K. 43, Symphony no. 6

Following a respite in Salzburg, the Mozarts whisked away to Vienna once again. Vienna was that day's Hollywood. (But, I'm sure there are no parents today bringing their kids to Hollywood, so they can get rich and famous.) It seems that anything that could have gone wrong on such a trip, did. The royals had their own set of concerns (a death and whatnot) as opposed to entertaining the Mozart. Small Pox was gnawing. They had to leave the area for a spell. Mozart got sick. And, a gob of patrons cheated the family out of money. All of which I will explore as I venture into this Vienna chapter of Mozart's life. 

Now, onto K. 42. A work dabbled on while at the Archbishop Schrattenbach's brother's house. A place the ran, to flee smallpox, only to have Mozart catch the illness. He got so sick he lost his sight for days. 

The music is increasingly grabbing my attention. A four movement work, his first I believe, the symphony starts with robust zest. "I'm going to take this challenge on. Kick some rear."  

Then comes the sweet sound of the second. A tune all too familiar to me. I know this music. I've heard the opening before. Zaide. Yes. It is likely because I've listened to Zaide so many times, I caught it. The Andante opening is the exact same, as the music from Herr und Freund. But, yet elsewhere have I heard it. Apollo et Hyancinthus. The aria Natus cadit atque Deus. My most notable piece from that opera, is in fact this song. I've heard it was natural for composers to recycle their work, but I guess I'm just surprised that Mozart joined in. And, as an adult he recycled something he wrote when he was 11.

I know when I have created some sort of idea, that I believe is brilliant, I like to incorporate it where ever I can. Is that what is going on here? Did this bit of music stick with Mozart all his life? I'm curious to see if I'll find it else where as I explore further. Or, to be more cynical, was this an issue of laziness? Not, as if I could blame a young Mozart, going through crazy hell. Both as he wrote K. 35 and Zaide. Why not use some of his older 'good stuff' to make the assignment a bit easier. 

Confession of the nature of my own evilness: In college, I did use some my old papers, and retro fit them for later assignments. And, even more brazen, I suspected a professor wasn't even reading those end of chapter questions he had assigned. He simply checked to make sure we had written something. So, for one of the assignments, I answered the first and last question with the same paragraph. I got a completion. I later grew even bolder, copying and pasting random blurbs of writing from other assignments. I mean, really? What's the point in writing anything, if no one is going to read it. (Yet, I still write this blog.) 

Whether he simply loved this music and wanted others to love it the same, or he needed a break and found some work he had already done, I get why Mozart did what he did. And, this piece of music is very beautiful. The music plays with emotions in a way only Mozart can do. To describe it best, I would say this aria is one of joyful crying.  But not in the manner of Bach, as if to say, “I’m suffering this horrible trail, but I have found peace through it.” But, more as if to say, “I’m going through this horrible trial, and I’m so miserably happy that you’re willing to go through it with me. I’m helpless. I can’t do this alone, and you’re actions have given me hope, even if I still have no chance of escaping this trial.” The music is that of a man on his knees, sobbing, repeating his thanks. (If one can comment about the irony of the last chunk I wrote, that would make my day.)

The third movement is nice, and I think I'm getting a feel for what a Minuet sounds like. The fourth movement has this galloping chunk that reminds me a bit of Osmin's Aria  Wer hungrig bei der tafel sitzt. It's not as exact as the other... Maybe I just want to find a link. How many more recycled chunks are out there? How many will I miss, because I haven't let the music nest itself into my conscience? Keep reading. If you know something I don't, let me know. 

Zaide K. 344, Ihr Machtigen seht ungeruhrt

It seems that those watching others go through pain have a harder time with it than those actually going through it. I was watching documentary about happiness. One of the segments spoke of those finding happiness in the harshest of circumstances. One suggestion was that some simply understand they can do nothing to change their circumstance, hence they find a way to rise emotionally above it. (The theme of the cantor). While those who (many Americans) feel they have certain freedoms and/or abilities are unable to be happy because of the perceived ability to change their lot, yet their efforts grow fruitless.  Now, this isn't necessarily a selfish mentality. We often see injustice or sickness or trials facing others, and naturally we want to do something to help. We want to fight to make it right.

