Powerful Ten

It is cold today; cold enough to reconfigure the anatomy of a brass monkey, as I believe the saying goes. I love it. Winter is my favourite season (with my other favourites being Spring, Summer and Autumn...). Everything’s sparkly and snowy and sometimes festive, and there’s a plethora of knitwear about. Who doesn’t love a mitten? (Or two…as I discovered at the bus stop in town today, one glove doesn’t do much.) Winter is the best season, and the weather is brilliant.

Or sometimes, it isn’t. You know how sometimes, a load of things happen at once for no reason - a series of coincidences that surprise you? 25 November is a very coincidental day, as today in History there have been no fewer than ten natural or weather related disasters. It is not, therefore, a very cheerful day...

The events started in 1343, when an earthquake in the Tyrrhenian Sea (the bit of water off Italy’s west coast, between the country and Sardinia) caused a tsunami, which devastated the cities of Naples and Amalfi. Another earthquake, in 1667 hit Shemakha, an Azerbaijani city, killing around 80,000 people.

A few years later, in 1703, Britain was hit by what was possibly the worst weather related event in the country’s history. A massive storm struck, the peak period of which lasted until 27 November, with winds of up to 120mph almost constantly. It was very imaginatively named the Great Storm of 1703 (complete with Very Important Capitalisation) and must have been pretty horrible, really. Though the worst was over by 27 November, the winds did not fully die down until 2 December. Between 8,000 and 15,000 people are estimated to have been killed by it, including around 2,000 seamen (the worst affected areas were the South and West of the country, where most of the main navy bases were). 13 naval ships were completely destroyed and the New Forest lost 4,000 oak trees. Queen Anne herself had to shelter in a cellar to avoid the lead that was falling off the roof of Westminster Abbey. I know the British like to moan about the weather, but I think that this time we might just have been justified.

Fifty odd years later, in 1759, another earthquake rocked the Mediterranean which killed between 30,000 and 40,000 people in Beirut, and another massive earthquake struck in 1833, this under the sea near Sumatra. It is estimated to have measured between 8.7 and 9.2 on the Richter scale, and caused a huge tsunami all along the Indonesian coast.

Six years later, in 1839, around 300,000 Indians were killed when a cyclone caused a massive storm surge that destroyed 20,000 ships and the port of Coringa, which has never fully been rebuilt since the event.

Almost 100 years of ‘safe’ 25 Novembers passed, until, in 1926, there was the deadliest November tornado outbreak in American history. 51 people were killed in Arkansas alone, where an F4 tornado hit Heber Springs. Around the rest of the Midwest, another 25 people were killed and around 400 injured as a result of 27 further twisters. It was Thanksgiving Day then, too. Another Thanksgiving Day tragedy occurred in 1982 when an entire city block was destroyed by fire in Minneapolis, though fortunately this time there were no deaths. This was not the case in 1987 when a category 5 storm, Typhoon Nina, hit the Philippines, killing 1,036 people, nor in 1996 when an ice storm hit the central US and killed 26 people.

So this year, for Thanksgiving (even though I am not an American) I would like to give thanks for the fact that there have been (so far) today no horrendous events, and wish you a safe, happy and free from any giant storms 25 November.

A Night at the Opera

Nineteenth century America was the land of dreams, full of opportunity and hope. A poor European could go out there, with no money to his name other than that which he used to pay for his boat fare, land in New York after an arduous few weeks' traveling and within a generation or so, be a millionaire. He could have gone out to California, or the Black Hills during one of the gold rushes and struck lucky (very, very lucky - it was rare for anyone to make any money from gold panning, but those who did often became very, very rich), or gone out to the mid west and made a fortune farming, or inventing a new farming tool (and giving it a fabulous name - the sod-buster, anyone?!) that everyone needed, or maybe started a new business in one of the industrial east coast cities.

Sadly, most immigrants weren't this lucky. Most arrived poor and stayed poor, but there were just enough who did manage to turn themselves into millionaires that the dream was kept alive. Not everyone was happy about this, though. High society was full of snobs - the old New York families were appalled by the uncouth nouveau riche who had money, but none of the 'proper' airs and graces and took every opportunity they could to snub the upstarts. Of course, one had to be obvious about one's snubbing, if it was to have the desired effect. It was no use merely tittering about those new families, with diamonds on their fingers but dirt under their fingernails, amongst one's group of friends - one had to make a point.

