From the Caribbean to Covent Garden: In Pursuit of "Rusalka"

In this atmospheric essay, Emre Aracı traces a lyrical path from the moonlit shores of Barbados to the gilded stage of Covent Garden, in pursuit of Dvořák’s tragic water-nymph, Rusalka. What begins as an encounter with the Atlantic seascape of Bathsheba Bay—haunted by the composer’s music—unfolds into a meditation on longing, artistic destiny, and the transformative power of opera. Interweaving Hans Christian Andersen’s melancholy "Little Mermaid", the solitude of Vysoká forest where Dvořák composed, and the bittersweet eco-conscious staging of Rusalka in London, Aracı reveals how music, memory, and place conspire to make myth resonate in the modern soul. At once a musical reflection and a personal pilgrimage, this essay invites the reader to stand beside Rusalka’s moonlit lake—whether in Bohemia, the Caribbean, or within the deeper landscape of the heart.

During the ten days I spent at Bathsheba Bay on the island of Barbados in February 2023, I found myself each evening bewitched by the moonlit seascape of that deserted shore. The eerie silhouettes of palm trees, the ceaseless foam-crested waves crashing against the coast from the vast Atlantic, all seemed to conjure the spectral presence of Rusalka. Perhaps it was because I had been immersed daily in the symphonies of Dvořák, listening and reflecting upon them in turn, that this impression came to possess me so fully. Admittedly, the fairy-tale Rusalka is a fresh-water nymph inhabiting a forest lake, not the sea, and yet amid the sound of the waves striking Bathsheba’s fearsome rocks, under a moon whose silver enchantment alters the very forms of things, I stood solitary before that immense body of water and felt her presence unmistakably.

"Bewitched by the moonlit seascape of Bathsheba Bay" (photo © Emre ARACI)

Do we guide our lives by our thoughts, or do our thoughts emerge from some unseen destiny already ordained for us—like dreams visited from the future? I cannot say. But I do know that, upon returning from Barbados to London—having stood in Trafalgar Square in Bridgetown, once so named in honour of Admiral Nelson, whose statue has since been removed—I found myself once more beneath the chimes of London’s Big Ben. It was then, leafing through The Spectator, that I came across Richard Bratby’s review announcing that Rusalka was being staged at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. I knew at once I must attend. For I had already felt the sorrowful tale of Rusalka—not on stage, but by the rocky shores of the Atlantic. And yet, it seemed, she had chosen not to reveal herself to me there, but rather beside the Thames, in London’s old flower market. Covent Garden, in truth, was the place where this tale had first taken root in my own life, many years ago. And so, perhaps, the coincidence was not so coincidental after all.

Hans Christian Andersen by Albert Küchler, 1834
(Schloss Frederiksborg)

"A water-nymph, Rusalka lives with her family in the pure waters of a forest lake. One day, she falls in love with a Prince who comes to bathe in the lake. Surrendering her voice, she leaves her world behind in the hope of finding true love, but discovers herself instead in a world that cannot love her"—so reads the succinct synopsis on the Royal Opera House website, which also reveals the tale’s affinity with Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid. Andersen, in composing his fairy tale, was himself inspired by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué’s novella Undine, published in 1811—though the deeper inspiration surely came from within, from the melancholy and unrequited yearning that shadowed Andersen’s own life. Those familiar with his biography will know this well. Like all true artists, he transfigured his private longings into universal myth. And is not Dvořák’s opera one of the many links in that same, ever-lengthening chain? For some, it may remain a fairy tale, for others a childhood story—but for a few, it becomes a noble prescription for living, transmitted through time by kindred spirits who, amidst the injustices and lovelessness of life, have felt the same.

It was for this reason that Bratby’s dismissive headline—"Dated and Wasteful"—did not dissuade me. I went. For within the gilt and crimson velvet of the 1858 opera house—its warmth undimmed by time—I was certain that, regardless of the production, Dvořák’s divine score would reach out through vibrations of sound, touch the body, and transport us to another realm where the riddles of life are answered. And so it was. The Covent Garden production of Rusalka had embraced an eco-conscious aesthetic. Directed by Natalie Abrahami and Ann Yee, the staging made use of recycled materials for both sets and costumes—even the programme was printed with plant-based ink. Bratby, in a closing note of irony, quipped that should Britain’s post-Brexit tomato shortage worsen, one might boil the booklet into soup. I couldn't help but smile.