And, Allazim is no different from us. He sees the tortured souls of Zaide and Gomatz. Ihr Machtigen seht ungeruhrt. The music cries of a lamenting soul. 'Please don't do this to these two. I love them. Let me take their place.' As a high-ranking slavemaster, Allazim takes on Sultan Soliman. He has to take action. His conscience will not let him do anything else, even though Zaide and Gomatz have made peace with their fate. His joy will not allow him to ignore this injustice. Tyrants, bullies, or just the purely selfish can only truly trample on others if they see them as less than human. Allazim does what he can to get Soliman to see the two as something other than property.

The opera Zaide honestly reflects the struggle we all have to be happy. Mozart's own pursuit of joy weighs on the music.  I could imagine, he was trying to make himself content. 'How many people even get a chance to work within the realm of their dreams?' He may have tried to reassure himself. And, us too. At times, when, in reality, we have a pretty good lot, we look at other trials going on, and use it as an excuse to be miserable. But, is this always bad? If Allazim would have said, "Oh well. Life sucks for Gomatz and Zaide, let me just enjoy what I have?" I don't know. Where do we draw the line between passive content that does nothing versus an active joy that is not afraid to tackle problems but understands that our actions can only go so far?

Zaide, (The Young Adult Novel) The first chapter.

235 years ago, Mozart returned to Salzburg following massive failure, right before his 23rd birthday. Shortly after, he began work on the opera Zaide. Who knows if he started it on or around his birthday, but I can't help but think that the moods were stirring in his head. While birthdays can be a great time of celebration, they can also grind our failures into the back of our eyes like glass grit.

When I first watched this Opera, I knew it said something special... Something I believe speaks to youth. If only they would watch it. But, (as do several opera buffs wrestle) how can one stir operatic interest among youth? My answer: This would be a great YA. And, I have spent the last year+ pursuing the endeavor.  

I began this work with these three rules (in order of importance): Reflect Mozart’s vision and his personal wrestlings—obviously that requires conjecture on my part (I likely got something wrong). Allude to the opera’s music. And create a realistic story that fits the historicity of the events and fixes time-elapsed issues that often accompany operas.

So, for Mozart's birthday I have decided to offer a gift (such gift giving can be one of the most fearful ventures) a soft-release of my YA Zaide project. With trepidation, I paste the first chapter below.

ZAIDE

1NE

Overture

The power of the picture is dead. Images bombard us, fighting for their place in our brains. A thousand words? More like, we use a thousand pictures for every word. In turn, we would think nothing of sharing our likeness with someone, even in the most casual of settings. Some say that’s a good thing. They say we’re being open and honest. But, are we so open and honest with complete strangers, that those close to us don’t know who we are? Or, have those close to us overlooked what we wanted to say, using us to serve their purposes? So, we search for those willing to listen.

Zaide had a picture. One picture. In those days, you had to be someone important to have one. A portrait. A talented soul painstakingly shaped and shaded each fine feature. If you had been lucky enough to have any, you wouldn’t give one away to a friend of a friend’s roommate.  Zaide kept hers in a pocket close to her heart. She had a love/hate relationship with the portrait. It was beautiful. Everyone said she was beautiful, but this picture carried a different kind of beauty. The picture was a portrait of who she wanted to be, not one of who she thought she was.

Crowded with dirty peasants, the port streets roared of rouges and merchants.  Janissary soldiers scanned from various posts. With a cloth fluttering from the top, their high squared off hats dared stowaways to press their luck.  African eunuchs waited behind Zaide. They wore gray, collarless outfits and their faces were as stoic.

The multi-domed palace loomed high-hilled at the horizon opposite the harbor. Rows of spear-tipped cypresses surrounded the path leading to the commanding center arch. Shrubs and trees dotted the hills surrounded the palace, clumping thicker in draws. 

