I spent a week in Naples in January 2020, and on a sunny winter’s day, I took the train to Pompeii, the ancient Roman city that was destroyed by a cataclysmic eruption of the volcanic mountain of Vesuvius in AD 79

The eruption lasted for two days and killed at least 1,150 of the inhabitants because that number of remains have been discovered in the layers of ash that suffocated what had been a prosperous city luxuriating in the beautiful Bay of Naples. We still shudder to see some of the ash-preserved bodies of the victims in their moment of death.

Pliny the Younger, was a young man in AD79 living across the Bay of Naples at Misenum with his mother and his uncle, the famous natural historian, Pliny the older, who was killed when he made an exploratory scientific trip over the water to Pompeii on the first day of the eruption. Pliny the Younger wrote his unique eye-witness account of the catastrophe in a letter to his friend, the young Tacitus, later to become Ancient Rome’s greatest historian.

‘The ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity. I looked back; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. “Let us turn out of the high-road,” I said, “while we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we should be pressed to death in the dark, by the crowds that are following us.” We had scarcely sat down when night came upon us, not such as we have when the sky is cloudy, or when there is no moon, but that of a room when it is shut up, and all the lights put out. You might hear the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men; some calling for their children, others for their parents, others for their husbands, and seeking to recognise each other by the voices that replied; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to the gods’ (Pliny the Younger, Letter to Tacitus, AD79).

It was a moving experience to stand on the site of Pompeii and to imagine the terrible scenes that occurred here so long ago but, in a quirk of history and archeology, still remains viscerally realistic to us today. I was lucky enough to walk round these empty ruined streets because this was January and there were not many people around what is usually a very crowded tourist destination.

Here the absence of those dead citizens of Pompeii was vividly reflected in the desolation of the ruins that felt all so abandoned still after normal life here ended in two days of horror. I acknowledge the importance of the site for historians and archaeologists, and admire them for their work, but for many of us, a visit to Pompeii is primarily emotional and philosophical.

We don’t know the names of those who survived or those who died but, remarkably, we have more than just the stone remains of the city to show us at least some of the details of who they were, these people of Pompeii, and how they lived and what they thought was beautiful.

The essential other half of a visit to this site, is to go to the Naples Archaeological Museum which is now home to many of the artefacts and works of art found here, preserved in the ashes. In Naples you can see some of the fine interior designs for some of the houses, as well as many works of art and utility objects from Pompeii’s citizens’ domestic lives.

There are also, maybe most interestingly, a number of what are probably portraits of some of the inhabitants of Pompeii. Wonderful images of ordinary people who look just like us, or more of less. These show us that behind the drama and the history, there were always human beings.

The grander houses of Pompeii had elaborately decorated walls in their main living spaces – some showed battle scenes like this one showing the military victories of Alexander the Great.

Other murals depict legendary figures, such as Perseus and Andromeda, or classical gods like Venus and Mars.

There are also more down-to-earth images, such as this troupe of lively actors and musicians.

There are highly realistic studies of animals, like this triumphant lion killing a leopard, or even what appear to be beloved domestic pets, a dog straining on its lead, or a pair of fighting cocks.

Maybe the most famous murals from Pompeii are not gods and goddesses or heroes of legends, but images that were probably displayed in brothels, and these are some of the more discreet ones. They might have been salacious for otherwise prudish brothel clients or, I’d like to think, they show a healthy, untroubled view of sex.

The phallus was a symbol of good health, good luck and prosperity for the people of Pompeii, presumably, the bigger the better, and phallic images were often used as street signs or good luck charms on door lintels to ward off evil.

Here Priapus is not represented as an erotic image, if he was meant to, this comically unrealistic mage might not have worked. Priapus here is a symbol of luck and prosperity but let’s assume, he also shows an unembarrassed and optimistic view of sex.

Actors and musicians often appear in these Pompeii murals and mosaics, and we can only assume Pompeii citizens loved the theatre – the amphitheatre here is well preserved and could have entertained large numbers in the city’s classical theatre-in-the-round.

I was persuaded to make a fool of myself in public – again – by our Neapolitan tour guide, who is also a Pompeii antiquarian, and to whom I had foolishly told that I once studied singing. He suggested that I go down to the centre of the stage and test the acoustics with a burst of song. To an audience of no more than eight or nine tourists, including some members of a young Chinese dance troupe, I did my best at an impromptu chorus of a song. I didn’t have to think long about what to sing – well this is Naples, so it had to be O sole mio. They could hear me at the back, I was told.

