I think Verdi's *Il Trovatore* was my parents' favorite opera.  I
understand that my father used to play the opening passage to the first act
(there is no overture, just some assertive orchestral measures and a horn
passage) on the piano to wake up my grandfather when he was taking a nap.

It was therefore a reunion with melodies I hadn't heard for lo these many
years when I attended a performance of the opera at the Kennedy Center last
night.  Placido Domingo conducted.  Fabio Armiliato (who requested our
indulgence as he was singing despite not feeling at his best) sang Manrico
(Il Trovatore).  Carol Vaness, Leonora.  Justino Diaz, Count di Luna.
Irina Mishura, Azucena.

It's the kind of opera that Heinz Fricke must have had in mind when he
described 19th century operas as the kind you could drink in, seated back
in your chair, muttering "what wonderful arias".  They are wonderful, and
as wonderful the duets and larger ensembles which I hear so rarely in
operas other than those by Verdi or by Mozart.  I heard somebody say in the
intermission, "All that was missing was the elephants", an unfair comment;
*Aida*, which typically may feature an elephant or two in the pageant
ending the second act transcends that spectacle and remains sublime sans
circus creatures, while the blood-curdling story of *Il Trovatore* hardly
needs enhancement through spectacle.

The story itself is particularly unhappy.  Count and upstart (Manrico)
compete for the love of the fair Leonora and the smart money isn't going to
bet on the upstart.  Add to this plot that Manrico has been raised by the
gypsy, Azucena, whose mother had been burned at the stake by the Count's
father, and who now hopes to have her revenge upon the young count, who in
turn seeks revenge on Azucena for the suspected murder of the young count's
brother who had disappeared as a baby.

No sense in going to the story more; be assured that everything goes
wrong.  But the music's beauty seems to give the lie to the underlying
story.  It's hard to single out one aria or ensemble piece but perhaps the
"Ai nostri monti" ("Home to our mountains") in the last act is the most
heart-wrenchingly beautiful moment.  I could again hear my father singing
in German,"In unsre Heimat kehren wir wieder."

The singers, even the ailing Armiliato, sounded fine.  But for me,
the finest was Irina Mishura, the Azucena, for whom the already
enthusiastically applauding audience spontaneously rose en masse to
show its appreciation during the curtain calls.

Walter Meyer