"One Less Voice A-Talking..."
Jun. 29th, 2005 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyone*shifty look* Look what I wrote for last night's homework!
The Suite
He tucked his coattails beneath him as he sat, third row from the front, twelfth seat in. The elevated platform for the symphony wasn’t so tall that he couldn’t see eighty-six musicians warming up, playing scales, drawing bows across beautiful violins, dancing fingers over shining keys, and every pair of lips on the mouths of every trumpet or clarinet bringing out sounds that weren’t yet ringing, but, dissonant, lovely. He always liked the symphony, and it was no different now.
The lady who sat beside him the next seat over—the music hall was only just filling up—leaned far over and whispered loudly.
“Oh, I hear they’re playing Tchaikovsky to-night!” She had a black silk fan with fluttery red patterns, which she folded and unfolded. It matched her opera gown, and the lovely black hat she wore, with three long enormous feathers tucked into the band—two black, one red. He—his name was Clarence—smiled.
“Tchaikovsky, that’s right. They also mean to play Stravinsky’s ‘Firebird Suite’. Have you—?”
“Oh, yes! I always liked it! I used to go with my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“She was a brilliant girl—so clever, so interested. She always read Shakespeare, but she liked music better. Sometimes she composed.”
“On the piano?” asked Clarence, smoothing down the sable knee of his dress trousers.
“And the harp. A brilliant girl, she really was. Oh, how I adored her!”
“Is she famous now?”
“No, no. Not famous, no. But she plays in coffeehouses, and, honestly, they love her. They can’t not. She never smiles, but if she likes you, you end up knowing.”
Clarence laughed, not unkindly. The musicians had begun to place themselves: four young women with flutes came out of the corner where, for some off reason, they’d been practising together, and went to four identical chairs and four music stands covered with note-spotted sheets. The piano player straightened his music and pulled on his tie shyly, nesting his hands silently on the keys—black keys only. The lady sighed.
“I wish I’d—”
“Of course.” Clarence reached out and touched her hand, a little awkwardly; he wasn’t quite used to this part yet. But the lady smiled, and closed her eyes.
“They’re about to begin, aren’t they?”
“Yes, at any moment. They’ll begin with the ‘Firebird’.”
“I didn’t read the programme,” the lady said, and folded the fan in her lap. Clarence began to withdraw his hand, and then paused; moved again, and then settled it down, his arm stretched across the empty seat between them—but he had a long reach, and the music hall never had filled up. He heard the lady sigh again, and it wasn’t a sad sigh—he could feel the place her knuckles were raised because of the fan in her left hand: and this didn’t seem so hard after all.
The lady began to speak again. “It was last March she—”
The lights went down, and the conductor came out to stand on the podium and speak.
The music was beautiful—but then, Clarence thought, with this orchestra it always was. He’d used to come to every concert when he was alive. After the automobile accident, though, it got harder to find the time. Yet he’d heard, despite all that, that Gabriel never missed performance at the Met, and somebody had told him once that Michael, of all things, was a devotee of Puccini.
It was funny, the things you…
During the brief intermission, someone came to claim the empty seat between Clarence and the lady; Clarence asked, in his beautifully cultured accent, if he might be permitted to change seats with the gentleman who was attempting to come between them.
“Yes, of course.” The gentleman in question didn’t seem surprised by Clarence’s tone, and he wore a tall silk hat. Clarence looked at him curiously, trying to decide…
“Last year I came here for the Beethoven concert,” said the lady. She had spread her fan again: Clarence admired it. “A gift. My mother. It’s her hat, too.”
Clarence laughed again. The lady joined him.
“The Beethoven concert was better than the ‘Excerpts from the Works of Sousa’.”
“Oh, I know.” She shook her head. “I only really like classical music. I don’t mind the loudness of what they play now, but there are too many words. I never really liked Opera, either.”
“Not even ‘La Fanciulla del West’? I would have expected—”
“No, no!” She was laughing again, handsomely, her quiet eyes full of sudden delight. “Not even that! My sister liked it, though.”
“Your sister had good taste.”
The lights went down again, and the shadows of the symphony hall ate the lady’s next words.
The concert ended with selections from the ‘Nutcracker Suite’ and Clarence only thought it was a pity that they’d no ballet dancers to go up on the platform and join in, for the musicians played so well that he wanted a soft-eyed, sweet Clara to hear it all with wonder and raised fingers at her lips. Beside him, he felt the lady lean forward. At one point she dropped her fan. When the lights came up and the applause because to shatter the moment-after silence, he reached down and picked it up for her.
“That was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she said, when he handed it to her.
“Exquisite,” Clarence said gently. He tried to use the right tone of voice: not condescending, not understanding, just soft. To show he had thought so, too, thought so honestly. The lady gave him a quick, earnest look.