The Polish sculptor, Igor Mitoraj (1944 – 21014) was commissioned to make an exhibition of his work with its emphasis on fragmented human bodies. After the exhibition finished, this figure of Daedalus was kept here, now a permanent exhibit. It shows Daedalus, the man who made wings of wax and flew too close to the sun. it dominates the skyline at the entrance to Pompeii in a way that’s entirely appropriate to this inspiring but tragic place.

It deserves to stand here, just as a painting of Vesuvius by Andy Warhol has earned its place in Naples’ Capodimonte Gallery along with Caravaggio and Titian. Pompei and its fall, like Daedalus, will speak to every generation about the impermanence of life.

This visit proved to be the end of my four years of travelling around Italy, because the Covid virus over-took us all. only week after my visit to Pompeii. In Italy I found many new things and also confirmed to myself, the many reasons why I need to keep returning to this wonderful country. One of my earliest Italian enthusiasms, as I have reported here before, was the voice of that great Neapolitan, Enrico Caruso (1873 – 1921). I was thinking of him when I made my well-intentioned rendition of O Sole Mio at Pompeii, so it is only appropriate to end this series of blogs with the great man himself in a recording from 1916, proving, at least to me, amongst all this impermanence, the human spirit, like in Pompeii, is immortal.

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On the 6th January 2020 I returned to Naples not realising it was going to be my last foreign journey anywhere for two years. On 31st January two Chinese tourists in Rome were tested positive for the Covid virus and the Italian government declared a state of emergency. The first case of Covid was documented in the UK that day too, followed by a series of lockdowns beginning in March.

Soon we were all to be grounded, all over the world, for what was to become the worst pandemic in a century. With hindsight, I am doubly happy that I had such a good time in Naples, and in Milan a month earlier, while it was still possible to leave my small but lovely English town of Lewes.

I was staying in a small apartment on the top floor of an old house in the Avvocata district of Naples – in a wonderfully atmospheric street round the corner from the historic centre of Naples. The district, the street and the house were all set high up on a hill above the city and, the apartment too was up several flights of stairs. It was a little nest at the top of a large many-branched tree, or so it felt living there. Cosy, in a word….and very Neapolitan.

The apartment was on two floors, or one floor with a loft bedroom, accessed by a ladder-type staircase which was all fine after my vertigo subsided – which it did by the second day.

In Avvocata I was never in any doubt that I was not just in Italy, but in Naples – and by now I was already thinking Napoli, not Naples.

The street, a lively short-cut for vespa scooters and macho motorbikes, also allowed a first glimpse every day of one of those dramatic and equally quick-moving, sun-dropping sunsets. Round the corner too, there was a handy life-size crucifix plus nun. Yes, this is Napoli.

It was a short down-hill stroll to the Museo Archeologico Nazionali di Napoli, the National Archaelogical museum of Naples. This was no dull storage place for crumbling rocks, dusty artefacts and broken pottery, it has quite simply one of the great art collections in the world.

The museum is home to not just some extraordinary artworks from the nearby remains of Pompeii (more of that in my next blog), but it also houses a collection of famous Greco-Roman sculptures known at the Farnese Marbles. The Farnese here being Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, later to become Pope Paul III (1534 – 1549), who purchased, confiscated or, let’s face it, stole, many of these important works from rich Renaissance families from all over Italy. The Farnese family, the Pope’s family, also became Dukes of Parma and then on the female side, a Queen of Spain. Her descendants became kings and queens of Naples and Sicily. Well done that Pope. Thus, the Farnese collection moved first from the Vatican to Madrid and then finally arrived in the baggage of Ferdinand IV of Naples. I. don’t know – these rich people! – nothing ever changes. We, however, have the benefit of seeing these amazing statues, probably Roman copies of Greek originals, which are among some of the most influential sculptures in Western art.

Pope Paul III and his Grandsons, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese and Ottavio Farnese, Duke of Parma in a painting by Titian (c.1546). This triple portrait can be seen in Naples’ other major art gallery, see below, with a major collection of other portraits by Titian.