The docks smelled the foul smells domesticated creatures. If only, for just one time, spices would be the only imports of the day. But, then Zaide wouldn’t have been there, for her lot was to welcome the new livestock. Zaide stood, trying to rid herself of any emotion. Trying to let herself stay hardened. The wind flailed the hem of her dress against her shins. The sea air strained through her veil filtering no muck vapors. She held her headscarf away from her eyes. She was not required to wear her coverings, but she just couldn’t do her job without it. She couldn’t bear it. She needed the protection.

Osmin faced the Barbary pirate ship. His arms crossed his chest as if they were stamped there. A scourge dangled from underneath his arm. It was his special whip with bits of shrapnel tied into the ends, ‘to make a good first impression.’  Beneath his curled mustache, his smile mirrored cruelly. His turban was red and gold. Again, he wanted more vibrancy. Anything to get them to remember him.  This was his Christmas morning.

“Do you think there will be any beautiful ones?” Osmin asked Zaide.

Zaide scowled beneath her veil.

“I have to find a wife for an honored slavemaster among this lot.” Osmin chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to have to waste a beautiful one on him.”

Zaide said nothing, staring toward the ship.

Shouts and whip-cracks roared from the boat. Soon after, a line of neck chained prisoners walked down the ramp.  The pirates yelled their foreign rants as if the volume meant their words were more likely to be understood.

The prisoners wore drab, dark clothes. Simple outfits without glamour.

“Puritans,” Zaide thought. “I need to go with English or Dutch.”

The pirates lined up the new lot, while Osmin negotiated with the captain.

Zaide scanned the crowd. Each looked down, some lips murmuring in prayer. 14 people in all. Most were men, but one was a family.

The little girl grabbed her attention first. Around 7, she was openly sobbing, not trying to be brave.

Next to her was the only woman, or girl, close to marrying age. She was around 15. Zaide eyes burned. That’s the age I was when captured. Of all these puritans, she’s in for the most horror. At least, I had someone captured with me. Someone to share my burdens. But… they were all sold to other provinces. The girl did not stand out, but she was not unattractive either. Her sandy hair was braided. Her cheeks soft and speckled. Her dark loose clothes left her body shape a mystery, but she was not stout.

Next to the girl stood a man and a woman. Zaide assumed they were the parents. The mother was too old for the harem, and would most likely be sent to the palace kitchen, with the youngest girl. She resembled both the little girl and the older one. The father’s face hung with all sorts of emotions: brave, kind, sad (not for himself but for his family), and gentle. He looked like the kind of father, Zaide would have liked. 

At the other side, a sandy-haired boy held his mother’s hand. Zaide’s breaths fluttered like a floating, lingering oboe series, at the sight of him. His face scared Zaide. She didn’t know why. She had seen that expression before. No one with it had ever survived, and that didn’t seem to bother them. But, with head-butting irony, for as long as they lived, they made the best slaves.

His cheeks were soft. His nose as well. His eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. They shifted to Zaide. The kindest glance slapped her. She looked away.  Her diaphragm and spine quaked, long and low as if the fluttering oboe started to weep.  She had hardened herself from slaves’ pleading looks, but her quivers were akin to the fear-piercing nerves she had had when first put into the translating position.

Osmin finished paying for the slaves. He had shouted a bit in the haggle, but not of anger, more like a man arguing over which sports team is better.  The slave trader scanned the new lot. Pointing his whip at all the men, he said, “Take them over there.”

Slavemasters unchained the three females from the group, and dragged the men to one side.

Her face filled with confusion and fear, the lone teenage girl let the slavemasters guide her to Osmin. She kept her head point down. Osmin placed his hand below her chin, forcing her face up. She resisted until fear trumped rebellion. Scanning her, Osmin laughed, low from his belly. “She goes with the eunuchs.”

The eunuchs walked over to the girl and grabbed her upper arms.

Osmin returned to Zaide’s side. “She’s pretty,” he said, pointing the tips of his mustache toward the young girl as the eunuchs unchained her. “But not beautiful enough for anyone important.”

Zaide clenched her teeth. Dog. Could there be a fouler spirited person? Even at great loss of myself, I’d destroy him if I could.

