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Bed
ich Smetana’s
Libuše
, composed in 1869—72, incarnates, by intent and shape, the force of Czech national tradition without ever deteriorating into mere folklore. It is a festive opera, if not a national oratorio, which took as much of Richard Wagner as Smetana wanted to without being unduly Wagnerian; it was precisely Smetana’s attention to contemporary music abroad that made him unwelcome to the conservative “Old Czechs,” influential in politics and culture, and an ally to the more radical
“Young Czechs,” who were to dominate Czech life in the later 1870s and the 1880s. The problem was that the story of Libuše did not yield sufficient drama for a complete opera, and the libretto, largely based on the fabricated fragment of “Libussa’s Judgment,” enhanced rather than diminished the problem of the plot. The libretto was first concocted by the Prague pedagogue and Czech patriot Josef Wenzig in his accustomed German, and then translated by Ervín Spindler, a journalist and civil servant, into Czech. In the opera, the litigants, appearing before Libuše, again are brothers, as in many younger versions of the story, but Wenzig and Spindler believed that a love intrigue was needed and introduced Krásava, a rich and somewhat flirtatious Czech maiden who, offended by the elder brother’s lack of response to her charms, decides to challenge him by pretending to feel something for the younger. Finally, all is well, the lovers have their happy end, and Libuše proceeds to her prophecy, the culminating scene.
ich Smetana’sLibuše
, composed in 1869—72, incarnates, by intent and shape, the force of Czech national tradition without ever deteriorating into mere folklore. It is a festive opera, if not a national oratorio, which took as much of Richard Wagner as Smetana wanted to without being unduly Wagnerian; it was precisely Smetana’s attention to contemporary music abroad that made him unwelcome to the conservative “Old Czechs,” influential in politics and culture, and an ally to the more radical
“Young Czechs,” who were to dominate Czech life in the later 1870s and the 1880s. The problem was that the story of Libuše did not yield sufficient drama for a complete opera, and the libretto, largely based on the fabricated fragment of “Libussa’s Judgment,” enhanced rather than diminished the problem of the plot. The libretto was first concocted by the Prague pedagogue and Czech patriot Josef Wenzig in his accustomed German, and then translated by Ervín Spindler, a journalist and civil servant, into Czech. In the opera, the litigants, appearing before Libuše, again are brothers, as in many younger versions of the story, but Wenzig and Spindler believed that a love intrigue was needed and introduced Krásava, a rich and somewhat flirtatious Czech maiden who, offended by the elder brother’s lack of response to her charms, decides to challenge him by pretending to feel something for the younger. Finally, all is well, the lovers have their happy end, and Libuše proceeds to her prophecy, the culminating scene.
In Smetana’s music, P
emysl’s arias have a particularly solemn and lyrical charm, and the famous finale for which the opera was written consists of a series of six “pictures” or presentations in which Libuše “shows,” as if in a
laterna magica
, the great heroes and two heroines of Czech history from the year 1034 to the sixteenth century (the nearly four hundred years of subsequent Hapsburg rule are simply eliminated). Libuše evokes the historical meaning of the figures briefly and with dignity—Duke B
etislav I and his wife, Jitka, who won Moravia; Jaroslav of Šternberk, who, as it was believed, defeated the invading Tartars; King Otakar II, Eliška of the P
emyslids, and her son, the Emperor Charles IV, three towering figures of medieval imperial glory; the radical Hussites of the fifteen century, including their military leaders Jan Žižka and Prokop the Great,
vivace con fuoco
and with a strong allusion to the great Hussite Battle Hymn; George of Pod
brad, king of peace, elected by his own people in 1458; and, finally, Prague Castle on the hill, “in magic illumination,” and a chorus who celebrate the proud nation that never will be defeated, not even by “the horrors of hell.”
