Lucija Garūta experienced a wide arc of development in the pursuit of flight throughout her life. She expressed her dreams through music—songs, and opera. As these dreams began to materialize, they were again reflected in her music—cantatas and songs.
Childhood. Dreams of flight
Little Lucija was gifted with a rich emotional world: from the thrill of blooming spring flowers in Vērmanes Garden to longing gazes into the starlit night sky. Already then, melodies stirred in her mind—melodies she still needed to learn to write down.
From an early age, opera and stage art held great significance for Lucija and her sisters. Opera was a frequent family outing, and they would also reenact scenes at home or create their own. Eventually, all three sisters were professionally involved in the National Opera: Lucija worked as a répétiteur, Olga sang in the choir under conductor Teodors Reiters, and the youngest sister Erna danced on stage.
Since childhood, Lucija was fascinated by flight. The idea of flying. She even attempted it, using a bed sheet as wings—a leap from a wardrobe ended in a painful crash, revealing that flight could also bring disappointment and pain.
At the family’s summer retreat near the Riga seaside, early flight demonstrations were held. Latvian enthusiasts, such as Eduards Pulpe, quickly engaged in global aviation developments at the century’s start. But WWI interrupted progress, revealing a painful truth: these dream-machines of flight were now being used in the devastation of war.
The Genesis of the Opera
In her heart, Garūta initially conceived a symphonic work. Gradually, the idea for the opera The Silvery Bird took shape. Later, the song “The Future Human” became part of it as well.
All these elements merged into one of her most significant compositions—The Silvery Bird (1938), for which she wrote the libretto herself. The plot is tragic: due to human selfishness, both love and the silver aircraft are destroyed.
Garūta was not just a dreamer about flight and stars; she also explored its technical feasibility. While working on the opera, she researched the real possibilities of traveling beyond Earth, overcoming gravity, and whether a material strong enough to support such a flight could exist. A valuable advisor was her sister Olga’s husband, Roberts Krastiņš (1895–1976), a mathematician and physicist who had studied in Potsdam in the 1920s and had met Albert Einstein, with whom he had a good rapport.
As years passed, Garūta realized that aviation had progressed so rapidly that what was once a dream—or even utopia—was now a reality, making her opera seem no longer futuristic but part of the present.
Summary of the Opera’s Plot
The protagonist of the opera, a young scientist named Mario, wishes to give humanity its first starship:
“Believe me:
That day will come.
When flying through space
We will do
As we now race across ocean waves.
Believe me:
That day will come,
When shining, distant stars
Will seem as near
As the shores of the sea seem to us now…”
Mario begins working to realize his dream and presents the idea to a group of investors, hoping for their support. They mock him, calling him a dreamer or even delusional. Only one of them—Stonsons, a self-assured and wealthy man—agrees to support the ambitious project, though for selfish reasons.
Excited by the promise of progress, Mario shares the news with Elga, his closest friend since childhood. Their dreams have always been aimed at the stars. Work on the aircraft begins. One day in Mario’s office, Elga meets Stonsons. He has long harbored feelings for her and now sees an opportunity to win her by promising her all the riches in the world. When Elga rejects him, he threatens that the silver bird—the spaceship—will never take flight.
Soon, the construction is halted due to a lack of funds to pay the workers. Some leave, but others continue to believe in Mario’s vision. Elga comforts him:
“There is another life…
Why do we seek happiness
In the distant vastness of infinity,
When happiness is right here on Earth?”
Mario protests that if their beautiful goal collapses, life loses its meaning. Elga realizes that she no longer matters to him. In the most critical moment, when the workers are ready to give up, Elga decides to sacrifice herself to Stonsons so that the silver bird may still fly to the stars.
Her sudden and unexplained departure shatters Mario. The starship now feels like cold, lifeless metal. He imagines Elga’s wedding, and the sound of the wedding chorus seems to overpower the noise of machinery. Only now does he realize what he has lost. This vision haunts him—he grabs the work plans in a frenzy and rushes to the hangar.
Meanwhile, at the wedding hall, a waltz plays as guests congratulate the newlyweds. Suddenly, flames are seen in the distance—Elga realizes the hangars are on fire and rushes there in despair. Mario is carried out from the flames. He cannot understand why he should go on living, having lost both Elga and the silver bird. Elga explains to the dying Mario why her sacrifice was necessary. He sees the flames, but they appear to him as silvery wings lifting them both toward the stars. Elga runs into the hangar to rescue Mario’s plans, but the burning building collapses on her. When Stonsons arrives, he finally understands what has happened.
