An Artist of the People

Romanian baritone Nicolae Herlea speaks in a silvery voice that immediately betrays the singer and his modest character. In fact, listening to him speak is to hear him sing. He started performing in the turbulent days of 1948, heading for a career in what now stands as the second golden period of the twentieth century. He made his debut on the stage of the Romanian Opera on 14 April 1950 as Silvio in Pagliacci, setting out for a career in the former East European countries, since Romania was then Russian-occupied territory. Whereas some obvious names were absent in those countries, other very interesting names show up unexpectedly in his earliest years.

NH: I remember very well a Pagliacci in East Berlin featuring the great tenor Helge Rosvaenge as Canio. He may have been in the fall of his career, but to sing next to a living legend like that was quite an experience for a young baritone. Especially since I was still studying at the Conservatory.

RS:You appear to be a kind, sensitive, and somewhat shy person. How did this affect the beginning of your career?

NH: Not until 1958 did I debut on the stage of the Bolshoi Theater, Moscow, where I subsequently was invited to sing for twenty-one years in a row.

RS: From that point onward, your career developed at much greater speed, because 1960 already witnessed your debut in Il barbiere di Siviglia and Le nozze di Figaro, opposite Teresa Berganza in Covent Garden under the baton of Edward Downes. 1963 marked your Scala debut, as the Marquis in Don Carlos under Gabriele Santini. Was that a nerve-wracking experience?

NH: Yes, the emotions were inherent, but creative. The Scala debut was eagerly anticipated by me, because then it was the most important theater in the world, and it meant very much to me. Maybe it was so difficult because I had to do an audition; La Scala was then the only theater where artists, no matter how famous, always had to audition, whereas I have never before or since given any audition. I was simply asked. In any case, I managed to control my emotions and succeeded. Curiously enough, I met one day a young singer at Biffi Scala, in 1965, telling me that foreign artists could audition for La Scala whereas Italians could not. So I spoke with Siciliani, then director, who promised to receive him later. The young singer was the still unknown Luciano Pavarotti. Later on I went to see him as the Duke of Mantua in Rigoletto and witnessed his Scala triumph-splendid! You see, that is the same story as with my own career, and any career in those days: it is not the artist or the singer who discovers his voice, but the public.

RS:Yet one has to start from somewhere: how did you come to sing?

NH: It was a rather fortunate twist of fate. As a youngster I caught a bad cold and needed some surgery. Yet the doctor, who had some expertise with singers, informed my parents that he would not intervene, because I had exceptionally constructed vocal cords. After recovering, I started singing, setting out as a lyric tenor. In 1945, as I went into the Astra Conservatory, I met Professor Costescu Duca, one of the founders of the Romanian Opera. He was a famous baritone himself, and although I never heard him sing onstage because he was too old by then, he became my mentor-a kind of second parent, really. I turned to the baritone repertoire and continued my studies at the Ciprian Porumbescu Conservatory.

RS:As easy as all this sounds, the question remains how you ever got out of the East. You sang for many years in a row in Romania and in the "socialist countries," so the officials must have supported you in your career?

NH: We were all controlled by the state, all managed by the state; it's a miracle we succeeded in the West. This was not only the case of the Romanian artists: Nicolai Ghiaurov, born in Bulgaria, shared the same destiny. Mariana Nicolesco is an exception: she left Romania very young, never came back during the socialist era, and made an extraordinary career in Europe and America, returning only after the 1989 revolution.

RS:You sang with almost every great name in the history of opera from the 1950s onward. Which singers made a decisive impression on you?

NH: Among the basses I remember Ghiaurov, Cesare Siepi, and Theo Adam. As for the tenors, I sang with Mario Del Monaco, Franco Corelli, and with Giuseppe Di Stefano in the second part of his career and again with him in the 1970s, when he was doing the Callas comeback tour. Unfortunately I never sang with Callas, because her career was over when I came to Europe and she canceled our Tosca performances in Japan, where I was to be Scarpia. Montserrat Caballé stepped in. A thrilling event was Andrea Chénier in Madrid, with Plácido Domingo. It was then performed there for the first time in fifty years, since Franco had banned this opera from the stage. So this premiere was a truly dramatic historical event.