emysl’s arias have a particularly solemn and lyrical charm, and the famous finale for which the opera was written consists of a series of six “pictures” or presentations in which Libuše “shows,” as if in alaterna magica
, the great heroes and two heroines of Czech history from the year 1034 to the sixteenth century (the nearly four hundred years of subsequent Hapsburg rule are simply eliminated). Libuše evokes the historical meaning of the figures briefly and with dignity—Duke B
etislav I and his wife, Jitka, who won Moravia; Jaroslav of Šternberk, who, as it was believed, defeated the invading Tartars; King Otakar II, Eliška of the Pemyslids, and her son, the Emperor Charles IV, three towering figures of medieval imperial glory; the radical Hussites of the fifteen century, including their military leaders Jan Žižka and Prokop the Great,vivace con fuoco
and with a strong allusion to the great Hussite Battle Hymn; George of Pod
brad, king of peace, elected by his own people in 1458; and, finally, Prague Castle on the hill, “in magic illumination,” and a chorus who celebrate the proud nation that never will be defeated, not even by “the horrors of hell.”Contemporary audiences understood very well why the final scene of the opera showed Hrad
any Castle, and they were thrilled by the recurrent fanfare signifying the power of the ancient Czech state. In 1867, the monarchy had been divided into Austrian and Hungarian parts; the claims of the Czechs, with their long tradition of power and autonomy, had been ignored; and the emperor in Vienna had not been crowned king of Bohemia at Prague Castle, as tradition required. Smetana had kept his composition in his desk for nine years to save it for the opening of the
National Theater, but general enthusiasm at the opening night on June 11, 1881, was somewhat dampened by the official presence of the Hapsburg crown prince, Rudolf (actually of a progressive cast of mind, and a suicide at Mayerling later). Because of some “Old Czech” intrigue, Smetana had been denied a ticket to his own premiere, but Rudolf invited him to his little salon and there created another difficult situation, because, not knowing that Smetana was hard of hearing (due to a syphilitic infection), he tried to make himself understood by raising his voice.
Libuše
was again performed at the “new” National Theater on November 18, 1883—the original building had been destroyed by fire soon after its opening and rebuilt thanks to the spontaneous financial efforts of the entire nation—but it was a piece too monumental to be performed
en suite
. Smetana survived the opening of the new theater by only a year: he died in a Prague asylum for the insane in 1884. The famous
Libuše
fanfare endures at state ceremonies and on the Czech radio, formally announcing the presence of the president of the republic, though Václav Havel, shy of overstatement, does not always insist on its performance.
any Castle, and they were thrilled by the recurrent fanfare signifying the power of the ancient Czech state. In 1867, the monarchy had been divided into Austrian and Hungarian parts; the claims of the Czechs, with their long tradition of power and autonomy, had been ignored; and the emperor in Vienna had not been crowned king of Bohemia at Prague Castle, as tradition required. Smetana had kept his composition in his desk for nine years to save it for the opening of theNational Theater, but general enthusiasm at the opening night on June 11, 1881, was somewhat dampened by the official presence of the Hapsburg crown prince, Rudolf (actually of a progressive cast of mind, and a suicide at Mayerling later). Because of some “Old Czech” intrigue, Smetana had been denied a ticket to his own premiere, but Rudolf invited him to his little salon and there created another difficult situation, because, not knowing that Smetana was hard of hearing (due to a syphilitic infection), he tried to make himself understood by raising his voice.
Libuše
was again performed at the “new” National Theater on November 18, 1883—the original building had been destroyed by fire soon after its opening and rebuilt thanks to the spontaneous financial efforts of the entire nation—but it was a piece too monumental to be performed
en suite
. Smetana survived the opening of the new theater by only a year: he died in a Prague asylum for the insane in 1884. The famous
Libuše
fanfare endures at state ceremonies and on the Czech radio, formally announcing the presence of the president of the republic, though Václav Havel, shy of overstatement, does not always insist on its performance.
Grillparzer’s play and Smetana’s opera, with their final acts speaking of the glories and the vicissitudes of Prague, show how the ancient myth, first told to legitimize the P
emysl dynasty, was monumentalized or subverted in the nineteenth century. The Czechs used it to evoke national history and, ultimately, for ceremonial celebration of the nation itself. Czech tradition, in the age of emancipatory nationalism, culminated in Smetana’s oratorio and the attendant achievements of the great nineteenth-century artists and sculptors, yet the national celebration was only two steps away from the stony gesture, the museum, the patriotic postcard, and Alois J
rasek’s narrative, however poetic, for the schools. The German romantics had admired Libussa from a distance until Grillparzer turned his analytical mind to unmasking the implications of the ancient myth pertaining to men and women, male rule and gynocracy, the modern division of labor, and the relative, not absolute, value of nations. Strangely enough, it was this analytical and dyspeptic Viennese who fully revealed the bitter modernity of Prague’s ancient myth and, by asking corrosive questions, made it different from all other stories about the origins of cities.
