II. Make up situations suggested by the following sentences paying careful attention to the word combinations in bold type:

1. "Don't worry, Gordon, your father will take charge of the shop while we're away," Enid said. 2. "What you say comes to this: I'll never have a chance of a holiday," Enid said bitterly. 3. A day came when .Enid's patience failed her. 4. Enid was not sure whether her plan!, would work, but she couldn't remain passive any longer. 5. "If you have your left hand tattooed nobody will be able to tell you from the Uriques' son," Thacker said. 6. "I can take up phonetics and become a teacher like you," Eliza said to Higgins. 7. Mr. Cowlishaw realized that Rannoch's scheme was brilliant, yet they didn't come to an agreement. 8. John took to going out to play cards every night and his wife felt lonely. 9. "That's what comes of being inconsiderate of your wife," John Perkins thought looking at her things scattered about the room. 10. Whatever crazy jobs Erik did during his summer vacation it never told on his mood. 11. "Don't take it too much to heart," Gerston said, trying to calm down the Greggs. 12. Mr. Gregg worked his way to the front of the crowd and saw his fence displayed in the centre of the hall. 13. Mrs. Drake knew that if they stayed a few days more at the Thayers', nothing good would come of it. 14. The Senior Lieutenant never missed a chance to play a joke on the Worm and for a time he got away with

III Translate the following sentences paying careful attention to the parts in bold type:.

1. Хиггинс попросил миссис Пирс взять на себя заботу об одежде Элизы. 2. "Ты слишком обидчива, Энид", - сказал Гордон. 3. Рассказ миссис Паклтайд не обманул никого из ее друзей. Они слишком хорошо ее знали. 4. Генри не принимал слишком близко к сердцу шутки своих товарищей, и вскоре они оставили его в покое. 5. Теккер и Малыш быстро договорились (пришли к

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соглашению). 6. Миссис Хиггинс, должно быть, привязалась к Элизе;. так как всячески старалась помочь ей. 7. Я весь день дома. За: ходите, когда у Вас .есть время. 8. В то время как полковник читал документ, девушка пробралась к выходу и исчезла. 9. Лекарство, которое тетя Полли дала Тому, оказалось чудодейственным. 10.. Эни и ее брат с самого первого дня привязались к раненному английскому летчику. 11. План Эни удался: никто не сомневался в существовании Спитфайера Джонни. 12. "Если бы Спитфайер Джонни был жив, он бы обязательно присутствовал на этом-собрании", - сказал Риттен.

IV. Make up short dialogues using the following structural patterns:".

a) you'd better ... unless; needn't do; no risk of doing; I should think

b) to expect smb to do; there's not a ...; to be good at doing smth; might have done

V. Read the following sentences and suggest Russian equivalents for the parts in bold type:

1. You know what a bright lad he is as a rule. The life and soul of every gathering he attends. 2. I could not see that she took a great deal of trouble with her guests, but they seemed to like being there and the gay, pleasant party did not break up till two in IJie morning. 3. He was shivering all over. He could not fail to guess what was the matter. He had caught a severe cold. 4. This conversation was failing entirely to express my own feelings. 5. "Rain,"(said Мог, "what she said was not true. It was simply a trick of Nan's. Surely you weren't taken in." 6. I had half expected Uncle Giles to take offence at the words, but, on the contrary, he seemed not at all annoyed or surprised. 7. In another five or six years he would take charge of the head office in Chicago. 8. He was quite a different sort of chap from Norman and she took to him at once. 9. We had met fairly often in the course of renewed acquaintance, for I had taken to dropping in on Barney once or twice a week. 10. He was a bachelor and to give himself something to do, had lately taken up gardening. M. "We hoped Tallis would persuade him to go back to Cambridge, only it hasn't worked so far." 12. There was so much gentleness in Richard, which was missing in his brother. 13. He had come across her at the watering place where he had spent two months in the summer. 14. Searching in the library, I came across a valuable manuscript. 15. What it comes to is that the thing is a mystery which time alone can solve. 16. I hope he'lbcome to his senses and behave more wisely. 17. As he expected, Bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at the plans. 18. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds and might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheekbone. 19. June took her defeat so deeply to heart that Old Jolyon carried her away to Paris. 20. In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would come of it.

