watching. The real gem on the second disc is Rossini’s La Regata Veneziana, a charming cycle of three short songs describing a Venetian regatta. These tuneful trifles are performed much less often than they deserve, but I suppose Renata does them full justice. She loved the cycle, sang it often in her late years, and even recorded it with Richard Bonynge and the New Philharmonia Orchestra in 1969.

                                                                                                                                     

Giuseppe Verdi: La Forza del Destino (1958)

This is arguably the finest Forza ever recorded, video or audio, mono or stereo, analogue or digital, whatever. Many connoisseurs argue in favour of the 1953 live recording under the incandescent baton of Dimitri Mitropoulous, but I think the conducting is just about its only real advantage. Otherwise it is either equal to this one (Del Monaco = Corelli, Simionato = Dominguez, Tebaldi is equally stunning both times) or inferior (Protti < Bastianini, poorer sound, no picture). The 1955 studio recording is among the best efforts from Decca’s early stereo era, but there we have Siepi and Corena replacing, respectively, Christoff and Capecchi. For my part both substitutes are unfortunate. Not that Siepi and Corena are bad; far from it; Christoff and Capecchi simply are incredible. But there is no accounting for taste. For some people the best Forza is Sinopoli’s 1985 studio version with the screechy Plowright and the wobbly Carreras.

Renata Tebaldi owns the part of Leonora di Vargas. It is that simple. No other soprano comes within hailing distance from her portrayal of the “infame figlia”; not Cerquetti, not Milanov, certainly not Callas. Tebaldi must have felt singularly inspired that night in Naples 56 years ago. She sings with élan and gusto that equal, to say the least, her stupendous performance from 1953 and far surpass her studio effort from 1955. I guarantee you have never heard, much less seen, “Son giunta… Madre pietosa vergine” sung like that. This is the advantage of video recordings: seeing is believing. Another unbelievable highlight is the great duet with Boris Christoff in the end of Act 2. And yes, Tebaldi is a much better actress than generally given credit for; note the exquisite piece of comedy when she blocks Alvaro’s arm with the gun in Act 1 or the tragic poignancy of the final scene, to name but two examples.

How immensely lucky we are to have this treasure on video! The grainy picture and the constrained sound are meagre price to pay for Tebaldi, Corelli, Bastianini, Dominguez, Christoff and Capecchi at the height of their powers. What a sextet! The singing is incredible! So, for the most part, is the acting; Corelli and Bastianini are somewhat limited in this respect, but with voices like these they can well afford it. Corelli’s effortless delivery of the horrendously difficult “O tu che in seno agli angeli” is yet another thing you have to see in order to believe. Once upon a time such feats really were possible on the opera stage. Likewise, Ettore Bastianini tosses off “Son Pereda” and “Urna fatale” (plus the cabaletta) with ease that defies belief. The imposing Padre Guardiano of Boris Christoff, the deliciously funny Melitone of Renato Capecchi and the flirtatious Presiozilla of Oralia Dominguez are among the all-time greatest achievements in these roles.

The old-fashioned sets and costumes, not to mention Christoff’s notorious wig and fake beard, may look quaint, but I, for one, prefer them to the sick perversity of modernist directors bent on “reinterpreting the old masterpieces”. The sound is excellent for a live recording in the theatre from 1958. If you have ever wondered why some people consider Forza one of Verdi’s masterpieces, this DVD is all you need to see and hear. You will become a convert.

Giacomo Puccini: Tosca (1961)

Tebaldi’s Tosca is one of the greatest glories in the history of recorded opera. We are extremely fortunate to have, in addition to two studio and who knows how many (at least seven!) live audio recordings, two complete performances on video. The other one, also from 1961 but recorded in Tokyo, has Gianni Poggi and Gian Giacomo Guelfi as Cavaradossi and Scarpia, respectively. Neither is any improvement over what we have here. In fact, Guelfi is distinctly inferior, both vocally and dramatically, to London. The picture and sound quality of the “Tokyo Tosca” are no great shakes, either.