emysl dynasty, was monumentalized or subverted in the nineteenth century. The Czechs used it to evoke national history and, ultimately, for ceremonial celebration of the nation itself. Czech tradition, in the age of emancipatory nationalism, culminated in Smetana’s oratorio and the attendant achievements of the great nineteenth-century artists and sculptors, yet the national celebration was only two steps away from the stony gesture, the museum, the patriotic postcard, and Alois Jrasek’s narrative, however poetic, for the schools. The German romantics had admired Libussa from a distance until Grillparzer turned his analytical mind to unmasking the implications of the ancient myth pertaining to men and women, male rule and gynocracy, the modern division of labor, and the relative, not absolute, value of nations. Strangely enough, it was this analytical and dyspeptic Viennese who fully revealed the bitter modernity of Prague’s ancient myth and, by asking corrosive questions, made it different from all other stories about the origins of cities.OTAKAR’S PRAGUE, 880—1278
In the four hundred years between Duke Bo
ivoj’s decision to shift the seat of the P
emyslid family to the Hrad
any plateau and the rise of Bohemian royal power in the late thirteenth century, Prague or, rather, its constituent parts approached their modern shape by topographical expansion, social diversity, and architectural transformation, ecclesiastic and secular. The changes were most visible at the ever transformed castle, by the sudden rise and near-fall of the Vyšehrad as residence of the dynasty and, above all, by the new development of town life on the right bank of the river constituting the actual core of historical Prague as it appears to visitors today. The right-bank Old Town, as it is called now, was slowly settled in the eleventh century; it is certainly older than the New Town, founded by Emperor Charles IV in the mid-fourteenth century, though it is younger than the castle and the left-bank settlements in its shadow, or the Vyšehrad with its own small suburb to the south.
ivoj’s decision to shift the seat of the Pemyslid family to the Hradany plateau and the rise of Bohemian royal power in the late thirteenth century, Prague or, rather, its constituent parts approached their modern shape by topographical expansion, social diversity, and architectural transformation, ecclesiastic and secular. The changes were most visible at the ever transformed castle, by the sudden rise and near-fall of the Vyšehrad as residence of the dynasty and, above all, by the new development of town life on the right bank of the river constituting the actual core of historical Prague as it appears to visitors today. The right-bank Old Town, as it is called now, was slowly settled in the eleventh century; it is certainly older than the New Town, founded by Emperor Charles IV in the mid-fourteenth century, though it is younger than the castle and the left-bank settlements in its shadow, or the Vyšehrad with its own small suburb to the south.The richly structured Hrad
any Castle was, from the beginning, conceived as a late Slavic burg protecting, within its ample space, sacred and princely dwellings, constantly built and rebuilt, almost a little town in itself, like Kafka’s castle as seen by K. After Duke Bo
ivoj had built a modest enough little church and his rough-hewn residence in the late ninth century, his sons and daughters in turn established churches and convents on the fortified plateau, especially after 973, when Prague’s first bishop was appointed and moved into his own house (a Chapel of St. Maurice, who is usually represented as a black knight, was later built close by); after many sieges by German, Polish, and Moravian armies, the
dukes were not remiss in building more substantial fortifications, the white square stones of the walls shining in the light. As early as 920 Duke Bo
ivoj’s son built a basilica dedicated to St. George, and a few years later his son, Duke Václav, the massive rotunda of St. Vitus (possibly employing artisans well informed about Dalmatian Romanesque architecture). Duke Václav—known as St. Wenceslas, patron saint of Bohemia—was later buried there according to his own wishes, and also the mortal remains of St. Vojt
ch. For more than a hundred and fifty years, the basilica and rotunda stood side by side; Princess Mlada, returning from Rome, had founded a Benedictine convent there in 973 affiliated with the basilica (to educate Pfemyslid princesses appropriately), and the rotunda attracted many pious pilgrims visiting the graves of the Czech martyrs. In 1060, Cosmas reports, the king decided to build another magnificent Romanesque basilica to replace the rotunda, with three naves, three towers, and all in white stone to dominate the castle from above; construction was completed a generation later.