An easy, but dreadfully cutting, way to do so would be to refuse the new families - the Vanderbilts, or the Goulds, for example - a box at the opera. This did more than deny them a chance to watch the latest performances of a Mozart or Verdi extravaganza. In certain circles during the late nineteenth century, the opera was the place to be of an evening. Where else but at the Academy of Music could formidable matriarchs find out the latest scandalous gossip; elderly gentlemen have a gentle snooze after one to many glasses of scotch in the interval or the new debutantes coyly flutter their lashes and drop their fans at the feet of the handsome young gentleman who had come over from Europe for the season?

By the early 1880s, the new families had had enough, and, led by Alva Vanderbilt, the millionaires of the city built themselves their own opera house, christening it the Metropolitan Opera House. It took nearly three years to build, but on the night of 22 October 1883, the first ever production - Gounod's Faust - was performed. 

 

The original MET, 1411 Broadway, New York City (pictured 1905)

The original company at the MET - the orchestra, chorus and principle singers - were all Italian and therefore decided to sing everything in their native language, even Faust (which had been written in French) and Carmen (where the lyrics were also in French). However, as most people were attending for the glitz and the glamour and the gossip, only a few opera fanatics were likely to be disappointed by this. The first season made a loss of over half a million dollars, but this was quickly turned around. By 1885 - after only three seasons - the Academy of Music had been eclipsed, and showed its last opera at the end of the '85 season. The MET was now the place to be. 

The outside of the original building was not particularly ornate, interesting or different from most other New York City buildings of the time, but the interior was another story all together. Decorated in red and gold, there were three tiers of 36 boxes (so many seats in fact, that after a year the top tier was removed because there was no use for it). The  bottom tier became known as the diamond horseshoe, and you could be sure that if your family had a box there, you had indeed made it. 

Despite all this grandness, at the heart of it all there was the music. For the 1884-5 season, the radical decision was made that, instead of Italian, all operas should be sung in German, regardless of their original language, mainly because of the large German population of the city  - from the richest to the poorest. Ticket prices were slashed to a mere $3 - though this fairness wasn't universal: 23 members of the men's chorus went on strike for more money, but were quickly dismissed. By the 1890s, the board of directors had tired of the German music and demanded that all operas be sung in the language they were written in. This lead to the 'war of the operas' as the people of German origin insisted that they all be sung in German.

 Cartoon from Puck Magazine, depicting the 'war of the operas' - 1891

The house was destroyed by fire early in 1892, and the year's season was canceled. Upon its reopening the following year, however, operas were performed there in their native language for the first time. This led to the MET premiering many famous operas - most notably, those by Wagner - for the first time on American soil. The halls themselves were truly magnificent, having excellent acoustics even when filled with 3,625 people sitting, and another 244 standing at the front, but even from the earliest days, the stage facilities were known to be sorely inadequate. It took nearly 80 years before something was done about this, though, but in 1966 it was. The MET company moved into a new premises at the Lincoln Center, which not only has excellent acoustics and plenty of room for opera goers but also excellent staging. 

Today, the MET welcomes more than 800,000 people each season, not to mention those who see productions through their HD broadcasts around the world, starring today's best singers, such as the sublime production of Bizet's Carmen which myself and my good friend Charlotte went to see at a cinema in England last year, starring the immensely gifted mezzo soprano Elina Garanca.

It makes me wonder what Alva Vanderbilt and the other 'new money' families would make of it all. No doubt they would be very proud of their legacy, as well they should be...

A Brief History of Latvia

 Christmas in Riga

Let's go to Latvia. Because it has a fascinating History and some of the world's loveliest looking Christmas markets and because why not. History in British schools is focused far too much on England (and, under the new government's plans, will be even more so, which is just what we need, especially as children will be growing up thinking the Empire was A Good Thing. Don't get me wrong, there weren't some benefits from it. For example...um...we ensured introduced our language to the whole world, thus ensuring that school children no longer have to worry about being able to talk about their Aunt's pen when they go to France, as who even speaks French anyway? As for all those other languages...well isn't it enough that we just know their names? We don't have to bother talking in them - everyone can address us in English, and we can just shout louder until they understand us. We're so damn cultured.) so I have very little idea about what went on in Latvia, or indeed most other Eastern European countries. After a bit of reading, though, I feel I'm ready to take you on a whistle-stop tour of the country, though I apologize in advance if I have anything wrong.