As a music historian convinced that opera, with its scenery, costume and music, forms an indivisible whole, I have long suffered the dreariness of modern reinterpretations. Thankfully, the trend has yet to extend to tampering with composers’ scores—but I fear the day may too come. The Covent Garden Rusalka, except for the impressively choreographed opening scene in the overture that was given a floating-in-the-air effect, was regrettably marred by such contemporary trappings. Yet under the baton of the esteemed maestro Semyon Bychkov, the performance swiftly overcame this, constructing within our minds the world Dvořák had already so perfectly scored. Add to that the remembered moonlight over Bathsheba, the feelings etched upon the soul, and even the plant-ink programme could not dispel the sanctity of the moment.

When Lithuanian soprano Asmik Grigorian sang the opera’s best-known aria, Song to the Moon, one could not help but sense that silver orb in Dvořák’s music.

"O moon high up in the deep, deep sky / Your light sees far away / You wander through the wide, wide world / You look into people's houses..."

—how vividly Czech poet Jaroslav Kvapil’s libretto found life in the composer’s hands.

No, I did not follow Bratby’s advice and boil the programme for soup. On the contrary, I read Henrietta Bredin’s essay within its pages with great interest, discovering more about Dvořák’s creative process and falling further under the spell of this Slavic fairy tale. During his student years in Prague, Dvořák moved from one rented room to another, but his childhood had been spent in the Bohemian countryside. After marrying, he sought once more the peace of the rural life. In 1877, he and his family were guests of Count Václav Kounic in the village of Vysoká, fifty kilometres southwest of Prague. The Count had married Josefina, the sister of Dvořák’s wife Anna, and thus became the composer’s brother-in-law. The family seat was the Kounic Palace, now the rectorate of Masaryk University in Brno. As a wedding gift, the Count built a manor in the forest at Vysoká for Josefina.

Dvořák fell in love with the natural beauty of Vysoká at first sight. Initially, he stayed near the manor during summers, but later purchased a small farmhouse in the northwest of the village, adding a storey, and spent over twenty summers there in tranquillity. After his death, it would be named “Villa Rusalka”, for it was there the opera was conceived. Legend has it that the small lake behind the manor was the source of inspiration—so much so that it came to be known as “Rusalka’s Lake.” His Seventh and Eighth Symphonies were also composed in Vysoká.

At the villa, Dvořák raised pigeons, tended his garden, and adhered to a strict daily routine. He would rise early, walk in the forest, and work on whatever piece he was composing at the time. After lunch, another long walk. According to his son Otakar, who often accompanied him, the composer would remain silent throughout, deeply absorbed in musical thought. He would sometimes murmur a newly invented melody, tapping his chest with his right hand.

Bredin uses the untranslatable German term Waldeinsamkeit—"the solitude of the forest"—to describe Dvořák’s life at Vysoká. One is reminded at once of Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings or Thoreau’s Walden. Given such surroundings, the opera’s dark and lyrical romanticism comes as no surprise. In a letter dated 13 May 1884, written to his publisher and friend Fritz Simrock, Dvořák expressed this communion with nature. He wrote:

“I have been here for a few days now. I am in the most beautiful forests, in the finest weather, spending the most beautiful days of my life, and whenever I hear the birds’ enchanting song, I feel a new sense of admiration… Don’t laugh at me for wanting to write poetically for once, but today is a truly beautiful morning—indescribably so. And the thought that here, in this stillness, I shall at last have a piano of my own…”

(Otakar Šourek, Antonin Dvořák: Letters and Reminiscences, Prague, 1954, p. 82).

And upon that piano, in that very place, Rusalka was brought to life. Or rather, the spirit of that place—the birdsong, the air, the emotions that coursed through Dvořák’s being—became immortal in music, and reached us. It is these thoughts that occupy me now as I once again listen to Song to the Moon while writing these lines.

Dvořák composed Rusalka over seven months, from 21 April to 27 November 1900. Its première took place on 31 March 1901 at the National Theatre in Prague. Though Dvořák’s villa at Vysoká remains in private hands and is not open to the public, the Kounic manor has, since the 1990s, housed the Antonin Dvořák Museum.

"O moon high up in the deep, deep sky…"

After those moonlit Caribbean nights and my sojourn in Covent Garden, I know that one day I shall journey to Vysoká, for I know Rusalka will console me. And I extend the invitation to you as well...

Emre Aracı's article was originally published in Turkish under the title ‘Karayipler'den Covent Garden'a Rusalka'nın izinde’ in the April 2023 issue (No. 198) of Andante.

Link to the original article in Turkish

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