“Have you tickets for next year’s…?”
“No.” He looked apologetic. “I never know whether or not I’ll be free by then.”
“I bought two. Well. I have two. I used always to come with my sister—we ordered ahead—really, it was my Christmas gift to her. I have two tickets until almost two-thousand twenty-six. When I talked to the boy—when I bought them—so understanding. He told me that for such a special gift it was quite all right for me to buy so far ahead—especially as I could certainly afford—even gave me a discount—”
Clarence pressed her hand, and tried not to look at the floor or touch his neck or fret with his shirt cuffs. Victorian ladies were so much easier—no, no, he suddenly realised, not really. The Victorian ladies had been much like this.
“I’ll be glad to,” he said. “You won’t see me between, I’m afraid, but I’ll be sure to come.”
The lady smiled. “I wish I could give you something to help you remember,” as she dried her face on a little silk handkerchief.
“I won’t forget, I assure you. However, I can give you something of mine—as it’s you who deserves a gift.”
“Oh, no, no—”
Clarence pulled her along gently, closer to the symphony platform. The hall was almost empty by now. The piano was directly above them. With a careful movement, rubbing his hand over his back, Clarence took the invisibility from his wings and spread them out. The right one was a little cramped from being folded up for so long; but of course one couldn’t spread them against the concert hall seats.
“Oh!” the lady cried, and her hand and the silk handkerchief flew to her eyes again.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry—”
“It’s all right. I—I just—have you seen my sister?”
“I’ll look for her. I’ll tell her you’re missing her?”
“No, don’t. It’s much better if she doesn’t know. She might feel—just tell her I’m all right, if you see her?”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t forget—oh, no, how silly, of course not—”
“I won’t forget,” Clarence promised, and suddenly the lady smiled again, through her tears. They both knew he meant it, he would come.
After all, thought Clarence, if Gabriel can do it, why shouldn’t I be able to find time, too?
~~~
*disappears again*
He tucked his coattails beneath him as he sat, third row from the front, twelfth seat in. The elevated platform for the symphony wasn’t so tall that he couldn’t see eighty-six musicians warming up, playing scales, drawing bows across beautiful violins, dancing fingers over shining keys, and every pair of lips on the mouths of every trumpet or clarinet bringing out sounds that weren’t yet ringing, but, dissonant, lovely. He always liked the symphony, and it was no different now.
The lady who sat beside him the next seat over—the music hall was only just filling up—leaned far over and whispered loudly.
“Oh, I hear they’re playing Tchaikovsky to-night!” She had a black silk fan with fluttery red patterns, which she folded and unfolded. It matched her opera gown, and the lovely black hat she wore, with three long enormous feathers tucked into the band—two black, one red. He—his name was Clarence—smiled.
“Tchaikovsky, that’s right. They also mean to play Stravinsky’s ‘Firebird Suite’. Have you—?”
“Oh, yes! I always liked it! I used to go with my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“She was a brilliant girl—so clever, so interested. She always read Shakespeare, but she liked music better. Sometimes she composed.”
“On the piano?” asked Clarence, smoothing down the sable knee of his dress trousers.
“And the harp. A brilliant girl, she really was. Oh, how I adored her!”
“Is she famous now?”
“No, no. Not famous, no. But she plays in coffeehouses, and, honestly, they love her. They can’t not. She never smiles, but if she likes you, you end up knowing.”
Clarence laughed, not unkindly. The musicians had begun to place themselves: four young women with flutes came out of the corner where, for some off reason, they’d been practising together, and went to four identical chairs and four music stands covered with note-spotted sheets. The piano player straightened his music and pulled on his tie shyly, nesting his hands silently on the keys—black keys only. The lady sighed.
“I wish I’d—”
“Of course.” Clarence reached out and touched her hand, a little awkwardly; he wasn’t quite used to this part yet. But the lady smiled, and closed her eyes.
“They’re about to begin, aren’t they?”
“Yes, at any moment. They’ll begin with the ‘Firebird’.”
“I didn’t read the programme,” the lady said, and folded the fan in her lap. Clarence began to withdraw his hand, and then paused; moved again, and then settled it down, his arm stretched across the empty seat between them—but he had a long reach, and the music hall never had filled up. He heard the lady sigh again, and it wasn’t a sad sigh—he could feel the place her knuckles were raised because of the fan in her left hand: and this didn’t seem so hard after all.
The lady began to speak again. “It was last March she—”
The lights went down, and the conductor came out to stand on the podium and speak.
The music was beautiful—but then, Clarence thought, with this orchestra it always was. He’d used to come to every concert when he was alive. After the automobile accident, though, it got harder to find the time. Yet he’d heard, despite all that, that Gabriel never missed performance at the Met, and somebody had told him once that Michael, of all things, was a devotee of Puccini.