Hercules, massive but exhausted after the last of his The Twelve Labours, leans on his club which is draped by the skin of the Nemean lion. This is probably a Roman copy, by Glykon, of an original Greek work, now lost, by Lysippos.

The two matching bronze statues of athletes-in-motion, found in the ruins of the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum, near to Pompeii, are Roman copies of 4th or 3rd-century-BC Greek originals. They will run forever.

This bronze head of Doryphorus, a Marlon Brando look-alike, is a find from the Villa of the Papyri in Pompeii – a Roman copy of one of the famous Spear-Bearer statue by the Polykleitos, a Roman copy of the statue with torso is also here at the Archaeological Museum.

Atlas was one of the colossal Titans of Greek mythology, condemned by Zeus to hold up the sky, not a globe of the world, but a spherical representation of the constellations of the stars. The statue, which is certainly colossal, is a 2nd-century-AD copy of the Greek original that is the probably the oldest surviving representation of the celestial skies. The museum put him into a mirrored space that emphases his size and, unsurprisingly, dwarves the humbled but impressed photographer.

Lastly, the Farnese Bull, the largest single sculpture recovered from antiquity, or so I read. It’s a first-century-AD copy of a second-century-BC Greek original, showing the death of Dirce, whose niece, Antiope, was impregnated by Zeus and gave birth to twin sons, Amphion and Zethus. Dirce hated her niece and ordered her to be killed, but, instead, Amphion and Zethus kill Dirce by tying her to the horns of a bull. The dog and the child are probably later additions, but there is no denying the vitality and drama of this masterpiece which can only be fully appreciated by seeing it from all angles.

Back outside, on a fine January day, Naples was showing off its ripe oranges that line even the most inner-city of its streets.

It is difficult not to stroll here, to take in not just the architecture and the verdancy, but to explore the churches, cafés and bars along the route.

Il Vero Bar del Professore, the true Professors’ Bar – as opposed to the false ones, I assume, was a very civilised place to stop for a coffee.

The Church of Pio Monte della Misericordia was the first stop in my pilgrimage around Naples’ collection of paintings by everyones’ favourite painter, Caravaggio, well, you know what I mean. Here in its original position, is Caravaggio’s Seven Works of Mercy, seen as if it was a private view, with no one else around.

I took the opportunity to look round the rest of the church which has a museum of church plate, chalices, monstrances , pots and pans. If you like these things, then you will find plenty of them here in Naples. I’m afraid I just thought of all the silver polishing.

Another church, another restaurant – I could get into the habit of this Neapolitan passeggiata (Italian for an evening stroll).

After a few days in the historic centre, this titan set of escalators at Piazza Garibaldi railway station reminded me that I was still living in the 21st century.

Walking down the Via Toledo, in Naples’ well-known Spanish quarter shopping street, I came across the second stop on my Caravaggio adventure. Here at the Palazzo Zevallos, is Caravaggio’s last painting, the darkly moody Martyrdom of Saint Ursula. Once again, I had left a crowded street to spend quality time, alone, with one of Caravaggio’s masterpieces. Here the King of the Huns, who has slaughtered her eleven thousand virgin companions, is bewitched by Ursula’s beauty and, even more so, by her modesty, says he will spare her life if she agrees to marry him. She refuses, so he kills her with a well-aimed arrow.

Caravaggio would have been familiar with these dark Naples streets and, maybe, they were threatening places in those days whereas now they are safer, atmospheric and intoxicating.

Intoxicating too is the Piazza Bellini, which is now a centre for excellent and unpretentious restaurants and bars and an unlikely place to encounter a statue of the great Sicilian opera composer, Vincenzo Bellini (1801 – 1835) – writer of some of my favourite operas – especially the almost perfect, Norma (1831). I think the highly romantic Bellini would be happy that his figure is at the centre of a slightly bohemian and edgy piazza where, I like to imagine, anything could happen.

Mostly this part of town is a student, or a student wannabe hangout and, at night, it is the vibrant place to be if you want to be cool – or fool yourself for a moment or two that you are cool, or were once.

Just a short walk from those revelling students, off a tiny street is another sharp Neapolitan contrast. The highly ornamented Cappella Sansevero, a bit too much Rococo for me and I wouldn’t have bothered looking inside if I hadn’t wanted to see the famous sculpture that is at its centre. The Veiled Christ, by the 18th century sculptor, Giuseppe Sanmartino, is an eerily realistic image that, once seen, is difficult to forget. It draws crowds to this little church – on the day I visited there was a queue out into the street, as if, at this time, they were lining up to go to a nightclub. Once inside, people stood in solemn silence, it was as if a real body was lying there.