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ADDITIONAL TEXTS

HEROISM IN WARTIME

SPITFIRE JOHNNY

By Oreste Pinto

(continued)

Three months later I happened to be near Zutphen and it was then that I decided to solve the mystery of Spitfire Johnny.

I had been given the name and address of a man who had led one of the most successful Resistance groups in the locality and I called on 'him. His name was Harling and he had a small farm a few miles east of Zutphen. He was a big friendly man and he greeted me warmly. His enthusiasm grew when I broached the subject of Spitfire Johnny. He started telling me about the daring exploits that the Englishman organized, the raids on German convoys, the blowing up of railway lines and the thefts from arms dumps. Harling gave a dramatic recital of many of Spitfire Johnny's exploits that lasted nearly an hour. Once during his monologue, I managed to slip a short question into a brief pause when he was helping himself to a generous doze of gin.

"Where's Spitfire Johnny now?" I asked.

He swung round. "Didn't you know? The poor fellow is dead. His body is buried on a farm the other side of Zutphen."

"How did he die?"

"It was sheer bad luck. The irony of fate you might call it. He got himself killed in a stupid accident."

"How did it happen?"

"Well, you know that when the enemy had been driven out of the place for good, orders were given out by your authorities for the Resistance to hand in all weapons and ammunition. On the farm where Johnny had his quarters, he kept some sticks of gelignite which he'd used for blowing up railways and bridges. The stuff was stored in an old wood-shed and he went to sort it out. No one quite knows what actually happened but there was an explosion - and that was the end of Johnny. They buried what was left of him there on the farm. Crazy, isn't it?"

"Were you there at the time?"

"No, I was miles away. I heard about it afterwards through Annie Dykers."

"Who's she?"

"You haven't met Annie yet? Of course, you've only just arrived in our neighbourhood. You must meet Annie. She knew Johnny better than anyone. It was her farm he ended up at after his plane crashed and she and her young brother nursed him back to health. She became his lieutenant - and what a great fighter she turned out to be! Better than most men round here, though they wouldn't thank you to be reminded of it."

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"That was another little bit of irony. Annie and her kid brother Jan had always wanted to join the Resistance but none of the group leaders would take them on. "Who wants to be saddled with a girl and a child," they used to say. Well, along comes Spitfire Johnny and the next thing we all knew, Annie was giving us orders and bossing us around - and, mind you, fighting the Germans more successfully than any man, excepting Johnny himself, of course."

"What did he look like - this Spitfire Johnny?" I asked.

Harling paused and scratched his head. "I don't really know, 1 never saw him properly in the daylight."

"But someone of your comrades must have seen him and mentioned his description. After all, a man cannot spend over a year in one locality and not be seen by anyone."

"Well, Annie and her brother could describe him, of course. They saw enough of him. You know what it's like in the Resistance, Colonel. We didn't talk more than we had to, even to our trusted friends, about other groups and their members. Johnny was a cautious fellow and he used to lie up in the daytime. He didn't want the Gestapo knowing just what he looked like. Besides, I recall now Annie once told me that he had damaged his face badly when his plane crashed. He was sensitive about his appearance, she said, and didn't want people to look at him."

"But you must have caught a glimpse of him when you met at night," I persisted. "Can't you describe him from that?"

Harling reflected. "I suppose you could call him a shade under medium height, slim built - not unlike Annie's young brother as a matter of fact, but probably a bit broader in the shoulders."

I thought to myself that, however good a Resistance fighter my companion had been, he would never make a competent detective. The description could hardly have been more vague. Still I could not really complain. I had learned a few more facts to add to..the dossier and knew where to go for the final phase of questioning. Next morning I started for the Dykers' farm. I wanted my visit to come as a surprise and so I had not sent a message in advance.

