`Polonia non cantat" (Poland doesn't sing) is the standard excuse put forward by Poles when asked to oblige the company with a song. If they can be persuaded to perform, however, there is a good chance that the song they pick will be one written by Stanislaw Moniuszko, the 19th century composer.
Except for Chopin, no other Polish musician has enjoyed such popularity in his homeland, both in his lifetime and after his death. Born near Minsk in 1819, Moniuszko studied in Warsaw and Berlin; later he worked as a conductor in Vilnius. He began composing at an early age, producing his first opera, Halka, by the age of 28. The Warsaw preview in 1858 was a huge success and led to his being appointed conductor of the national opera. Halka was followed by The Haunted Manor in 1865, a work which many regard as his finest opera. Moniuszko also wrote a number of other operas, some cantatas, and almost 300 songs, contained in the collection Songbooks for the Fireside. Apart from the two main operas, these songs were to prove his most enduring contribution to Polish music. By the time he died in 1872 he was established as the national composer of his day.
National pride was at a low ebb in the mid-19th century, particularly after the failure of two uprisings in 1830 and 1863. Moniuszko's work provided an outlet for patriotic sentiment, to such an extent that The Haunted Manor was banned by the Russian authorities when first performed. Nowadays it is difficult to see why it aroused such emotion at the time. The convoluted plot takes place in the country residence of a minor nobleman in the 17th century. Two brothers, paragons of Polish chivalry and manliness, are visiting their father's friend, who has two pretty daughters that he wants to marry off. Damazy, an effete and pomaded Frenchman, who is vying for the hand of one of the daughters, and Skoluba, the old and dour retainer, plot to discredit the brothers by showing them up as cowards. Their plan, involving ghosts and creaking doors, goes wrong, and all ends well with the brothers marrying the two sisters, and the Frenchman being revealed for the villain he is.
There is nothing overtly nationalistic about all this. Moniuszko's work is quietly rather than stridently patriotic: it paints an idyllic picture of Polish rural life, a landscape of rustling leaves and murmuring streams, inhabited by stern youths departing for the wars, and comely maidens pining pensively for them in their absence. The Songbooks for the Fireside were to be found in practically all the homes of the minor gentry and middle class up to the First World War, and to this day no concert recital is complete without a spirited rendering of a Moniuszko number. Melodically, the songs draw heavily on the folk tradition, while the lyrics are frequently taken from 19th century Polish romantic poetry.
At the beginning of The Haunted Manor, the two brothers take a vow of celibacy, with the intention of channelling their energy into the national struggle. There may have been times when Moniuszko wished that he had taken a similar vow. An early marriage produced a large family, and the composer had to work hard as a conductor and teacher to support his wife and children.
Even in his home country, his reputation has taken a bit of a battering in recent years. Highbrows prefer contemporary avant-garde composers like Penderecki, Lutoslawski or Gorecki. Less fastidious audiences are more likely to be found swaying to the strains of Andrea Bocelli's Time to Say Goodbye than wiping away a silent tear as they listen to Stefan's plaintive address to his parents from The Haunted Manor.
Moniuszko's reputation is not helped by his rather unglamorous image. Surviving photographs suggest a worthy family man rather than a flamboyant artist. Unlike Chopin, there was no early death of consumption, no scandal that we know of.
It is difficult to say what his position will be in the years to come. The sentimentality and simplicity of the Songbooks for the Fire- side are unlikely to appeal to the new generation of opera-goers, whose seats are usually paid for by the company they work for, and who have to be reminded to switch off their mobile phones before the performance.
It would be a mistake, though, to write Moniuszko off. Like Balfe, a composer he resembles in many ways, his songs have an endearing quality, and his melodies turn up in the most unexpected places. To this day, Polish boys summon their girlfriends to the window by whistling the carillon tune from The Haunted Manor. There are worse things one could be remembered for.
Dr Aidan Doyle teaches in the English Department of the University of Gdansk, Poland