Osmin looked her way as if he had heard the grinding crack of teeth.  “The slaves?” He spoke with a ‘do your job’ tone.

“Hold your tongue. I need to figure out the language. If you weren’t such a barbaric simpleton, you could do it yourself.”

“Beauty fades. Your mouth never will. The day that you fall out of favor…”

“You will sour Soliman before I.” Zaide didn’t waste her ears on him. She walked closer to the slaves.

As eunuchs dragged the teenage girl away from the rest, dreadful understanding contorted her expression. She flailed as they secured her with a new set of chains. “Why are you taking me away from everyone else? What are you going to do to me?” Her struggles did nothing to slow the slavemasters from securing her.

One of the men slapped her, mumbling shut her last set of complaints. They didn’t dare use the whip and mar the goods. 

“Leave her alone.” Not yet fettered to any other slave, the girl’s brother knocked a slavemaster to the ground. His leg chains rattled as he ran toward his sister with a galloping gait. He did not even reach half the span before a slavemaster kicked him to the ground. Scourges weren’t afraid to dig into the boy’s skin. He tried to stand as they lambasted him. Osmin joined in with a giddy smile.

Sharp cracks and meaty thwacks throbbed inside Zaide’s ears. Her guts twitched toward him, but her outer sense kept her limbs still.  With each lash, her muscles seized as if she had been the one being beaten.

“That is enough.” Osmin said shortly after they started. “He has much work to do. These kind are good workers.”

Osmin walked to the docks, dipped a bucket in the sea, and returned. “Hold him down.” He said. He smiled big enough to sheen toothy yellow.

Slavemasters stretched out his arms and legs. The boy was too weak to fight.

Osmin dipped his head close to the slave. “You can let your spirit serve you well, or you can have it bring you misery. Either choice shall give me great pleasure.”

They boy did not understand the words, but could discern to tone. After a quick chuckle, Osmin dumped the saltwater over the boy.  He screamed, not like a kicked-dog yelp, but more like an ‘I can endure this’ growl. 

Osmin nodded with pride, as if he had just discovered a prize-racing stallion.

A deadening cold waved over Zaide’s back and neck, goading out even more tension. She tightened her fist, wishing she had the power and ability to use it.

Slavemasters yanked the boy off the ground by his chains. Although bloody and bruised, his previous peace-filled expression returned. Wrenching his elbows behind him, they forced a bar between the crooks of his elbows and the middle of his spine. His hands remained chained below his ribs.

“English.” Zaide swallowed and rotated her neck. She ached from having seized at each boy’s blow. She had seen plenty of floggings and even ordered a few herself, but none affected her like this.

For the most part, she was immune from receiving a beating, only the Sultan was allowed, but he never touched her. At least that way. And the ways he did touch her, didn’t happen too often. He had big selection. Above all, Sultan Soliman loved Zaide, and he wanted her to be happy—within his confines. She had two responsibilities. Spend the night with the sultan at his request, and translate orders to European slaves. Otherwise, she had free reign of the palace.

She’d rather spend the night with the sultan, than crush captured soul’s spirits.  Comparing her lot to that of the other slaves, she bore her nights with Soliman chiding herself. “I deserve this. I deserve this, for what I have done to these people.”

Zaide cleared her throat and spoke with as much domineering as she could muster. “Slaves. Welcome to your new home. I am Sultan Soliman’s fav…” Zaide spotted the boy staring at her with kind-hearted pity. Blood trickled beneath a blue eye.

Zaide’s heart plucked her vocal chord as sharp as a harpsichord hammer. She murmured her lips silently for a bit.

“Well.” Osmin scowled.

“Calm yourself. It has been a while since I’ve had to do English.” She faced the slaves again avoiding eye contact with that boy.

“As I said. I am the sultan’s favorite. An insult against me, would be as if you attacked Sultan Soliman himself.  You no longer belong to yourselves. Your children, your wives, your friends now belong to the sultan. But, despair not. Sultan Soliman is a kind man. He does not treat his slaves as other nations. Do well, and you will be rewarded. Many of the highest officials and viziers are slaves. Disobey, and you will perish.”

