Chapter One SCENE ONE A Gleam in His Eye As we reread the write-ups of those first performances, my mother and I could not help being amused at some of the reviewers' attempts to pinpoint where I came from. Since I had been sprung on them so unexpectedly, without any advance publicity, they were not sure what "national characteristics" to attribute to me. Some of the critics thought my origins were Scandinavian. Others claimed me as Hungarian. Both theories are right and wrong. So what is the story? When I first started to work with Maestro Fritz Reiner around 1948, he told me he had known me when I was still just a "gleam" in my father's eye. As a matter of fact, he said, if it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have existed at all. It seems that, early in his career, when he was still called by his Hungarian name of Frigyes, Reiner had been engaged to conduct and rehearse performances at a brand-new theatre in Budapest called the Népopera (People's Opera). It was scheduled to open on December 7, 1911, with a work entitled Quo Vadis by the French composer Jean Nouguès. One day, as Reiner told me, a young tenor by the name of Alexander Várnay arrived to start rehearsals for the role of the Emperor Nero. When he stepped into the darkened auditorium for the first time, there was an attractive coloratura soprano rehearsing on stage. Várnay asked Reiner who the beautiful woman was. The conductor told him her name was Mária Jávor, and that she would be singing the principal soprano role of the slave girl Eunice with him in the Nouguès opera. He suddenly looked very solemnly back at Reiner and said prophetically: "That woman is going to be my wife." For his tender twenty-two years, Alexander Várnay already had the kind of self-assurance which is often born of success. His life thus far had been carefree and adventurous, starting with a blissful childhood as the son of a popular local composer in one of those fascinating corners of the Austro-Hungarian Empire that frequently changed hands in the course of a long and tempestuous history. At the time he was born, on September 11, 1889, his birthplace had been assigned by the Habsburg monarchy to the Hungarian part of the Empire. The period of Hungarian sovereignty lasted from 1867 until 1918, during which period the place was known to the Germans as Kaschau and to the Hungarians as Kassa. In 1918, the region voluntarily joined the Czechoslovak Republic and is today the city of Kosice in the eastern part of the new Republic of Slovakia. My grandparents produced a sizable number of children. My father was the eldest of ten--five boys and five girls--and the whole family enjoyed making music together. As a matter of fact, my grandfather even started a little family chorus when the first children were able to read music, and this activity continued until well after many of them were grown up. But music was only one aspect of my father's fervent intellectual curiosity. He was fascinated by every aspect of the theatre, he had a profound interest in the natural sciences, and he loved languages. Living in a region that straddled the geographical fence dividing different nationalities provided fertile soil for young Alexander's inquisitive mind. Like most children in multicultural societies, he soon mastered both of the languages spoken at that time in Kassa. Hungarian, the local language, was taught in primary school parallel with German, the lingua franca of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. When he was in his teens, his parents sent him to two German-speaking boarding schools in today's Czech Republic. The point of this was to prepare him for what both he and his parents hoped would be a medical career. There he learned more languages. His academic education included Greek and Latin as a matter of course. He was fluent in both, along with some Hebrew and Aramaic, which he hoped would help him intensify his understanding of biblical texts. Then he settled in Vienna to study medicine. After three semesters at medical school, his urge to do something professional with his love for music and theatre took hold of his life. He switched from the university to the conservatory operated by the renowned Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, where he began his vocal studies under the tutelage of Professor Franz Haböck. When the composer Karl Goldmark met him, he was so impressed with the musical and theatrical abilities of the aspiring young tenor that he took my father under his wing, subsidized his musical education, and used his not inconsiderable influence to help the young artist any way he could. Not satisfied with simply studying voice, my father also registered for a course in operatic production, taught by Professor Eduard Gärtner, one of the top experts on the craft. He later amplified these studies under Professor Meisner, a regular member of the production staff at the Vienna Volksoper. At the same time, he continued his vocal studies with the legendary heroic tenor Hermann Winkelmann, who had created the title role in Parsifal in Bayreuth, an opera that would mean a great deal to me in future years. The conductor Felix von Weingartner suggested that my father further his operatic knowledge in France and Italy and even arranged for the Wiener Hofoper (Vienna Court Opera) to give him a scholarship to study in those places. In Paris, he studied voice with Jean de Reszke, one of the leading members of the "Golden Age of Singing" at the turn of the century. Recently retired from the stage, de Reszke was about to embark on a career as one of Europe's preeminent vocal teachers. In Italy, my father added Italian to his collection of languages, while studying singing privately with Maestro Leonetti and staging at the local theatres of Milan and Florence. He also auditioned for Ruggiero Leoncavallo, who pronounced him an authentic tenor discovery and immediately wrote a letter of recommendation to that effect in French, so it could be more easily read by the various theatres to which Leoncavallo said he should present it. When I look at the progress of my father's career, I cannot help being amazed at