The Dykers' farm lay a mile or two off the main road and, in spite of the recent ravages of war, it was as neat and shining as a new toy. As my car drew up, I saw a woman and a youth driving stakes into a gap in the fence, which was shining white with fresh paint. The woman straightened up and came over to greet me, wiping her palms on the sides of her skirt.

She was tall and she moved with a free-striding grace. Her fair hair was tied back in a loose knot and she wore no make up; but she was one of the most handsome women I had seen for many years. She gazed at me with her grey eyes, and, as she drew near, thrust out her hand just like a man. I introduced myself and explained that I had been asked to investigate the death of Spitfire Johnny by the authorities.

Annie accepted the cigarette I offered her and, although there was nothing masculine about her face and figure, I was again struck

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by: the mannish way she drew on it and let the smoke trickle 'out slowly as she spoke. It was hard to tell her exact age but she must have been about twenty, give or take a year or so. She was obviously in charge and when she called to her brother to come over to meet me, he dropped the hammer and stakes and ran over at once.

Jan Dykers would have been sixteen or seventeen, slim and wiry, as Harling had described him. There was a definite family likeness between him and his sister but where she was free and easy, I thought 1 detected a certain sense of strain about him, a guardedness which I did not understand.

I apologized for interrupting their work, but Annie Dykers brushed my apologies aside with a smile, inviting me into the farmhouse for a cup of coffee. I sat in the comfortable kitchen while she heated the water on a shining range and we talked as she moved to and fro. Jan was lounging in an armchair, silently observing me from under lowered lids.

She mentioned how one night in January the previous year they had been awakened by strange noises outside. At first they both thought it best to be discreet and to take no notice of the scraping noises on the gravel path outside the house. It didn't pay to be too inquisitive in an occupied country. But then she thought that perhaps some of the livestock had got loose and she went down to investigate before too much damage was done. Jan went with her and they were shocked to see a badly wounded British pilot lying on the path outside the door. They had lugged him inside, half-con-scjous, had undressed him, bathed his wounds and put him to bed in a spare room. The pilot had a severe wound in the fleshy part of his thigh and his face was badly knocked about, the nose swollen and discoloured and his left eyebrow ripped open.

They kept him secretly in the farmhouse for several weeks until hislegand face had healed. In reply to my silent question, she .dded quickly that they had dared not ask the local doctor to call and treat their patient. Harbouring an R. A. F. pilot was an offence punishable by death and it would be neither fair nor discreet to share their secret with an outsider.

She went on to tell me, as we sat in the kitchen sipping our coffee, that when Spitfire Johnny could hobble about with a stick, he started to talk about "having a go at the foe", as he put it. She and her brother hated the Germans with a fierce hate and had tried to join the Resistance on various occasions, but they had always been put off, on the ground of their youth and her sex.

Now with Johnny's drive and ability to make plans, the three of them decided to have their own exclusive group.

At first they carried out minor raids at night on arms dumps, in order to equip themselves for more ambitious tasks. Johnny showed them how to operate various weapons and how to rig up explosive charges with detonators and fuse wire. From then on the scope of their operations grew wider and other groups wanted to join in.

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Johnny kept to the background and she acted as liason officer with the other groups..

Finally, when our coffee was finished, she took me outside to see the blackened remains of the store-hut where Johnny had met his sudden and ironic death and the grave they had dug for his body in a field at the back of the house. There was a small wooden cross at the head of the grave and on it the words: Flying Officer John Bruce - Spitfire Johnny. Underneath was the Royal Air Force motto: Per Ardue Ad Astra^* and the date.

Back in the farmhouse again, she handed rne his wallet and a> spotted silk scarf he had been wearing the day he crashed. I thanked her for being so helpful and then asked casually, "Now that the war is over and his body has been located, his parents may wish to have it exhumed and taken back to England for proper burial."

Jan Dykers, silent all this while, exclaimed, "No, they can't!"

His sister hastily covered up. "I think my brother means that Johnny would prefer to be buried at the spot where he fought so well."

