The young lady, whose nature was passionate, outgoing and generous, soon found herself involved with many special musical programs at her school, and many opportunities to earn money as well. Two years later she found herself the proud recipient of a loan of a rare unconverted Baroque violin, and was well on her way to becoming a violinist of rare talent and sensibility. But more importantly, she was discovered as a remarkable voice, and the demands on her to sing began to eclipse her importance as an instrumentalist.
Then disaster struck. Fatigue and personal tragedy had a shattering impact on her, and she finally began to succumb to the stresses of a serious college education --she had refused to compromise in her first two years, and signed on for difficult courses in every field in which she was interested. She had something that was suspiciously like a nervous breakdown. She took a year off after her Sophomore year, and lived in the wilds of rural Canada with a friend. But music called her back, and she returned to complete college.
Fifteen years later, she had completed a doctorate, and pulled back somewhat from her performance career to teach at a small college. But she could not resist acceding to a request to sing Messiah at a Royal command performance in the UK. She had sung much more musically important parts: Eva in Meistersinger, Susanna in Figaro, Eurydice in Orfeo, not to mention the Bach oratorios and passions. But to sing in English, for music written to be sung in English was a special treat!
She was really two people rolled into one: an earnest Bach scholar and dedicated teacher and musicologist on one hand, and a secret
The movie was an instant hit, but of course, our heroine dared not reveal her part in it. However, she decided to star in a new movie (under her own name), which was to be a light-hearted spoof of the earlier movie, the new movie containing no sex at all; just good clean fun, and rated PG13. However, the romantic interest in the spoof was between two young women.
She reveled in the fame the second movie brought her, but soon after, the Christian Right and conservative critics turned against her, declaring that she had made "perversion acceptable to children." Parents began removing their children from the college at which she taught. Her invitations to perform sacred music evaporated. By Christmas, she was no longer welcome to perform even with the little orchestra she had founded. But she had gotten pregnant over the summer, and the pregnancy gave her a little strength to hold on. She decided it was best to take a semester off, and look after her little family of four: three adopted girls, and her own little boy.
Tragedy struck on Christmas Day. After a heavy early snowstorm, driving home by herself from a Christmas visit, she lost control of her vehicle, and plunged off a steep incline onto a solid rock, destroying the car and the child she was carrying. Her face was badly cut, but it was repaired by careful surgery.
The love of the children, and that of a young woman with whom she had made friends that summer, pulled her through the several difficult months that followed, ending with the sad passing of the mother of her girlfriend, leaving the family of the latter practically destitute. But that Spring she announced her retirement, at the young age of thirty-eight, and began dismantling her organization.
At first, the family was anxious, but she found other things to do, and was moderately healthy and cheerful, and they began to relax. At Christmas, the music that came out of the radio constantly reminded her of that musical world from which she had been exiled. The children had tried to be careful, but the occasional soprano aria slipped through their careful filter, and the former soprano gave up the battle to appear unconcerned.
The mood in the house was decidedly glum, but the kids rallied round to sing songs at the piano, bake cookies, and liven up the atmosphere, and our hero managed to put a smile on her face for the sake of her children, and a few friends who had come over. But a call from Ohio, from one of her former teachers, said that PBS was doing something interesting: a Best of Messiah program at 8:00 p.m. that night, featuring a variety of choirs and orchestras, recorded around the world, smoothly edited into a single glorious performance by the miracle of modern technology.
At first, the children were thoroughly excited at the prospect of watching the show, but one look at their mother's ashen face reminded them of how painful it would be for her. They decided not to watch. But at eight, she snapped, and marching over to the TV, turned it on to the patchwork Best of Messiah program.
It was agony to watch for several minutes, especially when other soloists were featured at the very same performances in which she had sung soprano, but she herself was not. One of her favorite arias: Rejoice, O daughter of Zion! was sung by a young woman she had never seen, and sung well, too. Her heart heavy, she slipped out of the room, and went to sit on the front steps, so hurt that she could not even cry. She was sure they would not feature her at all.
The program arrived at the remarkable double aria He shall feed his flock / Come unto Him, for soprano and alto, and she recognized the voice of a well-known contralto, someone she had never sung with. That was almost the last number that involved a soprano soloist, and her defeat was complete . . . or so it appeared.
But, magically, they had faded her own soprano solo into the alto solo, despite the fact that they were from two entirely different performances! She had sung this before Queen Elizabeth two years earlier; it had been a sort of personal triumph for her. She had been asked to meet the grand old lady, who had said some gracious words of admiration to her. She had been to the White House, and been fussed over by heads of state, but this performance had had a glow to it that she had treasured. And it was being featured on this montage! The children were going crazy with excitement, and they came out to haul her back inside.
She had looked a lot younger then, before the accident and the surgery. She could hardly believe how she had dominated that audience with her personality, her charm and her beauty, as well as the beauty of her wonderful voice! She watched herself singing, flushed with pleasure.
The music wound on, with the great choruses that make the Messiah so memorable, as well as the magnificent solos. She sighed; she had no cause to be bitter, now; she consoled herself that it took greater skill to do justice to a double-aria than in the showpiece which had featured the younger soprano: one had to restrain oneself from overshadowing the contralto, a delicate feat of balance.
About to leave the room to quietly think by herself, she was stunned to see her own face on the screen once again: the camera had caught her getting to her feet and walking forward, while the orchestra played a familiar ritornello: it was the strange aria based on a letter of St Paul: I know that my Redeemer liveth. They had featured her singing a second aria!
The song was all about physical resurrection, something she had never believed. But that night, she had meant every word of it. She had believed that she would face her maker exactly as she had been that night, accepting that it would not be some ethereal shadow of her being that would face the Judgment, but she herself in the body with which she sang. She was her own instrument, and god would judge her in that instrument. It was as though she declared that she was unafraid to be judged so. It was the unique relationship between a singer and her body, much like that of an athlete: for a philosopher, perhaps, only the mind mattered. But for a soprano, without her body she was nothing.
The notes soared sublimely, expressing faith in things that she had long ceased to believe in, but as she listened to herself, she believed them anew. She saw the children watch and listen, spellbound. The microphone had picked up every little detail of her singing, every syllable, every ‘t’ and every ‘p’. And there was a beatific smile on her face as she sang, and her pleasure in performance was clearly visible. When she finished, she remained standing, her eyes surveying the audience with a smile, and the camera had caught it all.
It went on flawlessly, ending with the awesome Amen.
She drew in her breath, trying to feel her chest expanding, ready to sing, but she could only sigh. Understandably, she was filled with a myriad conflicting emotions ranging from acute embarrassment to ecstasy. Afterwards, she only remembered that the children had talked to her for nearly an hour, to most of which she had not responded very intelligently.
But it had been clear that the pride of the children in her had been re-kindled, and she had not realized until that moment that it had waned so much. At one level, she had known that the children had a great deal of trouble accepting her retirement from the concert stage, but this television event, which should have been a triumph, had only underscored one thing: she could never again sing like that. Not ever!
[*"Sybarite" appears to be the wrong word...]
[Note: though the principal character here is depicted as having Christian beliefs, the author himself does not!]
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