Everyone gathers around the dying Mario, believing that someday the dreams of the Future Human will be fulfilled:
“One day will come,
When the stars will be close to humanity.
With our work,
We shall open the path.
To you, the Future man.”
Libretto, Dramaturgy, and Harmonic Language of the Opera
Garūta wrote both the libretto and vocal texts of the opera herself. The work tackles the complex dramaturgical challenges typical of the genre. At the time, the theme was fresh, untouched, and bold—no composer in the world had yet imagined telling the story of a person who selflessly sets out to conquer the universe by realistically building a spacecraft. This subject had only just begun to emerge in scientific discourse. In music, such themes had previously appeared as something noble and celestial, not something astronomically tangible or technically achievable—more like Icarus forging his wings.
(The “Future Man” is a turn-of-the-century ideal—a dream. One can now ask how far that dream has come. Is it still acknowledged and awaited?)
Garūta poured her whole heart and soul into portraying the clash between dreams and reality through the opera’s characters—where a scientist’s work is destroyed by material constraints. She created an opera with songs, arias, ensembles, and choruses, constructed according to the classical principles of operatic composition. But these traditional structures were filled with overflowing emotion and inspiration. Each character has distinct traits and leitmotifs, which are varied and reimagined throughout the opera. Furthermore, the main characters—Mario, Elga, and Stonsons—undergo musical and dramatic development as the plot unfolds, and so do the motifs of the Future Human, the dream of flight, and love.
A key role in the opera’s musical dramaturgy is played by its harmonic language. It evolves from colorful diatonic and altered harmonies and simple pentatonic melodies in the exposition, to the introduction of tritone harmonies and chromaticism as the action turns tragic—musically highlighting the inevitability of fate.
The Opera’s History and Its Staging Fate
Lucija Garūta completed the piano score of The Silvery Bird in 1938. The Latvian National Opera (LNO) was preparing to include the work in its repertoire, but—likely due to a strike at the opera house—the production was postponed. Soon after, the war began, and the opera remained unstaged.
The second known opportunity for a production arose in 1958, as revealed in a letter from Garūta to Regīna Pumpure:
“… You know, many of the hopes I had for my work have collapsed for now. You probably know that my opera The Silvery Bird had been accepted into the opera’s repertoire for the 1958 season. A week later, the administration changed. […] Initially, it was planned that the new leadership together with representatives of the Ministry of Culture would hear the opera again. But director Meija read the libretto beforehand—something in the ideology displeased him. And so, I still haven’t reached the stage. My bird will have to wait again, but he is used to it—it has already been waiting 18 years to fly…“
In 1960, a new revision was started. In 1961, the poet Mirdza Ķempe was invited to consult on the text. However, no significant changes were made to the libretto or lyrics, which had been written entirely by the composer herself. At the time, this was likely an unprecedented and even unacceptable precedent—that both libretto and text were authored solely by the composer.
A third plan to stage the opera surfaced in 1964, as noted in the press of the time, but once again the production was canceled. This was a deep personal blow to Garūta.
One can only admire the strength and resilience of the composer, who, despite these disappointments, began work on the oratorio Dzīvā kvēle (Living Glow), based on poetry by Rainis and dedicated to the poet’s centenary as the “singer of the sun and freedom.” This major composition also has yet to receive proper recognition and place in Latvian music history.
"He Flies!"
Lūcija Garūta’s cantata He Flies! (1961) is often mentioned merely as a tribute to the first manned spaceflight. It has only been performed in concert once (a recording exists, though of very poor quality).
It is unfortunate that this cantata has been labeled as Garūta’s “gesture” of loyalty to the Soviet regime—a claim made both in Western press during the 1960s and even more recently in Latvia. A powerful rebuttal to this is found in Ingrīda Zemzare’s article published in Diena on May 21, 2002.
This accusation is, in fact, quite tragic, especially since it’s clear that those making such claims likely never heard the piece, looked at the score, or even read the lyrics—which are, in essence, apolitical. The only phrase that might raise eyebrows is “Soviet man” (in reference to Yuri Gagarin), who indeed was a pilot—just like everyone in the USSR was referred to at the time. This term, it seems, was added during the editorial input of poet Mirdza Ķempe, as was also the case with the opera The Silvery Bird, to make the text more acceptable to the authorities of the time.