I said, "Then surely his body should be buried at the spot where his Spitfire crashed, for that's where his fighting finished."

It was as though my words had switched off all sound in the room, except for the ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece. Jan was tense in his chair, like a coiled spring compressed to breaking point. Annie sat watching me with cold grey eyes. Finally when the silence was almost unbearable she added softly, "What do you mean?"

"I am guessing," I answered. "I am putting down figures in my mind and adding them up to see what total they reach. I see two fine young Dutch people, a girl and her brother, who want to fight in the Resistance but no one will have them because everyone foolishly thinks they are too young and weak to make Resistance fighters. And then one night a third figure arrives on the scene by accident, a badly wounded pilot in the R. A. F. They take him in and try to nurse him - but he is too badly wounded to survive. In spite of their later excuses, they could have sent for a doctor, because there are several patriotic doctors in the neighbourhood who would have taken a risk to save a wounded fighter pilot. But this patient is dying, may be dead already - dead men need no doctors. So the girl and her brother bury the dead man in a grave on the farm, having first removed his possessions, his wallet and scarf.

But with his death a legend is born - the legend of Spitfire Johnny. Perhaps the girl got the idea first, she is the natural leader. No one else knows that the pilot is dead - in fact no one else yet knows of his arrival at the farm. If a new Resistance group is started with the fighter pilot apparently leading it, then the other Resistance groups will pay it more respect and give more help than if the girl and the boy alone were playing at underground fighters.

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And that's what happens. No one else ever actually sees Spitfire Johnny, who is sensitive about his damaged face. In the dark they see a slight figure who looks rather like the brother Jan. Of course, he does - for it is the brother Jan! And Spitfire Johnny's group goes from strength to strength, inspiring the other groups to yet more daring strikes against the enemy."

"But at last the war ends and now what is to happen to Spitfire Johnny? The girl and her brother realize that now he is able to rejoin his R.A.F. unit. Soon people like me will come round asking questions and wanting to meet this legendary figure. So the ghost has to be buried once and for all. An accident is staged and a wood-shed is blown up. Spitfire Johnny goes up with it. A new cross is placed on the existing grave and the hero is finally put to rest.

This is how I add up the facts. Perhaps you can tell me if the answer is correct?"

"A clever man can make the same facts come out to many different answers," Annie Dykers observed. "But where is the proof?"

"Lying there under that white cross," I replied. "If my version is right, there will be a body lying there that has been under ground for about eighteen months. If your story is true, there will be the fragments of a blown up body that was only buried a couple of months ago. Shall we dig up the grave?" I asked, half rising from my chair. "That would prove it one way or the other."

Annie held out a restraining hand. "There is no need," she said, "you are right, of course. What are you going to do now?"

I stood up. "Nothing - except to ask if I may have the honour of shaking hands with the young patriots who did what they thought was best for their country and who fought so well."

I shook hands with them solemnly and then made for the door. As I was leaving, Jan Dykers spoke for almost the first time since we met. "What about the body of the pilot?" he asked.

"Let it lie in peace," I said. "It is not every young fighter who goes on fighting after his death."

I climbed into my car and drove back to Zutphen.

THE FLAG

The sea around the little stony island seemed a boundless desert, stretching miles and miles to the horizon. Nothing disturbed its. surface. From time to time the dim outline of a German warship appeared in the distance. And then as if by magic, one of the huge cliffs on the seemingly dead shore of the island moved noiselessly aside revealing a cave inside of which were three long-range guns. They aimed at the ship and fired. A distant explosion was heard and the ship disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

The island was completely surrounded by enemy ships. All communications with the main Soviet forces were cut off. For more than a month, a handful of courageous Soviet seamen had been defending

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this little fortress from the continuous attacks of the German navy and air force.

The enemy had made several attempts to approach the island, but each time was beaten back by the artillery hidden in the cliffs.

Supplies of ammunition and food were coming to an end.

"Well?" said the commissar.

"That's the end," replied the commander.

"Put it down in the log."