any Castle was, from the beginning, conceived as a late Slavic burg protecting, within its ample space, sacred and princely dwellings, constantly built and rebuilt, almost a little town in itself, like Kafka’s castle as seen by K. After Duke Boivoj had built a modest enough little church and his rough-hewn residence in the late ninth century, his sons and daughters in turn established churches and convents on the fortified plateau, especially after 973, when Prague’s first bishop was appointed and moved into his own house (a Chapel of St. Maurice, who is usually represented as a black knight, was later built close by); after many sieges by German, Polish, and Moravian armies, thedukes were not remiss in building more substantial fortifications, the white square stones of the walls shining in the light. As early as 920 Duke Bo
ivoj’s son built a basilica dedicated to St. George, and a few years later his son, Duke Václav, the massive rotunda of St. Vitus (possibly employing artisans well informed about Dalmatian Romanesque architecture). Duke Václav—known as St. Wenceslas, patron saint of Bohemia—was later buried there according to his own wishes, and also the mortal remains of St. Vojtch. For more than a hundred and fifty years, the basilica and rotunda stood side by side; Princess Mlada, returning from Rome, had founded a Benedictine convent there in 973 affiliated with the basilica (to educate Pfemyslid princesses appropriately), and the rotunda attracted many pious pilgrims visiting the graves of the Czech martyrs. In 1060, Cosmas reports, the king decided to build another magnificent Romanesque basilica to replace the rotunda, with three naves, three towers, and all in white stone to dominate the castle from above; construction was completed a generation later.All around the Hrad
any plateau, on the hills and also closer to the river, a constellation of new convents and churches emerged: in 993, the first monastery of Benedictine monks, who arrived from Monte Cassino, south of Rome, on B
evnov Hill; in 1140 the new convent of Praemonstratenses from the west of Germany on Mount Zion, later called Strahov; and a third monastery, that of the Knights of St. John, and their Church of St. Mary Under the Chain, closer to the river, in 1169. King P
emysl Otakar II’s royal imagination was more challenged than pleased, possibly for military and economic reasons, by the disorderly mosaic of churches, manors, miserable huts, and monastic enclaves on the left bank of the river, and he acted accordingly.
any plateau, on the hills and also closer to the river, a constellation of new convents and churches emerged: in 993, the first monastery of Benedictine monks, who arrived from Monte Cassino, south of Rome, on Bevnov Hill; in 1140 the new convent of Praemonstratenses from the west of Germany on Mount Zion, later called Strahov; and a third monastery, that of the Knights of St. John, and their Church of St. Mary Under the Chain, closer to the river, in 1169. King Pemysl Otakar II’s royal imagination was more challenged than pleased, possibly for military and economic reasons, by the disorderly mosaic of churches, manors, miserable huts, and monastic enclaves on the left bank of the river, and he acted accordingly.Old chronicles sometimes suggest that the Vyšehrad was fortified earlier than Prague Castle (some assume that Libussa actually resided at the Vyšehrad), but archaeologists assert that this place, on a right-bank cliff where the Boti
brook flows into the Vltava, emerged as a fortified place of secular and ecclesiastical eminence only sixty or seventy years after Prague Castle. It grew rapidly for some time when Pfemyslid princes quarreled with members of their family residing downstream. A ducal mint was working on the Vyšehrad late in the tenth century, and scholars believed that a ducal residence and a few early chapels were built there and endured the Polish siege of the region in 1000. It was Vratislav II (1061—92), duke and later king, who formally shifted the P
emyslid residence to the Vyšehrad, built there a dwelling for himself and a chapter for his clerics, a Romanesque rotunda of St. Martin (now
completely restored) and, close to older church buildings, a Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul, extended and adorned by his successors and later reshaped in Gothic style. Yet, after this moment of splendor and hope, the Vyšehrad lost its political importance in the later reign of Sob
slav I (1125—40), who decided to move to Prague Castle again, and from his time on the P
emyslids and the other dynasties following them resided there. King P
emysl Otakar II did not do anything to revive the royal splendor, and it was only Emperor Charles IV who, in his desire to claim the glories of the P
emyslid dynasty for himself and his house, rebuilt the Vyšehrad to serve as a place of memory and respect for the past, and so it has remained, or what is left of it after the Hussite revolution, until today.
brook flows into the Vltava, emerged as a fortified place of secular and ecclesiastical eminence only sixty or seventy years after Prague Castle. It grew rapidly for some time when Pfemyslid princes quarreled with members of their family residing downstream. A ducal mint was working on the Vyšehrad late in the tenth century, and scholars believed that a ducal residence and a few early chapels were built there and endured the Polish siege of the region in 1000. It was Vratislav II (1061—92), duke and later king, who formally shifted the Pemyslid residence to the Vyšehrad, built there a dwelling for himself and a chapter for his clerics, a Romanesque rotunda of St. Martin (nowcompletely restored) and, close to older church buildings, a Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul, extended and adorned by his successors and later reshaped in Gothic style. Yet, after this moment of splendor and hope, the Vyšehrad lost its political importance in the later reign of Sob
slav I (1125—40), who decided to move to Prague Castle again, and from his time on the Pemyslids and the other dynasties following them resided there. King Pemysl Otakar II did not do anything to revive the royal splendor, and it was only Emperor Charles IV who, in his desire to claim the glories of the Pemyslid dynasty for himself and his house, rebuilt the Vyšehrad to serve as a place of memory and respect for the past, and so it has remained, or what is left of it after the Hussite revolution, until today.
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