RS:What about your baritone colleagues? Who comes to mind?

NH: Above all, Ettore Bastianini, due to whose illness I was able to enter at La Scala. I found in him the same posture, the same kind of voice I have; we were both born for Verdi. Then Robert Merrill, whom I vividly remember from his Metropolitan performances in Aida and Lucia di Lammermoor. Not a good actor, but splendid vocally. Then there's Mario Sereni and Cornell MacNeil, whom I liked in some moments of Rigoletto, with his powerful volume, but somewhat lacking the pianissimo. Then Gobbi, a splendid actor on the stage: whatever he did had genuine meaning.

RS:If we discuss your repertoire, what would you consider your best part?

NH: The foremost role would be Rigoletto. There one needs two voices, so to speak: a very powerful voice, and a kind of softer voice. The noble voice you need to address your daughter. After singing Rigoletto it will be easier to sing other parts, because this role as well as the whole opera are very complex and demanding. The part I sang most often was doubtless Il barbiere di Siviglia: I sang it some 550 times! I believe this is unique, but to say that I liked it all the time . . . I usually pretended not to be bored with it, when asked.

RS:Would you please speak about your Metropolitan years?

NH: Rudolf Bing asked me, in my second year at the Met, to perform in La forza del destino, an opera that had not been performed there for five years after Warren had died onstage singing in it, at age forty-eight. The opening night was a thrilling event, after which I enjoyed a string of debuts in Rigoletto, Pagliacci with Corelli, and Lucia with Joan Sutherland. Corelli was quite a special person, withdrawn, very handsome, and gifted with an exceptionally beautiful voice. The public truly adored him. I remember he also sang in my Don Carlos debut, where he refused to enter the stage in act 2: he had locked himself in his dressing room saying he could not go on, and Mr. Bing as well as others begged him many times to come out again. I believe he was a very shy person, but fortunately he managed to master his emotions and came out again, to great acclaim of course. Corelli was the reverse of Bergonzi, who was not a great stage personality, but was a very conscientious singer. In comparison, my voice fitted much better with Bergonzi's, as we both have straight voices, whereas Corelli has more vibrato in his voice.

RS:How does one think about oneself, when one is regarded, day after day for many years in a row, as a star?

NH: I never felt like a star. I am a modest person with a natural vocal gift that I am very much aware of. My belief is that true talent doesn't need artificial publicity. Music didn't start with me, nor will it end with me. I was never attracted to the glitter and glamour of showbiz and believe that if Callas hadn't met the two rich men in her life, she would have been just a great singer. Thanks to them, she could do anything she desired and there were no limits anymore. Yet I believe she was truly happy only onstage. I already spoke about our programmed Tosca in 1972, which she canceled. When I met her, she claimed illness, but in reality she was shocked by the marriage of Onassis to Jackie Kennedy. When the glitter and glamour were suddenly taken from her, she had no more illusions. Frequently you encounter this urge in artists to create celebrity, but I never felt this need. A true artist has to concentrate on his next performance, and he has no time for frou-frou. That was my career: a natural thing, and success subsequently never left me. If I encountered difficulties, like everybody, they were not related to the art, but to the fact that the musical world is a divided one, with many opposing interests.

RS:Opera houses need singers, but there are not hundreds of Herleas to go around . . .

NH: That is true. There is actually a lack of good baritones. Plenty of tenors, although not always very good. The thing is that there are many talents out there, but we don't know them. This is a matter of arrangements, artificial constructions based on money and power, but the future of opera nevertheless remains in the hands of these new talents and depends upon their perseverance, their efforts, and their passion for the art. Opera will live as long as there are talented singers who can capture the attention of the public. Not just celebrities.

RS:What distinguishes a great singer?