the number of selfless persons in high places and august institutions who not only wished him well but also did something to further his professional advancement. Alexander Várnay returned from Italy to begin a career which covered the far-flung Austro-Hungarian Empire and neighboring countries as well. He sang an extensive repertoire that ran the gamut from such lyric roles as the Duke in Rigoletto and the title role in Faust to the more dramatic Turiddu in Cavalleria Rusticana , Canio in Pagliacci, Eléazar in La Juive , Don José in Carmen , and Manrico in Il Trovatore , all the way to the heroic title roles in Tannhäuser and Lohengrin . The soprano whom Alexander Várnay had sworn a solemn oath to marry was a local girl. Mária Junghans was born in the town of Perjámos, only a little more than a month later than my father, on October 15, 1889, to be specific. Her father was a prominent judge named Józséf Junghans, and her mother, Anna (née Partenschlager), had once entertained operatic ambitions, but was never to take them beyond participation in the local church choir, because of parental objections to a "respectable" woman having any other kind of career than wife and mother. Mária grew up in Rákosliget, some eight miles outside the cosmopolitan capital of Budapest, where she was sent to a convent school. She was so taken with the life of the sisters, she initially wanted to become a nun herself, but the Mother Superior dissuaded her from embarking on a religious vocation, claiming the young girl was simply too "vivacious." But the sisters did encourage her to make full use of her musical talents, which she displayed by singing solos at a very early age. She also took piano lessons as a non-matriculated student at the Royal Academy of Music. While Judge Junghans was fond of music and theatre, and heartily approved of his wife's interest in both, he agreed with his parents-in-law that the only contact a proper family needed with those art forms could be acquired from attendance at performances or making music at home. This approach was similar to Alexander Varnay's family's. The thought of a member of his own family actually practicing a profession he considered perilously insecure, or consorting with what he regarded as its highly disreputable members, was anathema to him. In short, his views were in line with the general opinion the respectable bourgeoisie have had of theatre people dating back to the Roman Empire, when the profession was looked upon as nothing more than a hotbed of prostitution. This was why my grandmother had to keep the "cherry tree incident" a secret from him. This is what happened. The family had a cherry tree in the garden, and young Maria enjoyed sitting in the branches and chirping little vocal calisthenics for her own amusement. One afternoon, the music director of Budapest Cathedral, who also served as a professor at the Franz Liszt Academy of Music in the capital, was taking a stroll in Rákosliget and happened to overhear the girl singing. He immediately asked her if he might speak to one of her parents. The Hungarians are very decorous people, and so I can imagine he began his visit to my grandmother with the usual litany of extravagant courtesies and compliments before getting down to business. The reason for coming to see her, the professor told my grandmother, was that he was enormously impressed with the sound of the girl's voice. He felt she had a future as a singer and should receive some professional vocal instruction as soon as possible, suggesting further that she apply for acceptance at the academy where he taught. My grandmother regarded this as a golden opportunity to see her own theatrical ambitions realized by a surrogate in the person of her daughter, but she would have to come up with some kind of ruse to convince her husband of the propriety of this move. Explaining to the culture-loving judge that a music-oriented study program was an appropriate way for the teenaged daughter of one of the better families to round off her education, she delicately maneuvered him into agreeing to send Maria to live with two aunts, who served as ladies-in-waiting at the Hungarian Royal Court. These aunts would then watch over her to make sure she behaved with the proper etiquette and decorum expected of a young lady of her position during the period of her education at the conservatory. This supervision, as Mother later told me, included some rather stern ideas about audience behavior, all of which I agree with completely. For example, people often came to concerts or the opera sporting handsome walking sticks, which would then clatter noisily to the ground as these dandies dozed off during the performance. If my great-aunts were anywhere near them, they could look forward to a rude awakening. This also applied to the program rustlers and audible chatterers. But my great-aunts were not always as severe with themselves as they were with others. Their caprice was horse racing, which is to say, attending the races and placing bets, almost invariably on the losers. Every time they returned home from one of these escapades, they would rant and rave over their losses and solemnly swear never to return to the scene of their obsession. This oath usually held until the next race was announced. As my mother reported this, she had all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. These relatives welcomed seventeen-year-old Mária to Budapest in 1906. She must have taken to the Liszt Academy like a duck to water, because she soon became one of its star pupils. Shortly after entering the academy, she was switched from probation status to a full academic program, at which she excelled--with one ironic exception. Looking over her report cards, I note with pride that she got straight A's in just about every subject but Italian, which puts a smile on my face to this day, when I think about what would happen to Mother's life just a few years down the road. Quite a number of honors were accorded her in the course of her education. One of them was being assigned to study singing with Mme Abranyi, considered the top voice teacher on the Liszt faculty at the time. In