Now, the “Stuttgart Tosca”, as you must expect from a live performance captured in those ancient times, is very far from the aural and visual standards we have come to take for granted. The picture is black-and-white and slightly fuzzy. The camera work is crude and far too distant. The sound is fine as far as the voices are concerned, but for the orchestra you’ll have to rely more on your knowledge of the score and musical imagination than your ears. The production is entirely conventional but quite serviceable.

Renata had gained some weight since the late 50s, but she still looks stunningly beautiful, and she is capable of conveying Tosca’s alluring seductiveness without a single move. The voice is fabulous beyond description. No strain, no hard edge, no signs of age or fatigue whatsoever. The superb diction and the numerous subtle inflections of the text are every bit as fine as in Tebaldi’s other live recordings – and far better than in her studio efforts. Tosca is a monstrous part that requires a voice of great versatility; dramatic and lyrical moments follow one another seamlessly, often reaching extremes. Renata scores an A at all fronts. As this video performance confirms, there is more, much more in her than just a great voice.

Much has been written about Tebaldi’s “poor acting skills”, especially in comparison with La Divina. This is tosh. Certainly, Renata didn’t have the histrionic intensity of her nemesis, but neither did Callas, even in her prime, have a voice even remotely comparable to Tebaldi’s. This is precisely the point. Renata’s rather restrained acting was the perfect complement to her incredibly expressive voice, while Maria’s highly dramatic acting compensated for her vocal shortcomings. In the few places where their roles overlap – Tosca, incidentally, being the most notable example – it is clear to me that the world needs both great divas. The justly legendary second act of Tosca with Gobbi and Callas from Covent Garden (1964) makes a most fascinating comparison with the completely different take of Tebaldi and London in Stuttgart. This is the ultimate proof that masterpieces do survive – indeed, demand! – variety of interpretation.

And yet, there are still people who complain that Tebaldi is too static. What do they expect Tosca to do? Jump through the window? Hit Scarpia with a chair? Dance tarantella? Well, see and judge for yourselves. Just about the whole thing is available, piece by piece, on YouTube.

The supporting cast is excellent. George London needs no introduction: his Scarpia combines the best of Gobbi’s histrionics and Bastianini’s gorgeous tone. This is a towering performance, certainly one of the finest on record. London was, of course, Tebaldi’s Scarpia on her second studio recording (1959), so both knew their parts and each other pretty well. The mysterious Eugene Tobin is one of those tenors that would have been superstars today but were unfortunate enough to be born in the era of Del Monaco, Corelli, Di Stefano and Bergonzi. The fact that he is completely forgotten today and the likes of Rolando Villazon are superstars speaks volumes about the modern decline of operatic voices. The even more mysterious Heinz Cramer does a beautiful job with the Sacristan, wonderfully refusing to turn him into a caricature. 

Maugham and Music: Reflections

Being passionately interested in both Maugham and music, it seems natural that I should be fascinated by Maugham's musical taste and the musical references in his works. Some random reflections follow.

Unfortunately or not, Maugham has written very little on music. One of the very few instances in his non-fiction occurs in my favourite essay “Reflections on a Certain Book” from the collection The Vagrant Mood (1952). Here Maugham deals with an infinitely compelling question, namely the aesthetic emotion and its value, and just by the way he gives an explanation why, when arts are concerned, he always wrote of painting, and of course writing, but virtually never of music:

In any case I would not venture to speak of music; the peculiar gift which enables someone to invent it is to me the most mysterious of the processes which produce a work of art.

When they are not obscenely preoccupied with his sexuality, Maugham biographers deign to mention something about his tastes. In terms of music, Maugham seems to have been fan mostly of the Classical and Romantic periods, with occasional glimpses into Baroque or Modernism. He was a great opera lover, apparently with a special affinity for Wagner but by no means confined exclusively to him. Some of the most precious bits in Selina Hastings' The Secret Lives of Somerset Maugham (2009) are excerpts from his letters in which he mentions that he attended Strauss' Rosenkavalier and Verdi's Requiem. Reportedly, Maugham was a regular visitor to the Wagner festival in Bayreuth. It is tantalising to speculate whether he attended the legendary performances under the baton of Arturo Toscanini, the first Italian to disturb the German hegemony, during the 1930/31 festivals; several generations of Wagnerians have regretted the fact that no recording, however poor, was preserved.

