Upon hearing her own stepmother the Kostelnička guiltily admit that she was the one who killed her infant child—whose frozen corpse the people of the Moravian village have now discovered—Jenůfa, initially shocked and appalled, first orders her to “stand up.” Then, going against the general bloodthirsty tenor of the crowd surrounding them, she grants her forgiveness, expressing understanding of her reasons and crying out, “Even on her the Savior’s gaze will light.” As the Kostelnička is taken away to prison, Leoš Janáček lavishes sound—a crescendoing tutti complete with C-major brass chords and tam-tam—that gives the moment the feel of a spiritual deliverance, as if the music is reaching for a proverbial light. It’s forgiveness as moral transcendence, a feeling confirmed in an ensuing final duet between Jenůfa and her husband Laca, who had previously cut her face out of jealousy, but now sees the depth of her goodness and pledges to spend the rest of his life with her despite her fear of the notoriety she’s about to experience.


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