Hungary, it was traditional for married women to teach under their husbands' names, as they might in America, which is why my mother's report card was signed by Abranyi Emilné (Mrs. Emil Abranyi), but she had previously had a singing career under her given name, which was, much to my surprise, Rózsa Várnay. Another special honor accorded the gifted undergraduate was an invitation to sing in public in March 1907, only a few months after being admitted to the school. Attending the graduation ceremonies in 1910, Judge Junghans was amazed to hear that his daughter had not only passed her courses with flying colors, but had also been awarded the coveted plum of a début in Budapest as Leonora in Il Trovatore under the direction of that same Frigyes Reiner, her vocal coach at the theatre. (Reiner, of course, is the one who subsequently introduced her to her husband.) This was followed in short order by Gilda in a Rigoletto performance starring no less a celebrity than the great Italian baritone Titta Ruffo. She then appeared with such well-known guest stars as Selma Kurz and Alessandro Bonci. With that level of success conferred upon his daughter, Judge Junghans finally relented and allowed her to pursue a musical career. But before they gave her their blessing to start at the theatre, taking the more Hungarian-sounding name of Jávor as her stage name, Mária's parents gave her a motto, which served her as a watchword throughout her life, one she would pass down to me, and I would in turn convey to many others. "Künstler sein ist kein Vorwand für Unarten," they told her. Loosely translated, this means: "Being an artist is no excuse for bad behavior." Years after Mother's début, when I was singing Lady Macbeth at the Maggio Musicale in Florence in May 1951, I contacted Titta Ruffo, who had retired to that city of cities. He told me he remembered that Rigoletto with great affection and also accorded me the privilege of his presence at one of my Macbeth performances, sending his kind regards to his erstwhile Hungarian Gilda afterward. By the time Alexander Várnay arrived in Budapest, Mária Jávor was already an established young prima donna. In addition to Gilda, she had sung such principal roles as Philine in Mignon and Olympia in Les Contes d'Hoffmann , to which she subsequently added the other three leading ladies, Giulietta, Antonia, and Stella. The following season, she was again heard as Leonora in Il Trovatore --one of the two roles, by the way, which my coloratura mother and my dramatic soprano self actually shared. The other was Desdemona in Verdi's Otello . As a stalwart member of a repertory company, of course, the young soprano also lent her leading-role qualities to a number of secondary parts, including Stella in I Gioielli della Madonna and a definitive Frasquita in Carmen , incidentally one of the toughest comprimaria parts in the entire repertoire, with lots of exposed upper-register singing. As rehearsals on Quo Vadis proceeded apace, Alexander Várnay wasted no time starting to pay court to his leading lady. In those days, this ritual largely consisted of very proper, well-chaperoned visits to tea and the like. Impeccable behavior and correct attire were the order of the day. Needless to say, the major topic of their conversation was music and singing. While Mária listened admiringly, Alexander would pace up and down, orating about opera, discussing and demonstrating the various breathing techniques different singers used, and describing how he felt one should support a tone properly on a column of air. At one of these visits, it became a source of considerable embarrassment when Alexander took a particularly deep breath, filling his lungs to such a point that one of his vest buttons popped right off the garment, precipitously rendering him improperly dressed for calling on an unattached young lady. Being the resourceful creature he was, Alexander Várnay soon sought out the services of a local tailor, whom he ordered to reattach the vest buttons, this time with sturdy metal wire to avoid having to truncate future visits to his lady love. For all his self-confidence, Alexander did not find the object of his affection an easy lady to conquer. She had been taught all the tricks of the courting trade by her aunts, and she was not about to relent until she had a chance to use them. Many years later, in the United States, when I had reached the courting age, my mother told me it was about time I learned how to flirt. I didn't have the foggiest notion what she was talking about, but it drove home a significant difference between the highly structured rituals of Central Europe in the early days of this century and the informality of America in the so-called "Age of Sincerity." When I came of age, all of my mother's urgings to be both tempting and coy fell on the deaf ears of a young girl who was determined to tell it like it was. Over and above enjoying the game of wooing with my future father, there was another significant reason for my mother's coyness. As she later told the story, my mother was an advocate of long courtships. Without the kind of freedoms young people have today, prospective brides and grooms had to be absolutely certain they were making the right decision, and that meant taking plenty of time to get to know their vis-à-vis. Obviously Mother's studied coyness was more than the passionate Alexander could take, because after his courtship had reached the serious stage, with no apparent binding results forthcoming, his mother decided to pay a call on Mrs. Junghans. Her son, she said, had a huge picture of his beloved on the wall and spent hours every day staring at it with a heartbreaking look of longing in his eyes. She then gave my mother's mother the shocking news that Alexander Várnay had sworn to take his life if Mária did not agree to become his lawfully wedded wife forthwith. Their wedding on February 20, 1914, was also the beginning of an artistic collaboration, which took both husband and wife through the vast reaches of their wide and diverse repertoires and halfway around the world. Copyright © 2000 Astrid Varnay and Donald Arthur. All rights reserved.