“Do they understand us?” The boy asked.

A slavemaster scourged him where his elbow met the bar. He gnashed his teeth and kept looking at Zaide.

“Slave. You are not to speak unless spoken to.”

He nodded with his lips, followed with a compassionate grin-frown.

“But, no. They do not understand you.”

“Can you do anything to allow families to say goodbye?”

A slavemaster lifted his whip.

“Stop,” Zaide said in Turkish. “I asked the slave a question.”

She turned back to the boy. “No. That would not be possible.”

“Thank you for allowing me to ask. I do not envy you. Your lot is worse than ours.”

Zaide whipped around, flinging her hands into the air, a sign ordering the men to take the slaves away.

She covered her face, leaving the slightest slit in her veil. As tears and slime slathered her face, Zaide paced away, holding in her choking throat, looking for a safe place to weep bitterly.

K. 344 Zaide, Rase schiksal wüte immer

Rase schiksal wüte immer

I was in stationed in Ft. Stewart Georgia. It was November, around the time of my birthday. I was informed that I was volunteered for a BS (the cuss word, not an Army acronym) training mission. I found out last minute I was going to spend a week or two at an airbase. Just before, I had learned that—do to a clerical error—I didn’t get my promotion to Sgt.

So, I was on the air base. The training concerned securing an enemy airbase. I was drive the Hummer out of a C-5 and provide support for the paratroopers. The actual mission was going to use Bradley, but they wanted to get a feel for the mission with Hummers first. (To me that was like practicing basketball with a football.)

We were there. Staying on the runway. The C-5 (the world’s largest plane) was yards from us. I was too bitter to appreciate the machinery, and the fact that I was going to drive a Hummer in and out of the funky opening front hatch. I was also going to get to watch paratroopers jump out of it.

But, I was miserable. And, my misery only grew. Because, I was not a Sgt, I was put on guard duty, to guard the infantry guys’ Bradleys. Whereas the Sgt assigned with us went to PLDC with me. I should have gotten my Sgt rank at the same time as him. So, I did my shift, sitting in a truck, staring at the massive plane. My teeth probably gnashed like a cud-chewing cow. The next day came, but our mission wasn’t until the night. We did nearly nothing all day. The day of my birthday. Then, night came. The belly the plane was at least as big as a basketball court. We had to take a latter to the second story (not level) or maybe it was more like the third. The thing was huge.

After we parked our Hummer and strapped it down, we buckled in and took off. I was ready for this mission to be done. But, I had days left. The plane rode smooth, not shaky. That didn’t matter. I’d never been motion sick, well at least not to a certain point. To add to my misery, you probably know what happened next. I filled an airsick bag. That’s just the way everything had to go. An hour passed. As we circled the air waiting for the paratroopers to surround the airfield, I was feeling better. Dreadfully thirsty, I needed water. At the top of the plane, I drank a lot of water. I returned to our hummer and sat on the driver’s seat waiting. My stomach started its lurching, churning motions. I filled another airsick bag. Just as I finished, the lights went out. Everything was dark.  It was time to land. After closing my airsick bag, I hastily placed it on the radio shelf next to my seat…

As soon as the feet of the plane's wheels struck the airstrip, I jumped out of the vehicle to unstrap it. We practiced this drill from the landed plane. Mission required that every man, truck and weapon rush out, so the plane could get out of target range. I did my part. Once everyone was done releasing the truck, we were to drive out of the plane. I opened the door, and jumped into the truck with the Army sense of urgency.

Pop. The same pop you hear when you pop a bread bag.

I cringed. I retched. I cussed (I was known in my platoon as the one who didn’t cuss). My thighs and rear were soaked. My TC shouted ‘go.’ And I drove out, sitting in my own vomit. The landing had rattled my airsick bag of the shelf.  Of course, it landed on my seat. Not the floor, but my seat. The rest of the mission continued. I surrendered. “You know what,” I told myself. “Being miserable is not going to make anything better.” I was right. I laughed. I let myself realize, how lucky I’d been to even get to have this experience. And, having done it while not in a real combat.