I remember seeing somewhere – probably in Calder’s biography – a questionnaire filled by Maugham in which he mentions Mozart and Wagner as his favourite composers. Mozart is an obvious choice if one seeks a broad parallel with Maugham's writing. If there is a musical equivalent of ''lucidity, simplicity and euphony'', it must be Mozart. If there ever was a composer who expressed a wider range of human emotions with fewer notes, I have yet to hear about him. Change ''words'' for ''notes'' and ''writer'' for ''composer'' and you get the best description of Maugham in one sentence I can think of.

Interestingly, there are very few references among Maugham's writings of Mozart. I can think of only one, in his introduction to Great Modern Reading (1943). He wrote that he can get an equal amount of pleasure from an opera by Mozart as well as from one by Puccini, but it is a different kind of pleasure. It is certainly true that Mozart and Puccini are very different, but if Willie implied that Puccini's operas are inferior to Mozart's, I disagree. At any rate, he obviously was familiar with several operas by each of these composers.

Wagner is quite another story. Here the aforementioned parallel is impossible to be established, which is no big loss since it is a very tenuous one. Wagner is an antithesis of simplicity and sometimes – when performed badly, which is often – lucidity and especially euphony are the last things one thinks of while listening to his long and complex music dramas. But his best creations, when performed superbly, are surely among the greatest achievements of Western civilisation.

Perhaps, one might speculate, Maugham was attracted by the fact that Wagner was a writer. It is well-known that he wrote all his libretti as well as a huge amount of prose (non-fiction). Unfortunately, Wagner was as terrible a writer as he was a great composer; the little I have tried to read of him, in English or in German, is just about unreadable. The long poems he set to music, however, are often exciting and moving, if very difficult to read in original and often scorned by the critics. Unlike Maugham, who was perfectly content to use the old resources of English, Wagner invented his own German language, a kind of ''Wagnerisch''. On the other hand, what is more likely, Wagner's literary ambitions may well have had nothing to do with Maugham's attraction to his music. It doesn’t work that way. Music is the most emotional and least intellectual of all arts. It is entirely self-sufficient and independent of external factors. If it doesn’t grip you right away, nothing will help. If it does, then you may start deepen your deepen your appreciation.

Among the great composers, Wagner is by far the most often encountered name among Maugham's writings. Indeed, a first person narrator in one of his short stories (“The Alien Corn”) once said that he visited a Wagner festival in Germany, which was most probably true and it must have been the Bayreuth festival. In Strictly Personal (1942), a vastly underrated book, Maugham dedicates a whole page or so to his dachshunds in the Villa Mauresque. All of them were named after heroes and heroines from Wagner's operas, and it is entirely characteristic of Maugham to call the saintly Elsa from Lohengrin ''exasperating''.

Then there is the short story “The Voice of the Turtle” from the collection The Mixture as Before (1940). Not one of Maugham's best short stories, certainly, but it has one of the most haunting endings I have ever read. It is also the most explicit Wagnerian reference in all of Maugham, with a two-line quotation from the original German text:

The prima donna was standing in the window, with her back to the lighted room, and she looked out at the darkly shining sea. The cedar made a lovely pattern against the sky. The night was soft and balmy. Miss Glaser played a couple of bars. A cold shiver ran down my spine. La Falterona gave a little start as she recognized the music, and I felt her gather herself together.

Mild und leise wie er lächelt

Wie das Auge hold er öffnet.

It was Isolde's death song... It did not matter now that instead of an orchestral accompaniment she had only the thin tinkle of a piano. The notes of the heavenly melody fell upon the still air and travelled over the water. In that too-romantic scene, in that lovely night, the effect was shattering. La Falterona's voice, even now, was exquisite in its quality, mellow and crystalline; and she sang with wonderful emotion, so tenderly, with such tragic, beautiful anguish that my heart melted within me. I had a most awkward lump in my throat when she finished, and looking at her I saw that tears were streaming down her face. I did not want to speak. She stood quite still, looking out at the ageless sea.

