S A R A B A N D E
by
-Stradivari-
:i:
Commonly known to be an essentially slow dance, the Sarabande is fast and wildly in Mexico and Spain in the 16th century. It was usually performed with the harpsichord and lute chamber ensembles. Perhaps being the most ambiguous of the baroque dances, the dance has a past too colourful to forget…
Strange how the word 'sarabande' (or serebande) echoes 'serenade'. Many people confuse one to the other. Stranger still they are nothing alike. You do not have 'tempo furioso' in a serenade and usually no syncopation. Yet a sarabande holds all the elegance and passion of a serenade; more passion, perhaps.
A serenade sings under a ladies window; ha!
Addressed to a lover; Deh viendi alla finestra.
Of course, he didn't leave me after the courante. He just forgot that I was there. I don't know whether it would have been better if he left altogether. Than my heart could beat for someone else I suppose.
If you asked whether I liked the serenade better or the sarabande, it would probably be the latter; you can't dance the serenade.
No, I take that back-you can dance the serenade. But words are prettier, are they not? And at any rate, there isn't really room to dance on a balcony and he's too busy playing the piano to dance with you. Oh, he was a brilliant pianist. When he was younger, he used to compose quite a lot; a show off, if you may. He wrote a sonata for me once, saying the traditional serenades were far too clichéd.
Now, when I think about it, I wonder if clichés aren't that bad after all.
He didn't have enough passion to fill a serenade. Oh it was full of voices, past polyphonic in texture and the strict fugal numbers to seven, yes seven voices; each independent to the perfection of counter-subject, cadence and episode. It had the complications that were never even exploited in a Sonata, past the genius of Mozart and the prodigious percussionistic effects of Bartok. But it didn't have passion…and I had wanted a sarabande from the very beginning.
He doesn't compose anymore.
I suppose it is ungrateful of me; after all, I have everything anyone could ever wish for.
But no one ever wishes for a sarabande.
Do you know how to dance it? I suppose it really depends on your nationality. The French slowed it right down, but probably so it gave them an excuse for its majesty and tenderness. I'm not even asking for that much.
You know, he did dance the courante with me-I daresay it suits his personality more than this. Even so, I could see his heart was already elsewhere. Perhaps he'll love me a bit more if I was a computer encoding or a bank account; give me more of his time if I were some business associate rather than his wife. Maybe just a friend. Maybe then he'll give me a sarabande.
No, I'm being ungrateful again. He already gives me too much; everything I could possibly fancy. Sometimes I wonder how he does that. I could ask for a gold piano…but I don't. He never plays anymore. And it's such a cliché.
Always in his study or away on some business trip or conference. I suppose that's real life.
But a sarabande…is it really too much to ask?
Was gold really worth more than this?
He loves me. At least that's what he says, whenever I ask him. It's really a pity you don't dance by yourself, not the suite at any rate. It's not the same, not really, though one could fantasize.
Have you ever heard a piece of music you can't forget? One that you've listened to so many times the melody and accompaniment alike are etched into your head, replaying itself over and over like a CD? I remember every note, every phrase, all the steps and every bar…
I didn't think any of it when the concert finished and the lights on the stage dimmed and went out. It wasn't dark-the lights in the theatre came on soon afterwards.
I didn't mind then; I was so sure I could revisit that particular sarabande whenever I decided to, so sure I could turn on the lights again and reopen the curtains. So sure…
Yet now, when I replay it in my mind's eye, the dance is faded-does a memory fade in sunlight? I always thought it was only paints that did that. Then I discover it doesn't have to be love; the passion in a sarabande, that is. It could be hate, anger or grief.
Weren't they supposed to be in the minority? Isn't the sarabande supposed to be even deeper than the serenade? Wasn't the serenade supposed to sing of love? Shouldn't the sarabande be longer?
It seemed to be, when I danced it for the first time. Or perhaps I was concentrating too hard ton the details, to know it so well so that I could listen to it later. Why did I do that? Why couldn't I just live it then? Did I already know? Why does no one answer my questions?
Why?
But of course I can remember it. I can replay the melody and dance to the beats in the base played by the harpsichord, even if only my ears can hear the music.
And it is just that. The sarabande only exists in my head.
But I doubt if it exists in his.
:i:
Author's Notes: Another open ended one shot, in semi-form of Interior Monologue. It hints AngelinexTimmy and HollyxArtemis…at least, that is what was intended. Probably more AngelinexTimmy. The whole of the last section was actually an extended metaphor…I've got a lot of notes to go with this one but I want to see what you thought it meant first. (Looks around)
As you might have noticed, 'Deh viendi alla finestra' is the title of the aria in the opera 'Don Giovanni'; it is what he sings to his (latest) lover. If you do not know the plot of 'Don Giovanni', it is basically about a young man (Giovanni, surprise surprise) who likes to…eh, dissuade wives and other men's girlfriends. Put it this way, he is rather temperamental. He changes his 'lover' every week. To put the long story short, in the end, he is dragged down to hell.
The main point I'm using is that he persuades a woman to love him then tosses her love aside.
Hope there wasn't too many typos.
Edited a few info bits. --hope nobody noticed…