After the solemnity of the chapel, it was just another street corner before, Naples’ street life sprang back into action with a fine group of street musicians – continuing a long tradition.

Then, as per usual by now, during this week in Naples, it was dinner and then a few drinks, or a few drinks too many, in the many dimly-lit and characterful bars in the Centro storico. Here, everyone, including me, I like to think, simply blends into the background like extras in a Caravaggio painting.

The next day, it was all blue skies and palm trees with the mildest of Italian January temperatures, when I made my way up to the highest point of Naples, the top of the mountain, the capo di monte.

The Capodimonte Gallery or, more correctly, the Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte ( The Museum and Royal Forest), is Naples’ principal art gallery. Once a royal palace, now a people’s palace with art and recreation combined here – inside and out.

Here too was the final stop on my Neapolitan Caravaggio pilgrimage. Once again, I could admire the painting for as long as I wanted, in relative solitude, fully exposed to the drama and agony of this most dramatic and characteristic of Caravaggio emotional exercises in Chiaroscuro – the balance of light and shade.

I was alone too in this room, home to nine portraits by Titian. I felt like I could move in with a bed, a kitchen and a tv, and settle down here for life.

Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, Pop Paul III’s grandson, by Titian (c.1546)

Back in Avvocata, there was time for a glass of wine before bed and then, tomorrow, the journey back home to the UK. None of us knew then this was going to be the end of travelling for a couple of years.

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In September 2017, when I was looking at Mount Vesuvius from Sorrento, across the Bay of Naples, I thought of Pliny the Younger (born 61 AD), as you do, who wrote a detailed description of the catastrophic eruption of the volcano (79 AD) that killed his uncle, the great Roman naturalist, Pliny the Elder, who sailed into the disaster because he was interested in the science of volcanoes. Pliny the younger watched the destruction of Pompeii from across the water, at Miseno, on the other side of the bay of Naples from Sorrento, where I was visiting. We both had panoramic views of famous volcanic mountain, Vesuvius. From Miseno, Pliny Junior was able to write the only detailed first-hand witness’ account of the eruption and subsequent destruction of the surrounding land. He was close enough too to hear the shouts and screams of the citizens of Pompeii as they were dying over there across the water.

‘You could hear the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the shouting of men; some were calling their parents, others their children or their wives, trying to recognise them by their voices. People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.’ (Letters of Pliny the Younger).

There was no sign of an eruption on the day I came to Sorrento, but the famous ruins of Pompeii remain to intrigue us and to encourage us empathise with the many people who were killed that day. I, of course, found nothing more dramatic on my search for this vista than a well-positioned swing with its own ring-side view of the famous volcano.

I was here on a different mission, but I promised myself that I would go to Pompeii next time I was in these parts (I ended up going there in January 2020, just as the world was on the verge of another disaster). I came here as part of an on-going, if low-key, pilgrimage, and it started today, not with Vesuvius but a street called Viale Enrico Caruso.

Enrico Caruso (1873 – 1921), the Neapolitan operatic tenor, and possibly, the first star of the recording industry, was one of the first opera singers that I ever listened to when I was a child. His old records, some recorded at the end of the 19th Century, not only fascinated me but also went straight to my heart – where they have remained. I owe a lot of my passion for opera to this man. The opera geek in me is often up front in my brain when I visit Italy, and there is usually some new opera-based information, no matter how inconsequential, to find wherever I go.

Stories about Caruso are high on my list even now, one hundred years after his death. So it was a thrill to find his name all over town. Caruso came to Sorrento for pleasure, just down the road from his birth place in Naples, but his connection to this lovely town isn’t that significant apart from the fact that he liked the place and, when he was terminally ill, he stayed here at the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria, for a short time before his final unsuccessful surgery and subsequent death in Naples.

I wasn’t expecting to discover the great singer here, but I was intrigued to hear about a ‘restaurant museum’ dedicated to his memory that had opened in the town centre in 1987 and which was also, so I heard, an excellent restaurant.