I often read this short story only because of these final lines (which is unjust, for it contains many other fine moments). Afterwards I usually listen to Isoldes Liebestod – one of the most shattering pieces of music ever composed – and I find it even more incredibly affecting than usual. Don’t take my word for it. Just listen to Jessye Norman, Waltraud Meier or Birgit Nilsson. If you prefer the orchestral version, usually played together with the prelude as a concert piece sanctioned by Wagner himself, give an ear to Karajan, Solti and Toscanini.

Maugham must have been fond of Beethoven, too. (It is indeed very hard to resist Beethoven. He is overwhelming). In the same short story, he makes hilarious reference to La Falterona and the Fifth Symphony:

Once at a concert to which I went with her she slept all through the Fifth Symphony, and I was charmed to hear her during the interval telling people that Beethoven stirred her so much that she hesitated to come and hear him, for with those glorious themes singing through her head, it meant that she wouldn’t sleep a wink all night. I could well believe she would lie awake, for she had had so sound a nap during the Symphony that it could not but interfere with her night’s rest.

And in “The Alien Corn” from First Person Singular (1931) he makes the magisterial Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Op. 57, or simply Appassionata as it is well-known, an important part of the plot.

Before going into some detail about “The Alien Corn”, it is worth mentioning “The Traitor”, one of the best among Maugham’s Ashenden-tales. This is a fine example how Maugham could use musical references to make fun of his more patronizing and chauvinistic characters, in this case Mrs Caypor, the German wife of the British “Traitor”. Her accomplishments are listed without any irony and her character on the whole is anything but caricature. And yet, the juxtaposition of Beethoven and Debussy is a devastating satirical weapon:

She was no fool. She had read much, in several languages, and she could talk of the books she had read with good sense. She had a knowledge of modern painting and modern music that not a little impressed Ashenden. It was amusing once to hear her before luncheon play one of those silvery little pieces of Debussy; she played it disdainfully because it was French and so light, but with an angry appreciation of its grace and gaiety.

When Ashenden congratulated her she shrugged her shoulders.

‘The decadent music of a decadent nation,’ she said. Then with powerful hands she struck the first resounding chords of a sonata by Beethoven; but she stopped. ‘I cannot play, I am out of practice, and you English, what do you know of music? You have not produced a composer since Purcell!’

“The Alien Corn” deserves a special attention, of course. It is a fine story, one of Maugham's finest, and there is a great deal about music in it, for George Bland wanted more than anything else to be a pianist. The first person narrator mentions a number of things that we may, perhaps, accept as Maugham's opinions. For example, his going to a performance of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde in Munich probably refers to a real event, only it must have been in Bayreuth (which is not far from Munich). It is a funny passage with serious undertones. It hints at the mighty inspirational power that Wagner might be for those who are susceptible to his charms:

I shall never forget how humiliated I felt once when, having come to Munich for a Wagner festival, I went to a wonderful performance of Tristan und Isolde and never heard a note of it. The first few bars sent me off and I began to think of what I was writing, my characters leapt into life and I heard their long conversations, I suffered their pains and was a party to their joy; the years swept by and all sorts of things happened to me, the spring brought me its rapture and in the winter I was cold and hungry; and I loved and I hated and I died. I suppose there were intervals in which I walked round and round the garden and probably ate Schinken–Brödchen and drank beer, but I have no recollection of them. The only thing I know is that when the curtain for the last time fell I woke with a start. I had had a wonderful time, but I could not help thinking it was very stupid of me to come such a long way and spend so much money if I couldn’t pay attention to what I heard and saw.

There are also memorable descriptions of playing Chopin and Bach:

He played Chopin. He played two waltzes that were familiar to me, a polonaise and an etude. He played with a great deal of brio and I wish I knew music well enough to give an exact description of his playing. It had strength and youthful exuberance, but I felt that he missed what to me is the peculiar charm of Chopin, the tenderness, the nervous melancholy, the wistful gaiety and slightly faded romance that reminds me always of an early Victorian keepsake.

She played Bach. I do not know the names of the pieces, but I recognised the stiff ceremonial of the frenchified little German courts and the sober, thrifty comfort of the burghers, and the dancing on the village green, the green trees that looked like Christmas trees, and the sunlight of the wide German country, and a tender coziness; and in my nostrils there was a warm scent of the soil and I was conscious of a sturdy strength that seemed to have its roots deep in mother earth, and of an elemental power that was timeless and had no home in space. She played exquisitely, with a soft brilliance that made you think of the full moon shining at dusk in the summer sky.