The commander opened the log-book, looked at his watch and slowly wrote: "October 20. The guns fired their last round at 17.45 p.m. One enemy ship sunk. No more ammunition. Food supplies will last one more day."

He closed the book, balanced it on the palm of his hand as if estimating its weight, and put it back on the shelf.

"That's how things stand, commissar," he said without a smile.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

The sailor .on duty entered the room.

"A message, comrade Captain," he said.

"Where from?"

"A German plane dropped it."

The message was written in broken Russian. It read:

"Mr. Soviet Commander, you are surrounded. I advise you to surrender. At 6 a. in. tomorrow there must be a white flag on the top of the cliff. If you do not do this, you will all be killed. Surrender!

Rear-Admiral von Eversharp."

"They want to see a flag," the commander said slowly. "They will. It will be a very large flag, as large as we can possibly make it. Then they won't fail to see it. What do you think, commissar, shall we have time to make it?"

"We must have enough time - we have all night. The men will -sew it. I give you my word, it will be enormous."

The sailors sat up all night long sewing. It was indeed a huge flag. Every piece of cloth that could be found was used. The men sewed it with their thick needles and rough thread. Shortly before dawn the flag was ready. The seamen shaved, cleaned up their uniforms and one by one went out of the cave into the open air with automatic rifles and cartridges slung around their necks.

At daybreak von Eversharp was already up and fully dressed when the morning watch knocked at the door of his cabin. He let the officer in. The latter looked very excited.

"Is there a flag on the cliff?" the Rear-Admiral asked abruptly.

"Yes, sir. They've made up their minds to surrender."

"Excellent. You've brought good news. See that all the men are on deck."

Von Eversharp himself was up on deck a minute later. Day was just breaking. He put his field-glasses to his eyes. On the horizon

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he saw the little stony island. In the morning light the flag looked dark, almost black.

"They must have used all their sheets to make such a big flag," he said to one of the officers.

He gave orders.

A flotilla of torpedo-boats and landing craft made its way towards the island. With the naked eye they could see a handful of Soviet seamen standing at the top of the cliff near the flag. At that moment the sun appeared. Its rays lighted up the island, making the flag look red.

On his flagship the Rear-Admiral laughed as he watched the scene.

"The sun has played a nice joke on the Bolsheviks, he said. "It has dyed their white flag red. But we shall make it turn white again."

The German flotilla reached the shore.

Knee-deep in water, carrying their tommy guns above their heads, the enemy made their way towards the fort.

Suddenly an explosion of terrific force shook the island. Guns, stones, blood-stained clothes and torn German bodies shot up into the air.

"Scoundrels! They're blowing the battery! They've broken the terms of capitulation!" shouted the admiral, his face disfigured with anger.

At that moment a cloud hid the sun. The red light which had coloured the island and the sea faded out. Everything became monotonously grey. Everything except the flag on the top of the cliff. The German commander thought there was something wrong with his eyes. Contrary to all the laws of physics the huge flag remained red. Against the grey background its colour became even deeper. It hurt the eye. The flag had never been white. It had always been red. It could be no other colour. The German had forgotten that it was Soviet men he was fighting against. The sun had not deceived him. He had deceived himself.

He gave new orders. Bombers and fighters rose into the air. Landing craft and destroyers surrounded the island. Parachutists dropped down on it.

And in the midst of this hell on the top of the cliff, there were thirty Soviet seamen, armed with tommy guns and machine guns, and firing in all directions. In this final hour, not one of them thought of life. They knew they would die. But though they were doomed, they wanted to destroy as many of the enemy as they'could. This was their last assignment, and they fulfilled it heroically. Not a single bullet missed, not a single hand-grenade failed to hit its target. Hundreds of fascists lay dead on the approaches to the cliff.

But the forces were not equal. The Soviet men fought to the last, but one by one they fell and died.

Above them waved the flag, as if some invisible giant was firmly carrying it through the smoke of battle, forward to Victory.