The next day we left, because they used Bradley's for the next practice run instead. I was only gone for three days. And, I got this great story out of the experience.

So, why do I tell this story for the aria Rase schiksal wüte immer. Gomatz is in a state of complete misery. (My experience is nothing compared to what he was going through.) He believes fate is against him. Then, he wakes. He wakes with a portrait of a beautiful woman in his hand. And now, this shield (her picture) will protect him from fate’s anger. Having seen it brings him enough joy to endure impending misery. The music reflects these emotions well. I wouldn’t call it merry, but the music of someone whose has discovered the thing that will get him through.

Truth: We can always find an excuse to be miserable. And we often do. This music is that of one who doesn’t want to cling to the misery of his miserable situation. Music that is desperate to push it away. When Mozart wrote Zaide, did he have something in his life akin to Zaide’s picture? Or, was Rase schiksal wüte immer a cry for a misery-chasing hope to come into his life? Did the commission of Idomeneo give him that hope, thus he scrapped (or at least gave up on) the Zaide project?

K. 344 Zaide, Ruhe Sanft

Right now, I’m on a Zaide kick. I’ve been working on a project centering on the Opera for about a year now. I’m getting close to revealing it. So, since I’m studying it like a prized buckskin paint yearling (horse terms: a beautiful colored horse that if has a great disposition could sell for a high price), I’d thought comment on each of the songs.  I even bought a CD for this one, makes it easier to listen to it all the time. 

 I’ve already commented on the cantor so the next song is Ruhe Sanft. First, I must say this song drew me to the Zaide opera. The most beautiful opera aria. Ruhe Sanft makes Shubert’s Ave Maria sound like a commercial jingle. When I first heard it, its beauty insisted that I find its origin. And, then when I read that it came from an opera that had never been finished—from a work scrapped and thrown into a slush pile—my gut coliced (a twisting stomach condition that can kill a horse). How could something so precious have just been thrown out?  From there, I had to know why. Why did Mozart stop working on it? I’ve read various theories, all likely to have some truth to them. But, I’m just talking about the song right now, not the opera. 

 We’ve taking in a foreign exchange student from Indonesia. And, the other day we were at a fellow host family’s home. Their student was from Germany. So, I thought I’d be clever and say Ruhe Sanft. She couldn’t understand what I was saying. I forgot that they actually use all their letters. None of that silent sound stuff.  (I did spent two years in Germany, but they spoiled me there, for I didn’t need to learn any German to get by.) She said it was rue heh not rue. Then, ad the accent and, well, I didn’t get it quite right. You’d think that for as many times as I’ve listened to the song, I’d have gotten it right. That baffles me all the more, how could the most beautiful song come from what many consider a… a… rough language.

Maybe, sometimes, the roughest, harshest environments produced the purest beauty. (Not trying to sound like a hippy.) 

First, let’s start with the opening. The sweetest opening to the sweetest aria. Such sorrow filled longing right from the start. Mozart tells the world, Zaide knows what she wants, but knows she can never have it. Plucking strings are tears. The notes ask, ‘Would I be better off never having known, or has seeing given me the a joy that can sustain me.’  The notes wrestle with the old adage, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, then…’ yada, not convinced they agree. 

Then, the soprano voice seems to wish, the wishing turns to pleading. Selfless pleads, begging not for her wellbeing, but for the one she loves. By her voice alone, I wonder if I could have guessed she was giving away her only possession, in order that it may revive the receiver.  If the words to this song were a dear and the music was an arrow, Mozart would have pierced the heart. Did he have Aloysia Weber in mind when he wrote the song? It was about the right time. The girl he wanted. The one his father chased him away from. The one who rejected him when he returned. 

After the first theme, the music shifts from pleading/wishing to a daydream state. It imagines what could be. I have that kind of daydreaming all the time. I picture, what would happen if… Sometimes I chide myself, and say things akin to, ‘stop dreaming, start doing.’ But, this second theme says, ‘let yourself dream. Why not if it brings you joy?’ A bit of the cantor creeps in and whispers, ‘you can’t make it any different.’