I have always found Bach's keyboard music, and much of his other music, uncommonly boring, but Maugham's description of Chopin I certainly find very accurate indeed, at least for the repertoire mentioned. Had he heard some of the Scherzi, Ballades or the Second sonata, Maugham would have known that there is much more in Chopin than that; there is, for example, a tragic personal drama of universal import, the drama of the restless spirit confined to a sick body that must be felt by many today. The apologetic tone about his lack of special knowledge is quintessential Maugham.

It's worth noting the obvious: one has to be very careful when one takes a narrator's words at their face value. For here he says of Beethoven's Appassionata:

I used to play it myself when I played the piano (very badly) in my far distant youth and I still knew every note of it.

Now, I know nothing of music either, but Appassionata seems to me a formidable work. To play it even ''very badly'' one has to be an accomplished pianist – which Maugham almost certainly never was. Of course, he was entirely justified to invent this for the story; but it's a nice reminder to be careful with such extrapolations.

To finish with ''The Alien Corn'', it must be said that the movie version in Quartet (1948) is disappointing. There are two chief reasons for that. The first is Dirk Bogarde's wooden performance which becomes particularly atrocious at the piano; his Chopin is perhaps expected to be bad, but hardly the worst possible. As for Bach, he is substituted here for a very passable Schubert, played well and acted beautifully by Francoise Rosay. The second reason is the heavy abridgment of the original. Much of its depth has been lost.

Coming back to Maugham and Wagner, there are quite a few Wagnerian hints in the short story ''Winter Cruise'', one of my least favourite stories due to its idiotic and all but pornographic plot. Yet the piece is fun to read and has some memorable, if farcical, scenes. But to the point – the Wagnerian hints. Since the whole story is set on a German ship and all characters but the loquacious Miss Reid are Germans, it is hardly surprising that there should be some amusing references to Wagner:

Germans were so musical. He had a funny way of strutting up and down on his short legs singing Wagner tunes to words of his invention. It was Tannhäuser he was singing now (that lovely thing about the evening star) but knowing no German Miss Reid could only wonder what absurd words he was putting to it. It was as well.

''Oh, what a bore that woman is, I shall certainly kill her if she goes on much longer.'' Then he broke into Siegfried's martial strain. ''She's a bore, she's a bore, she's a bore. I shall throw her into the sea.''

''The lovely thing about the evening star'' is easy to be identified: it must be ''O du, mein holder Abendstern'' (''Oh thou, my gracious evening star''), Wolfram's serenade, such as it is, from the Third act of Tannhäuser, the closest to opera aria Wagner ever came, in his mature works at all events. One can only surmise that Tannhäuser's eternal struggle between the spirit and the flesh appealed to Maugham; it sure did to Oscar Wilde as evident from The Portrait of Dorian Gray (1891).

Siegfried's martial strain is a trifle more difficult to locate with such certainty, but the words certainly fit the famous Siegfried's theme. I will have to refer to the music drama for anything more accurate, but Maugham certainly knew Siegfried pretty well, as shown in the following, highly preposterous, conversation from ''Winter Cruise'':

As soon as dinner was over and Miss Read had left them the captain sent for the radio-operator.

''You idiot, what in heaven's name made you ask Miss Reid last night whether she wanted to send a radio?''

''Sir, you told me to act naturally. I am a radio-operator. I thought it natural to ask her if she wanted to send a radio. I didn't know what else to say.''

''God in heaven,'' shouted the captain, ''when Siegfried saw Brünhilde lying on her rock and cried: Das ist Kein Mann'' (the captain sang the words, and being pleased with the sound of his voice, repeated the phrase two or three times before he continued), ''did Siegfried when she awoke ask her if she wished to send a radio, to announce her papa, I suppose, that she was sitting up after her long sleep and taking notice?''

''I beg most respectfully to draw your attention to the fact that Brünhilde was Siegfried's aunt. Miss Reid is a total stranger to me.''

''He did not reflect that she was his aunt. He knew only that she was a beautiful and defenceless woman of obviously good family and he acted as any gentleman would have done. You are young, handsome, Aryan to the tips of your fingers, the honour of Germany is in your hands.''