It was funny, the things you…
During the brief intermission, someone came to claim the empty seat between Clarence and the lady; Clarence asked, in his beautifully cultured accent, if he might be permitted to change seats with the gentleman who was attempting to come between them.
“Yes, of course.” The gentleman in question didn’t seem surprised by Clarence’s tone, and he wore a tall silk hat. Clarence looked at him curiously, trying to decide…
“Last year I came here for the Beethoven concert,” said the lady. She had spread her fan again: Clarence admired it. “A gift. My mother. It’s her hat, too.”
Clarence laughed again. The lady joined him.
“The Beethoven concert was better than the ‘Excerpts from the Works of Sousa’.”
“Oh, I know.” She shook her head. “I only really like classical music. I don’t mind the loudness of what they play now, but there are too many words. I never really liked Opera, either.”
“Not even ‘La Fanciulla del West’? I would have expected—”
“No, no!” She was laughing again, handsomely, her quiet eyes full of sudden delight. “Not even that! My sister liked it, though.”
“Your sister had good taste.”
The lights went down again, and the shadows of the symphony hall ate the lady’s next words.
The concert ended with selections from the ‘Nutcracker Suite’ and Clarence only thought it was a pity that they’d no ballet dancers to go up on the platform and join in, for the musicians played so well that he wanted a soft-eyed, sweet Clara to hear it all with wonder and raised fingers at her lips. Beside him, he felt the lady lean forward. At one point she dropped her fan. When the lights came up and the applause because to shatter the moment-after silence, he reached down and picked it up for her.
“That was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she said, when he handed it to her.
“Exquisite,” Clarence said gently. He tried to use the right tone of voice: not condescending, not understanding, just soft. To show he had thought so, too, thought so honestly. The lady gave him a quick, earnest look.
“Have you tickets for next year’s…?”
“No.” He looked apologetic. “I never know whether or not I’ll be free by then.”
“I bought two. Well. I have two. I used always to come with my sister—we ordered ahead—really, it was my Christmas gift to her. I have two tickets until almost two-thousand twenty-six. When I talked to the boy—when I bought them—so understanding. He told me that for such a special gift it was quite all right for me to buy so far ahead—especially as I could certainly afford—even gave me a discount—”
Clarence pressed her hand, and tried not to look at the floor or touch his neck or fret with his shirt cuffs. Victorian ladies were so much easier—no, no, he suddenly realised, not really. The Victorian ladies had been much like this.
“I’ll be glad to,” he said. “You won’t see me between, I’m afraid, but I’ll be sure to come.”
The lady smiled. “I wish I could give you something to help you remember,” as she dried her face on a little silk handkerchief.
“I won’t forget, I assure you. However, I can give you something of mine—as it’s you who deserves a gift.”
“Oh, no, no—”
Clarence pulled her along gently, closer to the symphony platform. The hall was almost empty by now. The piano was directly above them. With a careful movement, rubbing his hand over his back, Clarence took the invisibility from his wings and spread them out. The right one was a little cramped from being folded up for so long; but of course one couldn’t spread them against the concert hall seats.
“Oh!” the lady cried, and her hand and the silk handkerchief flew to her eyes again.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry—”
“It’s all right. I—I just—have you seen my sister?”
“I’ll look for her. I’ll tell her you’re missing her?”
“No, don’t. It’s much better if she doesn’t know. She might feel—just tell her I’m all right, if you see her?”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t forget—oh, no, how silly, of course not—”
“I won’t forget,” Clarence promised, and suddenly the lady smiled again, through her tears. They both knew he meant it, he would come.
After all, thought Clarence, if Gabriel can do it, why shouldn’t I be able to find time, too?
~~~
*disappears again*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 09:01 pm (UTC)And oo, lovely story.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:51 pm (UTC)#^_^# Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 09:08 pm (UTC)Oo, I like very much. And is it It's a Wonderful Life fic, or have I gone mad?
I wonder if you got my letter yet.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:51 pm (UTC)Would you believe it's not? I did that purely by accident. *facepalm*
I did! I love you!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:54 pm (UTC)I love you too!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:58 pm (UTC)^_______^ Love!party!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 09:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 10:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 10:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-29 10:33 pm (UTC)Me too. And I will buy many copies of everything and pimp them to everyone I know. :-D
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:53 pm (UTC)I expect to see your name on a shelf at Border's one of these days. :)
And you'd better buy my book, woman, because I don't intend to be a starving artist.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-30 05:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-30 07:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-30 11:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-01 01:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-30 09:02 am (UTC)Hope you're having fun!
(lovely story btw.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:54 pm (UTC)Am!
(thank you!)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-30 02:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 03:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 04:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-12 04:13 pm (UTC)