It was my birthday, and lunch at the Ristorante Museo Caruso was a birthday treat. I was surrounded by an impressive photographic and documentary record of the man. The music, of course, wasn’t mandolin muzak, it was wall-to-wall Caruso. Paradiso! Wonderful food and wine too – good enough for the enthusiastic gourmet that Caruso was.

After a splendid lunch, I was walking round Sorrento when I noticed this statue, honouring Giambattista De Curtis, the Neapolitan poet and lyricist who wrote, in Neapolitan Italian, the song Torna a Surriento, its well-known melody was written by his brother Ernesto. Torna a Surriento (Come back to Sorrento), is the other Neapolitan song, along with O Sole Mio, that everybody knows. I first heard both songs when I was but a lad in old recordings by, yes, you got it, Enrico Caruso. I don’t think anyone has ever sung them better.

Ma nun me lassà, nun darme ‘stu turmiento! Torna a Surriento, Famme campà!

But do not leave me, do not give me this torment. Come back to Surriento, make me live!

Sorrento is town of statues, I discovered, like Italy is generally. Italians like their history stand on plinths in town squares. Not far from the Torna a Surriento statue, I came across this one of Torquato Tasso (1544 – 1595), the Italian poet, born in Sorrento, best known for his epic poem Gerusalemme liberata (Jerusalem Liberated), a tale about how the knights of the now infamous First Crusade (1096 – 1099) recovered Jerusalem from the Turks. Tasso’s epic, has always fascinated me even though I had never read the 16th century original – I loved the heroic works of Ludovico Ariosto (1474 – 1533) too, especially his Orlando Furioso, (1516) with its stories of knights, male and female, and their passions, victories and tragedies. I came cross the main characters in both Ariosto and Tasso from their many appearances in Italian operas from the 17th and 18th centuries. Me and baroque opera go back a long way – and from my side, it was love at first sight.

So, knowing his Sorrento connection, I decided to make Gerusalemme liberata my holiday read while I was staying down the road at Marina di Cantone (see previous blog). I had a bilingual copy of the work on my Kindle and whiled away many indulgent hours on the beach by the sea, as it was in Tasso’s day, and let my imagination conjure up the operatic adventures of this very readable masterpiece.

I knew the story of the hero, Rinaldo, and his love for a Saracen girl, Armida (both became opera stars a century later) and I knew too all about the other crusader knight, Tancredi. and his Saracen love, Clorinda. These Tasso stories were to become operas by such famous composers as Handel, Gluck, Lully, Haydn, Rossini and Dvorak. It was pure pleasure discovering them again in the Tasso original.

Tasso’s Rinaldo and Armida by Antoine Ansiaux (1764 – 1840)

Probably the most famous of all these Tasso operas, and possibly the greatest, is Rinaldo, by George Frideric Handel (1685 – 1759). The opera tells the story of Rinaldo’s love for Almirena, daughter of the commander of the Crusader army. Their romance is endangered by Armida, the Saracen woman who is also a powerful sorceress and who falls in love with Rinaldo herself. Almirena is given a rough time and imprisoned by the love-lorn sorceress and, at her lowest point in the opera, Almirena sings about her cruel fate, losing her freedom as well as her love. The aria, Lascia ch’io pianga, became the hit song of the opera and remains one of Handel’s greatest hits. Tasso, I like to think, would have approved.

Let me weep
My cruel fate,
And that I
should have freedom.

The duel infringes
within these twisted places,
in my sufferings
I pray for mercy.

Lascia ch’io pianga
Mia cruda sorte,
E che sospiri
La libertà.

Il duolo infranga
Queste ritorte,
De’ miei martiri
Sol per pietà.

Here is a short arty film of the leading American mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato pouring out her grief as the unlucky Almirena.

I said arrivederci to Sorrento and moved on to Naples for the other half of my birthday celebration – another operatic treat. I had tickets for the San Carlo Opera House, one of the most important theatres in the history of opera. It opened in 1737 and is the oldest. continuously running opera venue in the world. Rossini’s La Gazza Ladra and Mosè in Egitto, and Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor and Maria Stuarda had their first nights here . There have been many glitzy performances here by the very greatest singers of the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries. Most of of Caruso’s predecessors as superstar male singers sang here over the centuries, including the castrato soprano, Farinelli, and the tenor star of Bellini and Donizetti’s opera, Giovanni Battista Rubini…

The castrato soprano, Farinelli (1705 – 1782)

19th century tenor GiovannI Battista Rubini (1794 – 1854),

…and, in the early 20th century, a young Enrico Caruso, sometimes regarded as the greatest singer in history, but who went down badly with the critics in his debut at San Carlo in 1901 (as Nemorino in. Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore), and he vowed never to sing here again. It was a promise he kept – his career was made and maintained, mostly, in the United States and the other great opera houses of the world.