If anything, this passage makes clear that Maugham (1) knew the plot of Siegfried quite well indeed, and (2) he was rightly slightly apprehensive in the preface to Creatures of Circumstance (1947) that he hadn't changed the nationality of his characters. Right after World War II, probably few people relished anything about Germans, let alone ''the honour of Germany'', even in so flippant a context.

Another story in which Wagner plays a minor but not unimportant role is ''The Pool'', Maugham's heart-rending study of mixed marriages in the South Seas. When the first person narrator has one his rare conversations with Lawson, the unfortunate white husband, the latter remarks wistfully on London life in general and Wagnerian music drama in particular:

'I suppose Covent Garden’s still going strong, ' he said. 'I think I miss the opera as much as anything here. Have you seen Tristan and Isolde?'

He asked me the question as though the answer was really important to him, and when I said, a little casually I daresay, that I had, he seemed pleased. He began to speak of Wagner, not as a musician, but as the plain man who received from him an emotional satisfaction that he could not analyse.

'I suppose Bayreuth was the place to go really,' he said. 'I never had the money, worse luck. But of course one might do worse than Covent Garden, all the lights and the women dressed up to the nines, and the music. The first act of the Walküre’s all right, isn’t it? And the end of Tristan. Golly!'

His eyes were flashing now and his face was lit up so that he hardly seemed the same man. There was a flush on his sallow, thin cheeks, and I forgot that his voice was harsh and unpleasant. There was even a certain charm about him.

The sublime ending of Tristan has already been discussed. The first act of Die Walküre is both historically important and musically compelling. The latter is by far the most important aspect, of course. The third scene of this first act, the great love duet between Siegmund and Sieglinde, may well be the greatest celebration of incestuous love ever created. From the solo cello that indicates the first meeting of their to the passionate finale which suggests a sexual intercourse immediately after the curtain, this scene is the epitome of musical and dramatic perfection combined in one.

There is another short story by Maugham which is connected with music, though not so specifically. This is the unjustly forgotten ''The Buried Talent'' that was never published in book form during Maugham's life but appeared only in magazine (1934). Much later it was reprinted in A Traveller in Romance (1984) and Far Eastern Tales (1993), both edited by John Whitehead. The two main characters are opera singers and a reference to Gluck's Orfeo and Euridice is made. There is also some discussion of voice and opera which shows that Maugham is obviously a layman in the field, but with passion for opera.

It's interesting to note that Maugham's musical tastes are very similar to mine, for I too love Mozart, Wagner, Beethoven and Chopin. It is indeed fascinating when I reflect that – from what I've read of his anthologies so far and from what I've seen in Purely for my Pleasure (1962) – apparently our tastes in terms of literature and painting are vastly different indeed. I need to read much more of his anthologies, but just about one third of Maugham's paintings I wouldn't put on my walls even if I get them as a present.

Other non-fiction references, in addition to those already mentioned, include the essay ''Some Novelists I Have Known'':

I was once sitting at the opera behind a distinguished and talented woman. The opera was Tristan und Isolde. At the end of the second act she gathered her ermine cloak around her shoulders and, turning to her companion, said: 'Let's go. There's not enough action in this play.' Of course she was right, but perhaps that wasn't quite the point.

Poor woman! She must have been bored to death by what is probably the longest love duet is all opera.

It is interesting to observe that in the same essay there's one of Maugham's rare passages in which he is somewhat preoccupied with the question of taste and his attitude strongly smacks of intellectual snobbishness. That said, Maugham of all people had the right to be an intellectual snob; whether he was especially intelligent or of impeccable taste are debatable questions, but what is surely a very well documented fact is that he made a great success of his life. I am not sure many people achieve this, even on a much smaller scale, especially people as sensitive and restless as Maugham. Still, such passage as this leaves me with a slightly bitter taste in the mouth:

There are persons of intelligence and susceptibility who prefer Verdi to Wagner, Charlotte Bronte to Jane Austen and cold mutton to cold grouse.

I don't know about the last two cases, but I see nothing wrong with anybody who prefers Verdi to Wagner. I do occasionally, though on the whole I wouldn't want to be without either.