Return to Yester House and to Menotti

In this deeply personal essay, Emre Aracı returns in memory to Yester House, the Palladian mansion in East Lothian where opera composer Gian Carlo Menotti once reigned over a life as theatrical as his music. Two decades after a rare luncheon with the maestro in 2003, Aracı reflects on the atmosphere of that enchanted day, on Menotti’s grace and enduring dreams, and on the faded grandeur of a vanished world. With quiet lyricism, he explores how memory, architecture, and music interweave, preserving beauty against the tide of modern indifference.

Can one ever truly forget those majestic gates, crowned and imposing, flanked by ivy-clad lodges in perfect symmetry? Passing through those wrought iron railings, tracing a path seemingly drawn with a ruler, shaded by venerable trees standing like sentinels, could one possibly doubt that a vanished world—glimpsed in a faded photograph within one of those cherished books on the lives of the great composers—still lingers, somewhere beyond time?

"Can one ever truly forget those majestic gates, crowned and imposing"—entrance to Yester House

Crossing that threshold, one leaves behind the tedious present, stepping instead into a forgotten realm where the hues are muted but the memories vivid. I recall holding an old Edwardian postcard of those gates, and with it, the memory of a day long past, 13 October 2003 to be precise: a luncheon at the table of Gian Carlo Menotti, the Italian opera composer who resided in his Palladian Scottish mansion more like an earl than a musician. Could I ever forget it? Especially now, two decades on, in a world grown so unfamiliar. Yet the memory endures, a quiet comfort. That day, in the heart of an old estate, Menotti—then ninety-two—had already shaped his own world, a sanctuary untouched by passing trends or fleeting acclaim.

Just as a single musical note contains a wealth of overtones, so do memories linger within us, shaping our days even when we are unaware. They return when summoned, and sometimes even when not—in the pages of an old magazine, on the image on a postcard—like whispered messages from the self we once were. We call it coincidence. But perhaps it is something else: a message from the universe within, gently nudging us towards new paths and new recollections.

Back in February 2004, my essay “Gian Carlo Menotti: Scotland’s First and Last Italian Grand Maestro” appeared as the cover feature of Andante magazine’s ninth issue. It is now another February day, and I find myself writing again about Menotti—only this time for issue number 209. That two hundred issues lie between the two moments stirs a deep sense of time’s passing. And yet, I still recall that day at Yester House vividly, where, over the course of six hours, I conversed with Menotti and felt the thrill of living history. Dismissed by advocates of the avant-garde, Menotti’s music—once deemed old-fashioned, even romantic—continues to offer a kind of refuge to those of us who feel more at home in the eighteenth century than the twenty-first. It wasn’t just his music that enchanted, but the life he orchestrated: a theatre of existence enacted within the ornate halls of Yester, which, for us kindred spirits, became a source of enduring inspiration. That is perhaps why I have always felt it important to preserve the memory of Yester’s atmosphere, to keep it from fading. Even as a student at the University of Edinburgh, I was startled by the Festival’s disregard for Menotti—an oversight I could never quite reconcile.

Imagine, then, my surprise when I recently encountered this line on the Edinburgh International Festival’s website, describing Menotti’s 1947 opera The Telephone as “exquisitely beautiful... a one-act romantic comedy... rich in humour and classical allusion.” Commissioned by the Festival for Scottish Opera’s “My Light Shines On” project, it was reimagined as a short film set in modern-day Edinburgh—complete with mobile phones—and was lauded by both The Times and The Scotsman. Menotti had, in a way, returned to Edinburgh. But I still prefer the journey inward, back to Yester and its memories—to a history not staged but lived.

Yester House in East Lothian served as the stage upon which Menotti orchestrated his enchanted life

Yester House stands near the village of Gifford, in East Lothian, about forty kilometres east of Edinburgh. For centuries it was the seat of the Marquesses of Tweeddale. Construction began in 1699, and under the 4th Marquess, John Hay, the great Adam brothers gave it its enduring neoclassical grandeur. By the 1960s, however, the estate, burdened by post-war circumstance, was sold—first to antique dealers, then, quite unexpectedly in 1972, to a sixty-one-year-old Gian Carlo Menotti.

“Menotti,” wrote John Ardoin in The Stages of Menotti (1985), “was born with the knowledge that originality is not about being different, but about being sincerely and humanly oneself”.

Indeed, it was this pursuit of truth and atmosphere that brought him to Yester—a stage not only for his operas, but for his life. He was a dreamer who, knowing disappointment was inevitable, still dared to dream. He faced setbacks, of course. Critics, defeats, and disappointments never fully dimmed his optimism. He believed in goodness—in talent, sincerity, and second chances. It was that same generosity that had welcomed me through Yester’s doors. Years later, I discovered an article by the Turkish musicologist and music historian Cevad Memduh Altar (1902-1995) recalling the first Turkish production of The Consul in Ankara, 1952, with Leyla Gencer in the lead. Struggling with royalties, Altar wrote candidly to Menotti. The reply was prompt and gracious. Menotti arranged to waive all difficulties, asking only that legal agreements be respected. “His letter gave me great joy,” Altar wrote, “and deepened my faith in his legendary humility.” That was the Menotti who met us in a corduroy jacket and tie, walking stick in hand—kind, paternal, and unfailingly warm.

"Menotti met us in a corduroy jacket and tie, walking stick in hand" (photo © Strode Wagner)

Born in 1911 in Cadegliano Viconago, near the Swiss border, Menotti never seemed quite to leave that golden age of his childhood. In Yester’s drawing room hung a circular portrait painted in 1918 by Giuseppe Amisani, depicting the seven-year-old Menotti with his brother Tullio. That gaze from the wall—youthful, idealistic—reminded one that Menotti never stopped seeking beauty.

I was especially captivated by a theatre model I found that day—more than a toy, it was a scale representation of a real theatre Menotti hoped to build from Yester’s ruined stables. The design had been commissioned from John Quinlan Terry, one of the then Prince of Wales’s preferred architects—now King Charles III—who had even visited Yester in person and made a donation.

A limited-edition print was produced, showing a mock performance in the imagined theatre, with Saint Augustine’s poignant words beneath: “O Beauty, ever ancient and ever new, late have I loved thee…”.

Menotti dreamt of a Scottish Glyndebourne. But despite the Prince’s support, officialdom was unmoved. The theatre remained unrealised. 

John Quinlan Terry’s design for Menotti’s proposed theatre at Yester—a vision never realised

Pulitzer Prize winner, companion of Samuel Barber, creator of Amahl and the Night Visitors, The Medium, The Consul, and The Saint of Bleecker Street, Gian Carlo Menotti died in Monaco on 1 February 2007. His vision for Yester died with him. The house passed to his adopted son Francis Menotti, then was sold. Menotti’s belongings, including the theatre model, were auctioned. By 2015, Yester had been reborn as a venue for society weddings, clad in the glossy sameness of boutique hotel chic.

"Before I left that day, Menotti gave me a photograph taken in Yester’s study", 13 October 2003

Before I left that day, Menotti gave me a photograph taken in Yester’s study, the Blüthner piano and Amisani portrait visible behind him. He signed it: “To celebrate a new friendship”.

And now, twenty years later, as I return to Yester in memory, I think of those words from Saint Augustine once more. Though the world changes, the beauty hidden within us does not fade. And for that—for Menotti’s grace, music, and dreams—I remain ever grateful.

Emre Aracı's article was originally published in Turkish under the title ‘Yester Malikânesi'ne ve Menotti'ye Geri Dönüş’ in the March 2024 issue (No. 209) of Andante.

Link to the original article in Turkish

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