Caruso as Turiddu in Mascagni’d Cavalleria Rusticana in Caserta, 1901

The greatest Italian opera composer, Giuseppe Verdi, didn’t rate the Teatro San Carlo either, and none of his many operas were premiered here but, since then, the theatre regularly stages his work and he is now honoured in the theatre with a very large bust, where he looks slightly apologetic for his rude words about this place.

I was coming to the opera house for a concert performance, no costumes, no sets, of Beethoven’s opera Fidelio, given by the San Carlo Orchestra conducted by the great veteran Indian conductor Zubin Mehta, honorary conductor of the Teatro San Carlo. The concert was held to mark his eightieth birthday. The photograph below was taken that day at the theatre. I, like many other classical music enthusiasts, will always associate his name with what might well have been classical music’s first sensational super audio disk – it’s still a sensation today – his version of Richard Strauss’ tone poem Also Sprach Zarathustra with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. I’d often listened to Zubin Mehta’s recordings, but I had never seen him ‘live’ and I was amazed to learn that he was now eighty years old.

Fidelio was given without its German dialogue, but with a descriptive narrative written and performed in Italian by the actress Sonia Bergamasco, known to me for playing Livia in the Italian television series Il Commissario Montalbano. It worked remarkably well with a strong cast of big-voiced singers led by soprano Anja Kampe (Leonora) and Peter Sieffert (Florestan).

I had an ideal seat in a box facing straight to the stage and here the clean acoustics of the theatre were heard at their best. The golden foot, in the photograph below, was directly over my head and belonged to one of two flying angels, part of the elaborate ornamentation of the royal box to my right.

It was all very elegant and plush, there were no empty seats, and the audience dressed to compliment the golden Rocco décor in true Italian style.

Afterwards, moved by Beethoven’s plea for freedom and humanity, there was still time to leave the theatre and cross the piazza to the legendary 19th century coffee house, the Gran Caffè Gambrinus, where, luckily, there was even a table available.

I had little difficulty deciding what to drink, prominently there on the list of cocktails, was a Cocktail Caruso, delicious, potent and magnificently green.

Near to Gambrinus, and across the road from the San Carlo, is the Galleria Umberto I, with its high end shops and cafés, where I had a room for the night in the newly opened, and, maybe, cut-priced, Hotel Art Resort Galleria Umberto. It was elegant enough to feel like an annexe to the San Carlo’s grandeur.

There were great aerial views of the Galleria Umberto I beneath, ideal for appreciating the design and engineering of its impressive glass dome and iron-work in the style known as Stile Umbertino. It was built between 1887 and 1890 and named after the then king of Italy, Umberto I (1844 – 19000. Work began on it ten years after the completion of its more famous counterpart, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan.

I had an inspiring time in Naples, my second visit there, I had just enough time here to realise that I had only touched the surface and that a longer third visit should be high on my wish list. (I returned early in 2020, just before the world was locked down by the Covid pandemic).

I’ll leave you with the music and words that were still ringing in my ears after that performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio. The Prisoners’ Chorus, where abused political prisoners sing about repression and liberty, in a brief but profound moment when they can see that joy out there somewhere if they could only have their freedom. No need for me to tell you how many prisoners in the world are still suffering in just the way that Beethoven expressed. Great opera still speaks of important things today – we should listen.

PRISONERS’ CHORUS
Oh what joy, in the open air
Freely to breathe again!
Up here alone is life!
The dungeon is a grave.

FIRST PRISONER
We shall with all our faith
Trust in the help of God!
Hope whispers softly in my ears!
We shall be free, we shall find peace.

ALL THE OTHERS
Oh Heaven! Salvation! Happiness!
Oh Freedom! Will you be given us?

SECOND PRISONER
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.

ALL
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.
Oh what joy, in the open air
Freely to breathe again!
Up here alone is life.
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.

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