Halka has held the stage in Poland ever since the premiere of its final four-act version in 1858; in Warsaw alone it has had 1,500 or so performances (it had 150 even during Moniuszko's lifetime). It occupies much the same position in Polish culture as Glinka's Ivan Susanin in Russia or Smetana's The bartered bride in Czechoslovakia. But more than in either of those, one can actually hear an operatic language germinating in Halka. It was Moniuszko's first serious opera and began life (in semi-private concert performance) as a fairly short two-acter in 1848. It was revised for a stage production six years later, but only expanded to its final form as a 'grand' opera for Warsaw four years later still. The joins show, and although they don't help the work's structural cogency (Act 3 contains some of its best music, but practically no plot at all) the juxtapositions of awkwardness and assurance, of convention and originality are fascinating, and more often disarming than irritating.
The plot is a simple one: the peasant girl Halka is loved by Jontek a boy from her village, but she is seduced by the iord of the manor, Janusz, who abandons her when she becomes pregnant. Her baby dies of hunger, she is driven mad by grief, and on learning that Janusz is to marry the daughter of a local nobleman, she first plans to burn down the church where the wedding is to take place, then kills herself, forgiving her betrayer as she does so. Simple, yes, but not banal. Halka's character is given depth by the opera's explicit identification of her with the Polish people (who had unsuccessfully rebelled against Russian dominance two years before—much of Halka's own music is plaintively folk-inflected) and by the touching imagery of the librettist's and composer's painting of her; she sees herself as a dove, Janusz as ''my sweet falcon'', and when she finally learns the truth she falteringly sings that ''the dove has lighted on a grave''. The expansion of Jontek, too, from a subsidiary baritone in the first version to a principal tenor in the third, not only adds to the score one of its finest numbers, his eloquent aria in the final act, but ensures that both tenor and baritone are satisfyingly multi-dimensional characters: Jontek's love and pity are mingled with pain and accusing bitterness, Janusz is both an indecisive and a guilt-ridden villain.
Moniuszko's music cannot always rise to the challenges he sets himself. He is often content to make robust but coarsened copies of the obvious models (Weber, Marschner and the Italians of the day), seasoning the result with local colour. But whenever he breaks the mould (expanding the two sections of a conventional duet for Halka and Janusz to three by inserting a sadly lyrical, ardent strain as they both momentarily contemplate an impossible future together), an individual language is heard. It is at its strongest where he breaks all the rules and holds up the action for 20 minutes or so for a magical picture of a remote mountain village at sunset, horns and bells echoing through the passes. Halka's 'mad scene' is no conventional display piece with attendant flute but an expressive lament with cello obbligato (an instrument used several times to represent what she has lost: her home, her innocence, her virginity), framed by wildly agitated recitatives and interrupted, most effectively, by a hushed offstage hymn. Jontek's aria of agonized pity and love is also given added poignancy by an interruption: a peasant musician playing a lively dumka. There is more than enough of such freshness and sincerity to keep one happily listening through the more routine pages; for a not really first-class but very interesting opera Halka has the admirable quality of getting better as it goes on.
All the male singers in this recording are excellent: Ochman is a good lyric tenor with a Slavonic tang to the voice, Hiolski a stalwart dramatic baritone, Ladysz and especially Saciuk (both in subsidiary roles) are first-class basses. The problem for some will be the shallow and rather worn voice of Woytowicz in the title-role. She is effective enough in her sadly lyrical music, but in more demanding pages the sound spreads and takes on a harsh edge. The style of the opera is in her bones, however and she brings great conviction to it. The chorus, with their stunningly cavernous basses, are quite superb and the orchestra play with great vigour. The recording is a bit dry, but perfectly acceptable. In a work that at least fitfully tries to break away from formal 'numbers', by the way, it is a pity that such huge pauses are left between them. Well worth exploring, how about a single CD of extracts?'