Author's note: I've been listening, lately, to my new Glenn Gould CD set,
that includes both of his incredible recordings of the Goldberg Variations
(1955 and 1981) and an interview with the famous musician. I happen to
believe him to be among the top three musicians of our age (even though he
died, tragically, a few days after his 1981 recording, two years before I
was even born). To listen to his voice, as he describes his work and his
outlook on life, it's a simply awe-inspiring experience. I recommend the
album to all of you, if you haven't heard it yet. The comparison between
the two recordings is unbelievable.
Well, as you can see, I've been in a mood for the past few days. After this
chapter, I can finally begin writing what I've been looking foreward to the
most! I have a scene planned.... So, soon it will be back to concentrating
entirely on Severus and Hermione, but for now, bear with me on the plot.
It's going somewhere, I swear.... Ahem.
Thanks everyone!
-Iphy
Chapter Fifteen
The problem with extensive, historical research that focuses, at least partially, on one figure in particular, is that in order to really enjoy oneself in the research, it's important to actually like the person. When one finds their subject distasteful, it becomes harder to immerse oneself in the research of their lives, motives, and accomplishments.
Hermione's interest in the Melotromaut potions had been entirely academic. As she deepened her study in the potions master, she discovered the other side to the scientific mastermind. At first morbidly fascinated, she later found herself slightly ill at the thought of the madness that had inhabited this brilliant man's mind.
Mesetonces Melotromaut was a famous potion's master, indeed, but he had also taken great pleasure from testing some of his more dangerous potions on muggle research subjects, and eventually, gave up almost the entire pretense of scientific advancement, and continued to torture and kill muggles, systematically, before finally was imprisoned and eventually died in Azkaban.
Now, this brutal, horrifically smug and suave murderer was less than five feet behind them, blocking the exit from the balcony.
Hermione calmed herself. Relaxing her breathing, she focused on the music, attempting to dissuade her panic. After all, this was a fairly safe setting, and they didn't exactly match Melotromaut's preferences in terms of victims.
The soothing, familiar tones of the 12th variation, canon on the fourth, wafted up to their balcony. Severus was enraptured by the music, and fascinated by the intricate differences from either of Glenn Gould's magnificent recordings and this historical performance. He felt Hermione tense by his side, and glanced over to see her staring straight ahead, at the stage, a frightened look in her eyes.
Subtly shifting his body, he flicked his eyes to the back of the balcony, spotting the smallish, smug-looking, and quite poised man, who's identity became apparent after a moment of studied recollection.
He understood her sudden concern, and squeezed his Hermia's hand comfortingly. They couldn't just leave now, and the situation was still fairly free of danger, as long as they stayed out of the infamous potion's master's way.
The fifteenth variation came to a close, and young Gotllieb, sighing in relief, rose to greet the crowd with a bow, taking to the left of the stage to drink from a glass of water and rest for a few moments while the crowd discussed the performance thus far.
The intermissions were short in situations such as these, and the crowd could tell that the young man had every intention to prolong his brief respite from the high-pressure performance for as long as he could.
Severus leaned over to her, noting her rapid pulse in the hand that he held in his own. "If we speak in low tones, I'm sure we shant disturb any of the other audience members." He whispered, though the rest of the crowd was speaking excitedly in Dutch over the success of the piece thus far.
"I'm... perfectly assured, Severus.... Please, could you tell me more about what Gould said about this work?"
They had begun this conversation some time ago. Glenn Gould was, for most classical and Baroque enthusiasts, a figure of no little import to the musical world. They had been discussing his philosophies earlier, and his singularity as a pianist that had shaped the Goldberg Variations indefinitely.