We'll base ourselves in Riga, which is the capital city of Latvia. There had been a few ancient settlements on the site of what is now Riga, but the city really took off in the twelfth century, when some German mercenaries established it as an outpost for trading with the Baltic people. Everything was going swimmingly, until Albert, Bishop of Livonia arrived in the city in 1201 armed with 23 ships and 1,500 crusaders. Despite being a Bishop, Albert clearly didn't know his Bible too well as he proceeded to forcibly take the city as his. He established the Order of Livonian Brothers of the Sword (because he wasn't very good at catchy names) and converted the people of Riga to Christianity (one hopes he wasn't leading by example).

For the next few centuries, everything went as swimmingly as it could in medieval Europe. There were, of course, outbreaks of plague and other such things, but the country wasn't really much different to Britain, or Spain, or any other country really. Riga - indeed, Latvia as a whole - was part of the Holy Roman Empire, which, despite the somewhat misleading name, meant it was actually a part of the German Empire, so the largest ethnic group in the city were German, rather than Latvian. The city was mainly used as a gateway to trade with the Russians and other Baltic peoples so the city was remarkably cosmopolitan, with influences from Prussia, Russia, Poland, Lithuania and of course Latvia itself.
 

The country converted to Protestantism with the rest of the Lutheran countries in the mid-sixteenth century, which meant that when the Thirty Years' War occurred (this is one of the hardest wars to summarize in one sentence, but here goes: a series of incredibly destructive  conflicts involving most of mainland Europe, with the two great powers of the time, the French monarchy and the Hapsburg monarchy - the rulers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire - ostensibly about religion - the whole Catholicism vs. Protestantism thing - but which ended up being about power and money and who controlled what) the King of Sweden gained control of the city (supposedly to help support the largely Protestant population but mostly because of the trading, and therefore economic, benefits). 

The city remained under Swedish rule until 1710, when Peter the Great invaded and bought the city under Russian control. Despite the implementation of Russian as the country's official language, the demographic make-up of Riga was slowly changing and by the mid nineteenth century, Latvians were the majority ethnic group in the city. This coincided with the rise of the middle class in the country, who were very patriotic. In 1873, the first Latvian Song Festival was organised (a celebration of folk songs and traditional dancing) which still takes place in the city, every five years - the next concert being in 2013. 

All this was soon to change however, with the twentieth century being one of the most turbulent centuries in Latvia's History. The Russian Revolution of 1917 meant that it was quite easy for the German Army to march into the country and take over in 1918, but under the terms of the armistice, they were forced to grant Latvia freedom. It was the first time the country had been independent in its whole history. Riga, the capital city, prospered, as did the whole country. A democratic Parliament was implemented. Latvian was reinstated as the country's national language. The people flourished.

Then World War Two happened.

Stalin made a deal with Hitler in which Hitler allowed the Soviet Union to annex the country in 1940, but then the promise was reneged on in 1941 and the Germans ruled there until October 13th, 1944 when the Red Army came marching back in to take over once more. The war had decimated the country. Latvia had lost one third of its population, and its independence. The Jewish population had all but vanished under the Nazi regime; so called "Nazi collaborators" (mostly those of Latvian origin) were deported to Siberia and many thousands of Russians and other Soviet peoples were emigrated to Latvia to help suppress the native population. By 1975, less than 40% of Riga's inhabitants were ethnically Latvian.

Fortunately the Soviet Union was beginning to crumble by the late '80s, and on 21st August, 1991, the country was declared independent once again. Today it is as democratic and diverse as any other European country; a member of the European Union and a country which celebrates all of its diverse heritage. In 2001, the city of Latvia celebrated it's 800th birthday and it continues to thrive as a country to this day.

This post would not have been possible without my dear friend Charlotte and her extensive knowledge of and love for Latvian born opera singers.