Orpheus in Rages

Onstage strode Orpheus, a fine, sturdy figure of a man, wearing a beige and green costume, and carrying a gilded lyre. In the orchestra the noble trombones swelled to the point where Orpheus would sing of his decision to seek Eurydice in Hades. Four thousand guests at France's Aix-les-Bains music festival, including Italy's ex-King Umberto and ex-Queen Marie Jose, leaned forward. The hero was about to make his impassioned plea: "Give her back to me, you powers of Hell!" Instead, the audience heard his hoarse shout in Italian-accented French:"I refuse to go on until the management pays me 75,000 francs extra!"

Then Orpheus smashed his lyre to the floor and the orchestra ground to shocked silence. Thus last week did La Scala Baritone Giuseppe Valdengo--sometime (1947-54) of the Metropolitan Opera and a notable Iago in Toscanini's 1947 broadcast of Otello--throw the skids under one of the first operas ever written, Monteverdi's Orfeo (1607). From the wings issued a flying wedge of furies, shades and demons, screaming insults at the baritone, who made a hurried and unheroic exit. Umberto and his lady rose uncertainly as the audience broke into loud jeers, cheers and whistles. The conductor appeared onstage and stammered, "My humblest apologies, Your Majesties," before he burst into tears.

There was no more opera that night in Aix-les-Bains. Later, the festival management issued an angry statement: the performance at which Baritone Valdengo balked was a retake for television kinescope, for which the rest of the company had readily agreed to perform free. Moreover, it was Monsieur Valdengo's fault in the first place: he did not know his part (he had pinned a copy of his score to his lyre), and had improvised to the point of making the retake necessary.

That night, the stillness of mountain-cradled Aix-les-Bains was shattered. It was Baritone Valdengo, running through the streets. "Help! Police! They are taking the wheels off my car!" he yelled. "They are trying to keep me from leaving town!" At that point, ex-Queen Marie Jose leaned from her hotel window and scornfully called: "Silenzio! Silenzio, maestrino!"* Valdengo left town without another word--and without interference.

* "Little master," usually reserved for child prodigies.

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