Czyż and Penderecki – the end of the affair, part 2 (of 2)

This is a follow-up to last week’s post. I should explain that the quotes come from one of Henryk Czyż’s many books on musical subjects, one of the two most autobiographical ones (the other being Niewczesne żarty). I intend to make further use of his books in the future as well – he is one of my favorite Polish conductors, and a pretty good writer (especially for a “non-professional” – and he actually did write all of his books himself). An explanation of the odd form should perhaps be added: several chapters of the book are imaginary dialogues with a stranger querying the conductor about his past.

While writing the book, Czyż was in his late sixties, with a spectacular international career already behind him (among other things, he explains in the book why he decided to back out).

Here you go:

We left the matter for the next day. And on that day I withdrew my resignation.

The rehearsals started on schedule. But the shadow that fell between me and the composer remained there and, inconspicuously, it kept growing longer and longer. The cast was excellent. Troyanos sang the Mother Superior, Hiolski – father Grandier, and Ładysz – the Grand Inquisitor. Even while we were still rehearsing Liebermann already offered me a job at his theater. So everything seemed perfect, and yet – I felt miserable. And I also felt that Konrad Swinarski was doing a miserable job as stage director. Everyone says he was a genius so he probably was but I liked neither his Dziady nor the way he now prepared our Devils – it was terrible, in my opinion. First he would prepare the stage actions, and then he would say: “OK, now we can listen to the music”. Absurd!

…

On the premiere night, when the composer appeared after the show, the Hamburg audience booed him off the stage. The conductor they greeted with fervent ovations. So after coming out a second time Penderecki was tactful enough to hide in the wardrobe and not come out again.

After that there was an enormous party suffused with an overblown atmosphere of success – something common at every festival in the world, no matter their value. Next day, the reviews were controversial but rather poor.

And then, finally came the jinxed fourth and last show. … Before each performance a mock bald head-top made of plastic was applied to Hiolski’s head, and only on top of that they would put a wig of beautiful locks which he would use to charm everyone during the first two acts. The first accident happened right at the beginning, in the second scene: father Grandier was taking a walk, wearing a large hat on his head. Greeting some townsfolk that he met on his way, he bowed deeply and, while taking off his hat, unintentionally grabbed the fake locks – and bared before the dumbfounded townsmen and audience a completely hairless head! Astonishment. Soon, another disaster: In the last act the menacing Inquisitor forces the priest to admit he had contacts with the devil. The oppressors insert a large wedge between the knees of the convict who is sitting in a torturing chair. The Inquisitor shouts: “Admit it!” and “No!” cries the convict in reply. The Inquisitor grabs a big hammer and hits the wedge, breaking the convict’s knees. The convict screams in pain. “Admit it!” “No!” moans Grandier. Another blow of the hammer and another moan of pain. “Admit it!”

In order not to crush Hiolski’s knees, carpenters made mock legs of wood – a massive board of oak was sculpted into a relief of the convict’s strong legs. … On that fourth day … the enraged Inquisitor cried “Admit it!” for the last time, and the accused Hiolski groaned “No!” with failing strength. In reponse, the Inquisitor brought the hammer down with all his might (and Ładysz, who performed that part, is no namby-pamby), with so much force in fact that the mock-up fell apart, revealing Hiolski’s very own and private, and pale, and somewhat thin calves.

It was very funny but, as I understand – perhaps not for the composer. He had a fit, started running amok. He completely lost it. I can comprehend that after a series of great successes, to deal with a first failure was beyond his abilities. The reservations I expressed earlier, including my doubts about the score, the fact that I foresaw a fiasco, and finally – my amusement at the situation (which I could not hide) infuriated him. Wherever he went, he smeared me in an inconceivable manner. He blamed me for everything. I was hurt. I immediately stopped conducting his works. I broke all the contracts I had already signed. It cost me quite a bit of money.

On the other hand, it was with a great relief that I returned to the clear, classical, divine harmonies, leaving the boggy, waterlogged meadows of aleatoric music and the mud baths of tone clusters to the pitiable avant-gardists.

…

Let me note that after many years, to make amends, my adversary proposed, as a sort of compensation, that I should conduct the premiere of his Violin Concerto, with Stern as soloist, somewhere in the States. “Thank you indeed! What a pleasure! Wrestle with it yourself!” But, in return, I lifted the embargo and conducted a few of his pieces, both at home and abroad…

(Henryk Czyż Pamiętam jak dziś, Warszawa: Tryton 1991, p. 136-139)