"Well, he was often one to speak about things that were mostly interpretive, when it came to the pieces he performed. The study, consideration and performance of this particular one was always something of a magnum opus for him. Appropriately, for this particular night, he said that it was, "music with neither real end nor beginning, music with neither real climax nor real resolution, music which, like Baudelaire's lovers, 'rests lightly on the wings of the unchecked wind.' "
She nodded, the center of her brow lowered to a concentrated point that he found intoxicating. She stared at the stage as it glinted under the large chandelier overhead. "He spent a long time alongside this piece. I feel he knows it better than even Bach might have. He lived alone, but I've always imagined that his soul was entwined impenetrably to the variations, like one human becomes entwined to another... I suppose that that's the kind of love for the operas."
She was thinking of the scene from La Boheme, the aria; Vecchia Zimarra. The ode to the philosopher's overcoat. She had always recalled being touched that he had sung an ode to his worn-out coat before being forced to sell it in order to buy medicine for his dying friend.
Perhaps, she remarked, sharing her insight with Severus, who gazed at her with something close to wonderment, Glenn Gould's death was like Mimi's, representing the end of a time and the close of what would never be again. The appearance of the variations at the very beginning and end of his career were like bookends to his life.
Involved in her running speculation and comparison, neither noted the wizard behind them taking an interest in their conversation.
The woman, thought Melotromaut, had a keen insight into the workings of music and opera, two interests of his own that he prided himself on his familiarity with their intricacies.
He, of course, didn't recognize the "Gould" gentleman being discussed, but her voice and beauty were suddenly sparking her interest. It was not often, he thought, regarding the vapid lady to his right, who was stroking her own, red hair and gazing off into space, he discovered a woman who shared any measure of intellect close to his own.
The dark gentleman who accompanied her began to speak, his mouth close to her ear. "Did you know that Puccini was an expert at divination? Some say that was why he was so melodramatic. He had seen the future, and found only wars, plagues and famine, and so his operas were focused on the hopeless despair of mankind."
Melotromaut was fascinated. So they were wizards, it would seem. It would explain their subtle strangeness in this muggle setting. They were obviously both old blood, judging from their attire.
These days, he had begun to panic over the rising number of wizards born of muggle mothers, or, in some cases, muggle couples.
The presence of an old-blood, beautiful and refined witch, was enough to practically have him salivating. So pure, so young and unsullied by this muggle-infested world.
The couple had continued to discuss operas, in earnest, forgetting those around them, until the applause started again to signal the beginning of the second half of the performance.
Melotromaut stared intently at the exposed flesh at the nape of her neck directly in front of him, and vowed to speak to her after the performance, her escort be damned.
Chapter Fifteen
The problem with extensive, historical research that focuses, at least partially, on one figure in particular, is that in order to really enjoy oneself in the research, it's important to actually like the person. When one finds their subject distasteful, it becomes harder to immerse oneself in the research of their lives, motives, and accomplishments.
Hermione's interest in the Melotromaut potions had been entirely academic. As she deepened her study in the potions master, she discovered the other side to the scientific mastermind. At first morbidly fascinated, she later found herself slightly ill at the thought of the madness that had inhabited this brilliant man's mind.
Mesetonces Melotromaut was a famous potion's master, indeed, but he had also taken great pleasure from testing some of his more dangerous potions on muggle research subjects, and eventually, gave up almost the entire pretense of scientific advancement, and continued to torture and kill muggles, systematically, before finally was imprisoned and eventually died in Azkaban.
Now, this brutal, horrifically smug and suave murderer was less than five feet behind them, blocking the exit from the balcony.
Hermione calmed herself. Relaxing her breathing, she focused on the music, attempting to dissuade her panic. After all, this was a fairly safe setting, and they didn't exactly match Melotromaut's preferences in terms of victims.
The soothing, familiar tones of the 12th variation, canon on the fourth, wafted up to their balcony. Severus was enraptured by the music, and fascinated by the intricate differences from either of Glenn Gould's magnificent recordings and this historical performance. He felt Hermione tense by his side, and glanced over to see her staring straight ahead, at the stage, a frightened look in her eyes.
