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Reflection for the Week of April 25th

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La Dolce Speranza

On April 17th, 1906 the Italian tenor Enrico Caruso landed at the Embarcadero in San Francisco. He was booked to play the role of Don Jose that very evening in the opera Carmen and Rodolfo's role the following evening in Puccini's La Boheme. The welcoming caravan conveyed him to the Palace Hotel on Market Street where he had to put up with the greetings of city dignitaries, the clamor of the Press and the "bravissimo's" of the crowd. That evening, however, all who could gain entrance to the Grand Opera House sat silent and enthralled as Caruso concluded his performance with "Ah! Carmen! Ma Carmen adoree!" - compelling a reporter to write: "Something truly extraordinary transpired here tonight . . . This was not an opera, this was a revelation."

All of this you can read about in James Dalessandro's new novel entitled 1906, which deals with the before and after of that moment when "The San Andreas Fault slipped twenty feet" - at 5:13 A.M., April 18th, three days after Easter and five hours after Caruso's spectacular performance. Dalessandro goes on to trace the quake's catastrophic impact across the ocean floor and down past Fort Ross (splintering thousands of oaks and redwoods) to San Francisco where "thirty five thousand structures began a violent hula dance". The jolt lasted less than a minute, followed by clouds of dust and "seven distinct plumes of smoke" - heralds of the holocaust to come.

And Caruso's reaction? "Impossibly heroic on stage just five hours before, he appeared as dazed as an orphan child. . .The singer clutched his throat. . . 'I am lose my voice. La voce e morta. Is died, my voice.'" Meanwhile outside the hotel, buildings were collapsing and throngs of people were rushing down Market Street toward the ferry piers - some naked, others in night clothes, praying, "Sweet Mary, Mother of God." Caruso continued to lament: "My voice ees died" and to reassure him someone pleaded with him to try it out.

And so, facing a window overlooking the chaos below, he began to sing Rodolfo's aria from La Boheme: "Che gelida manina / se la lasci riscaldar." Down below people began to look up, to pause in their flight. Whence came that angelic voice? And there "through a shattered window frame, Caruso appeared, his miraculous tenor drifting down, piercing the thunder and fear, 'Chi son? / Chi son? / Sono un poeta!'" (Who am I? I am a poet . . . and how do I live? I LIVE!) He continued the aria, describing himself as poor yet extravagant when it comes to composing hymns of love. There was also something about his cherished dreams sometimes vanishing without a trace. How well that line befitted the situation of the crowd below as they beheld the devastation of their beloved city. But then came that thrilling crescendo that concludes the song: "Ma il furto non m'accora, / poiche, v'ha preso stanza / LA DOLCE SPERANZA!" (The loss does not wound me deeply, because it's replaced by sweet hope!)

May not that scene tell us something about the nature of Christ's resurrection appearances following the devastation of his body upon the cross? Does he not on Easter return to his terrified disciples like - yes - an aria from Puccini raising their souls to new levels of SPERANZA, of hope for the human race? And what about ourselves, shaken as we are by political strife, lengthening casualty lists; by an absence of faith and even a delight in despair that seems to permeate the influential levels of our culture? And so we gather now to hear the Easter Gospels once again. You may have to look far and wide for the voice of a Caruso to release all their power and buoyancy - but they remain divine arias loaded with LA DOLCE SPERANZA for all who have ears to hear.

-Geoff Wood