NH: Among so many other things, a major singer will always be remembered for his timbre, the color of his voice. This timbre must be the expression of his soul as well, and when this is the case, the public will feel attracted.

RS:When the subject changes to the end of singers' careers, Herlea laments the name of Hariclea Darclée. Taking a big step back in time, he recalls 1939, the year when Darclée died:

NH: As a child I loved to read newspapers, and in 1939 my mother showed me an article about Darclée's death. It said that her funeral was to take place the next day at Belu Cemetery, at 4 P.M. My mother took me to the funeral, and there, with my eyes in tears, I realized what it meant to be such a great artist, an artist who conquered the world-then to die in such poverty. This is one more point in favor of wisdom in the life of any artist, since he must be able to manage his money and to save his earnings for the days after his career has come to an end. All my life I have lived modestly. I am not a rich person, unless you want to speak of my soul, but I have saved enough to live peacefully. Moreover, my wife is working as a gynecologist in Frankfurt, where we live. At present I am writing my memoirs; I had a very complete life with no break in my career, to which I was totally dedicated. Basically I will never end it. If I sang here tomorrow, there would always be an audience out there for me. No false modesty there: I always loved and respected my public and felt a great responsibility toward them; the feeling is kind of mutual-especially here, in Romania, where I am decorated with the highest possible title, which is "Artist of the People." And not only here, because already at age thirty-five I was honored with the title of Commendatore in Italy. Please don't confuse this with pride: to me this honor basically means a great responsibility, and that is exactly the reason why I want to do something for young singers today.

RS:What about the future of opera?

NH: There are two answers. As I said, opera will always live through Bellini, Verdi, Puccini, and other great composers as long as there are singers who can sing their works. As for modern opera, there is a big problem. There are talented composers today, but they fear the comparison with the great composers of the past. The art of composing operas reached such a level of perfection with Bellini and Verdi that later generations couldn't do anything else than abandon that tradition. And apparently the public still can't get enough of the established repertoire and even prefers the lesser-known or forgotten works of those masters to compositions in the modern style. Another thing is that people in the days of the great composers had a more peaceful mind, whereas today's private lives are fast and noisy. The compositions of a certain time reflect that era, and therefore we have some quite noisy, restless modern music today. The modern public, living in this fast and noisy world, seeks to escape from that and often finds rest in the music of the old bel canto school.

RS:You are this year's honorary president of the Hariclea Darclée International Voice competition. What can you tell us about the importance of this competition?

NH: Romania once had a very rich European culture; now it has to renew this great tradition. In the musical field, that is exactly what Mariana Nicolesco and I are trying to do with the Hariclea Darclée International Voice Competition. Mariana never sang here before 1989, due to political circumstances that everybody knows, but when the opportunity was there she returned to sing in Romania, and that was important-just as important as continuing this Darclée Competition, creating this platform for young artists. I think this competition is an extraordinary thing. Mariana is much younger than I, and I only regret that we never had the chance to sing onstage together. In order to do what she does, one needs vocation, passion, and a genuine organizational talent. At my age, I am amazed to see her so anxious, nervous, and fanatically devoted to an undertaking that aims to give young artists a chance. The importance of all this must not be underestimated, not just because of the prize a laureate can win, but also for the experience one can find here. Mariana and I once benefited from similar opportunities. She won in Milan the Voci Rossiniane International Competition, and at the outset of my career I took part in five international competitions, all of which awarded me first prize. Soprano Roxana Briban is the winner of this year's competition. She has a very promising voice, but even so it's hard to predict her future. It depends on so many things. She must meet the right people to support her, and she must be prepared to study some more years, beginning in smaller theaters. Everybody wants to start at the top these days, but if I was her manager, I would take her to Prague, Budapest, and so on, until she is ready for the challenge of a great theater.

René Seghers, Amsterdam-based writer and photographer

("The Opera Quarterly"/ Volume 18,Issue 2,Spring 2002/ Herlea - An Artist of the People)