(After V. Katayev)

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KHATYN - MEMORIAL TO MURDERED TOWNS

No monument, no work of art, can be more eloquent than the tragedy itself. All over the Soviet Union there are monuments that mark the horrors the Nazis perpetrated here, but telling though they are, they cannot capture the dimensions of those horrors.

Often these war monuments are no more than raw stone, jagged-edged, unfinished, gray and cold. There are just such "monuments'* at Khatyn in Byelorussia, as there are in Lithuania, Poland, Czechoslpvakia, even in Germany itself. But here at Khatyn, the Nazis were most methodical in their calculated policy of wiping out Byelorussian villages and the population itself.

It was not cruelty, first, or even foremost. It was worse. It was policy. It was ideology. It was class murder.

The aim of the Nazi - that is German imperialism - was to eliminate physically as many Byelorussians as was necessary to subdue them in order to clear the territory for German settlers. Lebensraum - living space for Germans - meant death for Byelorussians: 2,360,000 of them.

Here, in Khatyn, visited annually by tens of thousands, and written about by many journalists, no attempt has been made to soften the blow by placing art between you and the reality. The villages that stood here once remain as ghosts on their stone foundations. On each one rises a chimney - a bleak chimney - at whose summit an iron bell clangs discordantly. A concrete wall has been built which reproduces the walls of concentration camps. At intervals, cuts in the wall are blocked by a sinister grill, each one bearing the names of a death camp and the names of the victims. These names run into the tens of thousands.

At no time, faced though they were with actual extinction, did the Byelorussians give up. They ran into the woods and swamps by the thousands. And from there they fought the enemy until the enemy turned and ran and died in Berlin.

Anyone who wants to understand Soviet patriotism, the people's infinite identification with their country, and their contempt for those who betray it, must remember that hardly a Soviet citizen exists who has not lost someone in that war. Over 30 years later, they feel it still. Their children have inherited a sense of blood identity. Socialism is sealed with blood into people. It was a just war of defense. It cost dearly. But those who survived possess their country in their very souls.

(From "World Magazine", April 29, 1978)

Topics for Oral and Written Composition

Make use of the additional texts as well as other sources.

Heroism of the Soviet people in the Great Patriotic War

a) A her,oic deed (on land, at sea, in the air), b) A great battle,

c) Guerrilla warfare, d) A hero, e) A hero-city, f) War memorials.

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Render the contents of the poem in prose:

LET'S TURN OUR HANDS

By J. Wallace

Let's turn our hands to useful things And make this land we prize With all our sinews and our skills A people's paradise Where all may have and all may hope On factories and farms: Brothers, it's time to raise our hearts And time to drop our arms. Let's turn our hands to gentle things: To strike a maiden's hair To lift a baby shoulder high To ease an old man's care. Too long - how long! - we've spent our strength On wars and war's alarms: Brothers, it's time to raise our hearts And time to drop our arms. Let's turn our hands to loveliness That each of us may know. From fires we did not recognize Creation's kindling glow So we may grow in nobleness To match our country's charms: Brothers, it's time to raise our hearts And time to drop our arms.

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^*Lot, Through rough ways to the stars ("Через мужество к звездам")

UNIT TWELVE

TEXT

MOZART'S DON GIOVANNI OPENS IN PRAGUE

The Marriage of Figaro was a great success in Prague and Bondini, the impresario of the Prague National Theatre, wished to have another opera from Mozart for the next season. Mozart agreed. He read a number of plays and came to the conclusion that he could do an opera based on the story of Don Juan, or Don Giovanni. He made the suggestion to the poet Da Ponte who had already written the libretto for The Marriage of Figaro.

All Mozart's genius was now turned to the creating of Don Gid-vanni. The text, by the poet Da Ponte, began to take shape. It had in it a touch of Moliere and Goldoni and something of Tirso de Molina, the Spanish monk who first made the legend into a play, but it also included some of the poet's own ideas. '

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Mozart saw the opera as the tragedy of the Don who, had to fol: low his nature to its destruction, while Da Ponte was determined to write a comedy of intrigue. The poet complicated the Don's efforts at seduction, and Wolfgang developed his clash with the Commandant. Da Ponte felt the plot should come first, but Wolfgang stressed the characters and their emotions.