Subtly shifting his body, he flicked his eyes to the back of the balcony, spotting the smallish, smug-looking, and quite poised man, who's identity became apparent after a moment of studied recollection.
He understood her sudden concern, and squeezed his Hermia's hand comfortingly. They couldn't just leave now, and the situation was still fairly free of danger, as long as they stayed out of the infamous potion's master's way.
The fifteenth variation came to a close, and young Gotllieb, sighing in relief, rose to greet the crowd with a bow, taking to the left of the stage to drink from a glass of water and rest for a few moments while the crowd discussed the performance thus far.
The intermissions were short in situations such as these, and the crowd could tell that the young man had every intention to prolong his brief respite from the high-pressure performance for as long as he could.
Severus leaned over to her, noting her rapid pulse in the hand that he held in his own. "If we speak in low tones, I'm sure we shant disturb any of the other audience members." He whispered, though the rest of the crowd was speaking excitedly in Dutch over the success of the piece thus far.
"I'm... perfectly assured, Severus.... Please, could you tell me more about what Gould said about this work?"
They had begun this conversation some time ago. Glenn Gould was, for most classical and Baroque enthusiasts, a figure of no little import to the musical world. They had been discussing his philosophies earlier, and his singularity as a pianist that had shaped the Goldberg Variations indefinitely.
"Well, he was often one to speak about things that were mostly interpretive, when it came to the pieces he performed. The study, consideration and performance of this particular one was always something of a magnum opus for him. Appropriately, for this particular night, he said that it was, "music with neither real end nor beginning, music with neither real climax nor real resolution, music which, like Baudelaire's lovers, 'rests lightly on the wings of the unchecked wind.' "
She nodded, the center of her brow lowered to a concentrated point that he found intoxicating. She stared at the stage as it glinted under the large chandelier overhead. "He spent a long time alongside this piece. I feel he knows it better than even Bach might have. He lived alone, but I've always imagined that his soul was entwined impenetrably to the variations, like one human becomes entwined to another... I suppose that that's the kind of love for the operas."
She was thinking of the scene from La Boheme, the aria; Vecchia Zimarra. The ode to the philosopher's overcoat. She had always recalled being touched that he had sung an ode to his worn-out coat before being forced to sell it in order to buy medicine for his dying friend.
Perhaps, she remarked, sharing her insight with Severus, who gazed at her with something close to wonderment, Glenn Gould's death was like Mimi's, representing the end of a time and the close of what would never be again. The appearance of the variations at the very beginning and end of his career were like bookends to his life.
Involved in her running speculation and comparison, neither noted the wizard behind them taking an interest in their conversation.
The woman, thought Melotromaut, had a keen insight into the workings of music and opera, two interests of his own that he prided himself on his familiarity with their intricacies.
He, of course, didn't recognize the "Gould" gentleman being discussed, but her voice and beauty were suddenly sparking her interest. It was not often, he thought, regarding the vapid lady to his right, who was stroking her own, red hair and gazing off into space, he discovered a woman who shared any measure of intellect close to his own.
The dark gentleman who accompanied her began to speak, his mouth close to her ear. "Did you know that Puccini was an expert at divination? Some say that was why he was so melodramatic. He had seen the future, and found only wars, plagues and famine, and so his operas were focused on the hopeless despair of mankind."
Melotromaut was fascinated. So they were wizards, it would seem. It would explain their subtle strangeness in this muggle setting. They were obviously both old blood, judging from their attire.
These days, he had begun to panic over the rising number of wizards born of muggle mothers, or, in some cases, muggle couples.
The presence of an old-blood, beautiful and refined witch, was enough to practically have him salivating. So pure, so young and unsullied by this muggle-infested world.
The couple had continued to discuss operas, in earnest, forgetting those around them, until the applause started again to signal the beginning of the second half of the performance.
Melotromaut stared intently at the exposed flesh at the nape of her neck directly in front of him, and vowed to speak to her after the performance, her escort be damned.
