Dowland
Her hand had been gentle, her intentions genuinely kind. She had touched him and he had let her. That moment was all of his consciousness; he could see nothing before or after. Her maestro stripped off his gloves and mask, laying them tenderly on the piano. His bow needed rosin and the violin itself needed tuning, but soon he was thinking this day, thinking her, through.
He started with her piece, the gently wandering fugue. It had changed and grown within him. No more the vague feminine shape wandering on the outside. She had come…inside. And it was warmer, so much warmer than anything he'd felt before. But the music rose to fight that warmth. He had let her stay when he should have chased her off. He had let her in when he should had barricaded the door. And now, now the memory of her hand was on his shoulder and she…
She was in his heart.
The bow fell to the floor, the violin dangled from fingers that barely felt it. He loved her.
There was the pain he'd been looking for. Not from her – I'm not going to hurt you, she'd said. But he loved her – he, a thing that could not be loved, that was never supposed to love, whose love could only be a curse. It was obscenity that he should love her. What sin had she committed to bring down the punishment of his love on her? None, of course; she was innocent and innocent she would remain. She never need know that a thing like him bore any feeling for her. He would protect her from that as he would protect her from any other danger. And he would find a way to bring her happiness. He had little to give, but what he had was hers. With that thought in mind, he retreated to the theater's library to find treasures to share.
.
.
.
Out of her depth. That's what she was. Christine kicked a rock far ahead of her, caught up to it, kicked it again. Her carryall with pencils, easel, paper, and paper stumps sat on the stage; a promise of her return. A drawing, just begun, awaited completion. It would be part of a gallery-worthy series. If she had the courage to keep coming back. If she could tame her maestro.
At home she sat restlessly on her couch, unable to concentrate on the TV. His eyes haunted her. She moved around, cleaning up here and there, and still his eyes followed her. They say eyes are the window to the soul, she thought, but they also say that if you look into the abyss, it looks back into you.
In the back of a closet, she found her water colors. He had not consented to be drawn, but surely it was ok so long as no one knew. This was compulsory art; it needed to be made. She would start with a wash, since there was no face to put the eyes in. What colors for the wash? Faded red and grey, like a banked fire or old coals. Then, the eyes. They were bright in her memory, with their irises so pale they seemed to blend in with the whites – a blue that was almost white. Huge pupils like black holes. That expression of vulnerable wariness that belied his façade of power and dignity.
She fell into the hole in the paper and let the images flow from her fingers. Unfelt hours passed; when she looked up, dawn glowed soft and silent outside her window. She got a glass of water and washed her face, refreshing her eyes. After a sandwich and a stretch, she looked again at her work.
"There you are," she breathed into the orange morning light. "I see you, now."
.
.
.
As Christine approached the theater later that day, she heard the music playing. It was a welcome and an invitation, she knew. The music spoke to her clearer than words. Yesterday's unpleasantness was past; there was music and art waiting for her. She sat on the steps and leaned against a pillar for a while, enjoying the way the melody seemed to warm the air around her. As it faded, she went to the door and waited.
Wordlessly, she walked in and followed him to the auditorium, where she saw that he had taken the time to set up her "studio." Everything was in place, laid out precisely the way she liked it.
"Thank you. It's perfect." She smiled at him, noticing that he was still avoiding her eyes today. That was fine.
He bowed in acknowledgement. "Before you begin, though, there is something for you on the piano."
An old leather bound book was waiting there for her. Leafing through it, she found a collection of art songs.
"This is a beautiful book. It looks like an antique."
"It is. We will use some of these songs as you progress in your singing." The maestro watched for a moment as she perused the book, enjoying how delicately she turned the pages. "Do you see any to your liking?"
Christine did not want to admit that looking at the music made no impression on her. Rather than disappoint him, she turned pages until a title caught her eye.
"This one? Do you think I can do this one? It looks very pretty."
"The Dowland? Yes. That would suit your voice nicely. Very nicely." He was pleased that his voice betrayed nothing.
Their lesson began, as all their lessons in the coming months would begin, with warm-ups. He guided her through attention to her soft palate, relaxation of her shoulders and throat, to lift her "mask" to brighten her tone, and over and over again attention to breath. They discussed vowel sounds and how critical they were in singing. One cannot, after all, sing a consonant. Even in this short lesson, the maestro marveled at her aptitude for integrating and applying new information. When he could delay no longer, they began work on the song she had chosen: "He who thinks or hopes of love."
Preoccupied with the thousand things a singer must remember in order to produce a pleasant and comprehensible song, Christine did not notice her teacher's silent struggle. As the words and notes began to agree with one another, as she found the seat of her breath and supported each lyrical line, she began to hear a little for the first time what he heard. She was no diva, but never had she imagined her voice could sound like this.
As the maestro fell deeper in love with his muse, Christine fell in love with song.
. . . . . Dowland's song is public domain. Lyrics below . . . .
1. Who ever thinks or hopes of love for love:
Or who, belov'd, in Cupid's laws doth glory:
Who joys in vows, or vows not to remove:
Who by this light god hath not been made sorry:
Let him see me eclipsed from my sun
With dark clouds of an earth quite overrun.
2. Who thinks that sorrows felt, desires hidd'n,
Or humble faith in constant honour armed
Can keep love from the fruit that is forbidd'n,
Who thinks that change is by entreaty charmed,
Looking on me let him know love's delights
Are treasures hid in cave but kept by sprites.