On my name day in 1976—less than four months before her passing on February 15, 1977—Garūta gifted me a newly published book about Gagarin (The Beloved of the Century by Lidija Obukhova, Liesma, 1976), in which she had written down the full text of the cantata. In this version, the phrase “Soviet man” does not appear:
“He flies!
He flies!
To the stars!
To the beyond!”
“In the early morning, excited voices rise,
Like a rushing wave rolling over the Earth:
To the beyond! To the starry beyond,
To the beyond! Where no man has gone before,
The brave, the mighty
Human speeds!”
“Mother Earth! Earth – Mother!
Do not grieve that your son races into the starry distance!
Mother Earth! Earth – Mother!
Endless longing calls him into the void!
In the glow of bright stars,
In the terror of the dark space,
Loving you, forgetting himself,
He watches your radiant orbits.
Mother Earth! Earth – Mother!”
“And all the Earth freezes in longing anticipation,
And all nations speak the noble hero’s name,
And all hearts share the same thought:
Will he return?”
“He flies!
From the starry distance he flies back to Earth!
He comes already!
From the starry distance he flies now back to Earth!”
“Wreathed in crimson flames
The Starship descends!
Wreathed in crimson flames
It does not burn! The Silvery Bird does not burn!
From the beyond, from the foreign beyond,
From the beyond where Man has never been
The brave, the mighty man returns!”
“Mother Earth! Earth – Mother!
Your Star-born Son
Brings news
Of the distant skies
To humanity!”
The Story Behind "He Flies!" – In Garūta’s Own Words
The most vivid account of the cantata He Flies! comes from a letter written by Lūcija Garūta to singer Milda Brehmane-Štengele on July 27, 1973:
“Dear Mildiņa,
Last week I was completely immersed in the Song Festival atmosphere. […] I also contributed to the festival: during the choral competition, Leonīds Vīgners’s choir performed my He Flies! Since there is no symphony orchestra in the choir competition, I arranged the orchestral parts for two pianos. At the very end of June, I learned that such an arrangement was needed, and I wrote with great enthusiasm from July 1st to 5th. There was a lot to write, but it brought great joy. […]
It brought back memories of the days in the summer of 1961, when I sang and played here in the dark, under the moonlight:
‘Mother Earth, do not grieve that your son races into the starry distance!’
It was so bright and beautiful to remember those days when I could play for hours in a state of rapture. The summer house still had no curtains. The room was bathed in moonlight. It was unimaginably beautiful…”
Organist Tālavs Deksnis later recalled in 2012 that he had performed He Flies! with L. Vīgners in a Latvian church. The cantata was also broadcast on Riga Radio (as mentioned in Rīgas Viļņi), meaning a radio recording did (or still may) exist.
As for why the cantata is not more widely performed, Garūta never discussed it with those close to her. However, she did often speak about the work’s creation, especially the overwhelming joy and emotion she felt when she first heard the news: “Man flies!” Upon hearing it on the radio, Garūta frantically searched for a pen and paper—unable to find either quickly in the excitement—to write down the cosmonaut’s name so she wouldn’t forget. She later laughed about the moment, realizing of course that this news would be repeated often. It reflected just how deeply moved and shaken she was at the time.
Garūta also followed, as much as was possible through the Soviet press and television, the American moon landing and the first moonwalk. Later, she was deeply affected by the tragic death of Yuri Gagarin.
She also composed the song Kaija brīnišķā (“The Wondrous Seagull”), dedicated to Valentina Tereshkova—the first woman in space. This work, too, is filled with true joy and stands as a testament to the changing role and recognition of women in the 20th century. It was recorded for television, sung passionately by Jānis Zābers, with the composer herself at the piano.
Garūta’s Artistic Testament (published in Māksla magazine, 1972):
And finally, may I be allowed to express one wish…
One must always hold a reverent respect for the nobility of art in one’s heart, with the understanding that art is a treasured legacy of humanity, nurtured by countless generations who have continuously found new forms of expression.
Through art, humanity has found a way to express itself and reach other human hearts; art has helped people become more noble, refining their souls.
To those who devote their lives to art—it must be loved more than oneself.
I wish to say: it takes courage to use bold means of expression when a creative work demands it—but it also takes courage to refrain from them, if they do not align with the artist’s vision or inner truth. The works that remain immortal are those illuminated by the human heart.”
The granddaughter of Lūcija Garūta’s older sister.
Daina Pormale
2013./2018.