Visit Sara Couden’s website at sara.couden.net
Sara Couden (mezzo/contralto) has sung as a soloist around the greater Bay Area with musical institutions including Berkeley/West Edge Opera, Livermore Valley Opera, Oakland Opera, Martinez Opera, Lamplighters, Monterey Symphony and San Jose Symphonic Choir. She graduated with a Masters in Music from the San Francisco Conservatory in June 2011, where she played roles such as the Principessa (Suor Angelica), Cornelia (Giulio Cesare) and Bradamante (Alcina). Upcoming roles include Dryad (Ariadne auf Naxos), Katisha (The Mikado), Mrs. Ott, and Ursule (Beatrice et Benedict). Sara recently attended Dolora Zajick’s Institute for Young Dramatic Voices. She studies with César Ulloa.
Jim Coughenour is the creator of Daimonix raw art greeting cards and the author of the chapbooks Castro: A Manifesto; Instant Noir and Some Curious Fruits and Vegetables — as well as the sad Christmas classic, Polly Pell & What Befell Her. He illustrated Crazy Therapies by Margaret Thaler Singer and Janja Lalich. His poetry, reviews and short fiction have appeared in inconsequential periodicals and tiny magazines. In 2005 his poetry featured with the art of Elizabeth Winchester in Comedies & Catastrophe. He’s currently channeling Doodler, an unseemly tale of love, cartoons and collapse. Sredni Vashtar is his first libretto.
Further information about Nakagoshi and Zimmermann’s ZOFO duet can be found at www.zofoduet.com.
A native of Japan, Keisuke Nakagoshi earned a B.M. in composition and an M.M. in chamber music from the San Francisco Conservatory, studying composition with David Conte and piano with Paul Hersh. He has performed to acclaim on prestigious concert stages across the United States, including the Kennedy Center, Carnegie Hall, the Hollywood Bowl and Davies Symphony Hall. Recently he performed Rhapsody in Blue with the Marin Symphony conducted by Alasdair Neale. Nakagoshi and Swiss pianist Eva-Maria Zimmermann formed ZOFO duet in 2009, commissioning and performing music for piano four hands.
Nicholas Pavkovic studied with Elinor Armer at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, where he received a Master of Music degree in 2011. Prior to his work at the Conservatory, Pavkovic completed the film scoring program at UCLA and contributed music to two dozen independent features and shorts. In 2008, he was chosen as a Sundance Composers Lab fellow. Other honors include the first prize in the Percussive Arts Society composition competition in 2008 and the Conservatory’s Highsmith Award in 2011. The Conservatory symphony will premiere Angelus Novus, the work that won the latter award, on October 29, 2011.
Sredni Vashtar’s conductor, Qinqing Qian was a triple major at the Shanghai Conservatory, dividing her time between orchestral conducting, piano performance and audio engineering. She played percussion in the Shanghai Opera Orchestra and served as an assistant conductor for the ensemble. Currently a graduate student at the San Francisco Conservatory, Qinqing will conduct David Conte’s Firebird Motel and Michael Nyman’s Concerto for Trombone and Orchestra at the Hot Air Festival on March 4, 2012. Qinqing has been selected to participate in Pacific Music Festival 2011 Conducting Academy in Sapporo, Japan.
Pianist Robin Sutherland came to the San Francisco Conservatory of Music and the studio of Paul Hersh as a refugee from Juilliard and the studio of Rosina Lhevinne. This was a long time ago. Now he sits on the SFCM Advisory Board, the first alumnus to be so honored. In between, he was offered the Principal Chair in Keyboards for the San Francisco Symphony, and he said yes.
Wolfgang Thompson, the stage director for Sredni Vashtar, is something of an enigma.
Jonathan Vinocour joined the San Francisco Symphony as Principal Violist in 2009, having previously served as principal violist of the Saint Louis Symphony and guest principal of the Gewandhaus Orchestra of Leipzig. Mr. Vinocour graduated from Princeton University in 2001 with a degree in chemistry and completed his master’s degree in 2003 at the New England Conservatory, where he studied with Kim Kashkashian. He recently made his solo debut with the San Francisco Symphony under Michael Tilson Thomas in Berlioz’s Harold in Italy and also performed Morton Feldman’s Rothko Chapel with the orchestra this past season to critical acclaim.
Sredni Vashtar is a ferret. More precisely, he is the creation of the British author Saki (1870-1916), whose classic short story “Sredni Vashtar” has been a reader favorite for generations. The tale — about a little boy, his overbearing guardian, and Sredni the ferret — has been interpreted as a coming-of-age story, a story about retribution and the triumph of the underdog, a piece of social/religious criticism, and a study in human nature. You can decide for yourself: the complete text of the story is on the pages that follow.
Sredni Vashtar the opera was premiered at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music's Hot Air Festival on April 4, 2010. The libretto was written by Jim Coughenour and the music by Nicholas Pavkovic. It is scored for a single singer and sixteen instrumentalists. This chamber orchestra contains the usual winds, brass, and strings, but also a large percussion section (enough to keep three percussionists busy) and a variety of keyboards: harpsichord, celesta and reed organ. The running time is about 25 minutes.
Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything.
Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin’s cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things — such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dullness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.
Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him “for his good” was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out — an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.
In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion.
The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon.
Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman’s religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out. The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.
After a while Conradin’s absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. “It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,” she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it “gave trouble,” a deadly offense in the middle-class feminine eye.
“I thought you liked toast,” she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.
“Sometimes,” said Conradin.
In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been won't to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.
“Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty corner, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.
And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin’s bitter litany went up: “Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.”
Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.
“What are you keeping in that locked hutch?” she asked. “I believe it’s guinea-pigs. I’ll have them all cleared away.” Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time.
But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:
Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.
And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat.
Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the pæan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.
“Tea is ready,” said the sour-faced maid; “where is the mistress?” “She went down to the shed some time ago,” said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread.
And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scattering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.
“Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn’t for the life of me!” exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.