Gradually he convinced Da Ponte that they should create flesh-and-blood people rather than the stock figures of melodrama, and the poet, who was carried away by the subject, now that he considered it his own, built effective scenes.

As Wolfgang received the text, he composed the music for it, music which would fit any reasonable range of voice. The more he became involved with the drama of the Don, the more it fired his imagination. The story opened a treasure house of music in him. All that he had learned in a life-time of music he used to the full in this score. There were luminous moments in the music, and demonic, primal instincts. Da Ponte continued to insist that Don Giovanni must be a comedy, but tragedy kept creeping in. Wolfgang felt the irony of the story, and that had a predominant effect, though he did not fail to realize the comic character of some of the scenes. For tragic situations he wrote tragic music, and for comic situations he wrote comic music, and he was unconcerned about what kind of an opera it was supposed to be. He concentrated on breathing musical life into the characters. However, Da Ponte declared their new work must have a style.

He titled it Don Giovanni - // dissoluto punito - Dramma gios-coso^* in two acts, and Wolfgang accepted this. Vet while the surface of the music appeared gay, there was somberness underneath.

By October 1, 1787 when Wolfgang left for Prague with Constanze, he had put down half the score on paper and much of the rest was finished in his head. Da Ponte arrived a week later to attend the casting and adjust the text to the singers, and took a room in an inn opposite Wolfgang's so that they could consult with each other from window to window.

Bondini cast Don Giovanni without considering the composer or poet, and when they questioned several of his decisions, the kn-presario stated, "That is all I have. Our National Theatre does not have the resources of Vienna. Besides, this is the same company that sang Figaro so well."

"But this is not Figaro" said Da Ponte. "This is more difficult."

"I cannot hire anyone else," Bondini stressed. "We cannot afford it. As it is, this opera is a great risk. It is so different from Figaro. It is very serious, more tragic than I expected."

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* * *

Mozart directed the rehearsals. He made changes in the arias to suit the demands of the performers and actually wrote the duet between Don Giovanni and Zerlina five times before the singers were satisfied.

Everything seemed ready but the overture was still not done. Bondini was very anxious, there was not a note of the overture on paper and the premiere was the next day, October 29, 1787.

After the dress rehearsal he informed the composer that the opening would have to be cancelled - how dare Mozart wait until the last moment!

"It has been in my head for weeks, but I wanted to hear the entire score before I put it on paper. The overture must contain the essential themes. Don't worry, it will be done in time. I will write it tonight."

"But it is almost midnight now. And even if you stay up all night, when can it be copied for the orchestra?"

"Have the copyists come to the inn at seven in the morning. It will be ready for them." Bondini was so apprehensive that Wolfgang had to be calm and unexcited.

Wolfgang and Constanze had returned to the inn and when they reached their living-room he asked her to prepare some punch to keep him awake while he wrote the overture. He had no doubt that he would finish by morning. The overture had been finished in his head for days, except for a few alterations; he had wanted to hear how the Commandant's scenes sounded before introducing his music thematically into the overture. And now he knew. As he sat at his writing desk he wrote quickly. But the punch made him drowsy and he began to nod, and he could only go on while Constanze was speaking. So, to stay awake, he asked her to tell him stories. This went on for several hours, but the efforts to keep himself awake, the strain of nodding and dozing, then abruptly awakening at the sound of her voice was exhausting, and he began to blot the score.

She said, "Take a nap on the sofa, I will arouse you in an hour."

He slept so deeply she didn't have the heart to disturb him and suddenly at five in the morning he awoke himself, after two hours of sleep.

He did not scold her, but returned to the score refreshed. When the copyists came at seven the overture was ready for them.

They were not as quick as Wolfgang and at seven that evening when the opera was supposed to start, the orchestra still didn't have the overture, which they had not seen or rehearsed. Bondini was frantic; the crowded theatre was restive; only the sight of Herr Kapellmeister Mozart, the composer of Figaro, entering the orchestra, quieted them. He had come to say that the parts were on their way, that he was sure the men were capable of playing the overture without a rehearsal. He made it sound like a great compliment, but he was

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not that positive. A few minutes later the parts of the overture were hastily brought to the orchestra and distributed and the unrehearsed overture commenced.

During the performance, the audience listened intently and at the end applauded loudly. The curtain rose, and as the first scene of Don Giovanni moved smoothly, Wolfgang whispered to several of the musicians near him, "The overture went off very well on the whole, although a good many notes certainly must have fallen under the desk."

Once the overture started, dark, spirited, dramatic, it set the mood for the opera. With Wolfgang conducting, the cast outdid itself. At the final curtain there was an ovation. The audience didn't want to let the company go. Then the leading singers took Wolfgang by the hand and led him before the great curtains, where he stood all alone while wave after wave of applause greeted him. And Con-stanze sat in her box and wanted to cry. Wolfgang looked so tiny on the vast stage. How could so much have come from his frail self? How could anyone conceive what immense effort had gone into this opera? He had been so exhausted today.

Despite all his optimism, he had been unable to sleep during the afternoon as he should have. Instead, he had been pessimistic, which was rare for him. He had sat up on the couch and had said abruptly, "Stanzi, I am afraid. I have tried things in Don Giovanni 1 have never attempted before. That is why I waited with the overture. I couldn't decide what should dominate, the dark or the light colours, until I heard the entire score. Then finally, neither did really. What do you think? Do you think I have attempted too much? Will Don Giovanni please Prague as much as Figaro? It is such a different kind of an opera. I couldn't make the Don an unmitigated rogue. I want to be proud of Don Giovanni, whatever mistakes I made."

"You did it the way you wanted," she had answered. "That is enough."

"Yet, if it is a success they will say I wrote it quickly, easily, almost carelessly. They should know how many times I erase a pas: sage in my mind. But I hate to blot paper. It is simple enough for the musicians to make mistakes as it is. Composing doesn't become easier with time, but harder. I want more from it, I have to have more. There is no one, Stanzi, who has studied composition harder than I have. I have studied all the good composers, Haydn, Handel, Sebastian Bach, his sons, Gluck, oh, I could give you a list as long as the Don's. Do you think they will like it? I've tried to put so much into it."

And now Wolfgang was bowing and the audience was shouting, "Evvivia Mozart! Evvivia Da Pontel Bravo! Bravissimo!"

(From "Sacred and Profane" .by David Weiss)

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^*Don Juan - the Reprobate Punished - a light drama ("Дон Жуан, или Наказанный развратник, веселая драма")

COMMENTARY

NOTES

1. Mozart ['moutsa:t], Wolfgang Amadeus (1756-1791), an Austrian composer

2. The story of Don Giovanni is based on a 14th century Spanish legend. It has been dramatized by a number of famous playwrights, the first being Tirso de Molina in the 16th century.

Moliere and Goldoni used the story as a subject for plays, and later Byron wrote his famous poem "Don Juan".

3. Tirso de Molina ['tirsou dei тэ'П:пз] (1571P-1648), a Spanish dramatist

4. Moliere ['moliea] (1622-1673), pseudonym of Jean Baptiste Poquelin, a French actor and dramatist

5. Goldoni [gol'dount] Carlo (1707-1793), an Italian dramatist

6. Mozart's opera "The Marriage of Figaro" continues the story begun in Rossini's "The Barber of Seville" both based on plays by Beaumarchais.

7. Haydn [haidn] Franz Joseph (1732-1809), an Austrian composer

8. Handel ['hændl] George Frederik (1685-1759), a British (German-born) composer

9. Bach [ba:x(k)] Johann Sebastian (1685-1750), a German organist and composer

10. Gluck [glu:k] Christoph Willibald (1714-1787), a German composer

STRUCTURAL PATTERNS