Mozart's Daughter

While particularly heavy into my Zaide research, I was fooling around with a monologue contest. I thought I'd try to enter something that might emote why Mozart scrapped his work on Zaide. In all likeliness, what I wrote is not close to reality, but it was fun to think about how much his heartbreak from Alloysia played into the creation of the work. But, this monologue didn't win, and I didn't want it to die fully, so I wanted to share it.

(If there is anyone in desperate enough need for a free monologue, fell free to use this. I simply request credit be given to the author.)

Mozart’s Daughter 

(Mozart writes, quill in hand, to his love, Alloysia (Al-uh-wish-uh))

Alloysia. I will prove it to you. You shall see. My name will be great one day. We will not live in poverty. I know you didn’t mean it. You were scared. You still love me. I feel it. Isn’t our love worth it? Who could punish you, when you found what you’re looking for? True love. No misery can scourge our love.

But, I am bound in misery without you.

I know. I know. I could not find a job... Mother died. If anyone has the right to be upset… (scribbles paper with quill)

When I returned from Paris, I was a miserable wreck. I understand I frightened you. Believe me, I’m stronger now.

If only I had been stronger then. If only I hadn’t let father send me to Paris… Perhaps mother would still… (scribbles violently) Perhaps you would have… (scribbles)

I am working on an opera. A beautiful opera... The most beautiful opera ever. This opera will bring me great fortune. It will bring me fame. This opera in devoted to you. This opera is our daughter. (stops writing, looks to the side)

I have a letter. (Mozart leaves his table and returns with a letter and a deflated face)

(silence)

Alloysia has married.

(after a moment of silence, Mozart crumples letter and throws it across the room)

(stands silent) 

(from his desk, he grabs a stack of sheets and tucks them into a leather portfolio)

Goodbye Zaide. I’m finished with you.

K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Cosa ha mai la donna indosso

I've heard it from a movie, Ghost of Girlfriends Past, (not recommending the movie) "the power in all relationships lies with whoever cares less." Now, power shmower. I'm not out to say the deep down all people want dominance over every relationship, but I do believe they want to be taken seriously. They want their voices respected. Their opinions heard. Their passions shared. Sometimes I wonder if it is difficult to be taken seriously, when a person cares more.  It is often the exuberant and excitably passionate individuals have a hard time being taken seriously. They care for the cause, but lack power to rally others behind them.

"But, isn't it passionate people who change the world and achieve success?" Some may ask. Yes and no. There are a whole mess of terms one has to define first. But, I won't dabble too much into that. No matter what someone says, everyone is passionate about something (even if it is the desire to be left alone). But, the world does not take those goofy excitable individuals seriously. That's not to say they don't like them, or even that they do not have awe, just there's a lack of... umm... respect.

Mozart was that kind of person. Yes. His culture appreciated his music, but did not take him seriously as a musical authority. This was likely all the worse when he was 12. Sure, everyone gets a kick out of watching a passionate little kid with talent. But, put that bossy mongrel in charge of adults... Who'd take him seriously? Regardless of his talent. This is the time La Finta Semplice was birthed. They, as Salieri's father suggests in the movie Amadeus, likely saw him as a trained monkey. Sure, everyone loves a trained monkey, but do they take them seriously as a positional authority?

And, what causes this 'trained monkey' impression? Oblivious passion. So, where I had said before that it takes a passionate person to gain a following, more often than not, it is focused passionate individuals. A focused passionate person calculates, considers, (and the yucky word people like me hate) plans. He or she reels in skills outside his or her passion in order to accomplish the passion. The obliviously passionate throw themselves headlong into a pursuit, ignoring everything else. They have a hard time considering others' opinions. Don't take criticism well.  That's not to say such a person never does great things, if fact they often do, but the journey is harder. And they have to be either immensely talented, or lucky. And, many with that mentality wear themselves into a depressed funk.

Now, add this personality trait into the realm of love and relationships. (A good study when I get into Mozart's relationship adventures of the Kochel.) A man falls in love with a woman. The obliviously passionate man throws himself at her. How does that usually work out? Do women respect such a man? If not, how does a boy get the girl? That's a mess of stuff I can't answer, because really there is no science to it. Thank God I'm married, that's about all I have to say about that. This brings me to Cosa ha mai donna indosso. Polidoro, one of the men the semplice is to charm, speaks of his passion for women. "Why do I love them so?" "Any man should be cursed if he doesn't appreciate his wife." Isn't this the kind of passion a woman would what? (I am asking, because I don't know the answer.) Yet, he is portrayed as the fool.

The music of the aria is that of yearning. Unfulfilled yearning. It is only fitting that the movie Amadeus uses the term 'unfulfilled longing' to describe Mozart's music. Some say the scene is the best description of music. Possibly why I'm drawn to it, Mozart's music brilliantly captures unfulfilled passions.

And of course, at the end of the opera, Polidoro doesn't get the girl. The brooding 'I'm not going to let a woman get to me' figure does. (That doesn't sound at all familiar in romance). Then, Polidoro turns bitter.

Once growing tired of not being able to share his or her passions, such person pulls his or her desires in. Hides them. Morphs into a bitter outsider. Or, sinks into despair.  It is not that individuals lose their passions, just the desire to share them. To be fair, I must say this is not always the fault of the world. I wonder if, for some, no amount of passion praise will ever be enough. Now, if such a person can coerce others to share their passions, either via guilt or force, can such praise ever truly satisfy? Sure, one could be like the Sultan in Zaide, and force a lover to stick around, but what would that do? Or, a powerful and rich man could force groups to accept him as an 'artist', but... Deep down, we want others to want to love what we're passionate about. And, sometimes they're not. What? Are they supposed to change who they are, in order to accept who we are?

I don't know. Often the sissy inside me gets whiny when people don't like what I want them to like. Or, when I think they're only pretending to like what I want them to like.

K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Ella vuole ed io torrei

Back in my 4-H days, we'd have horse practice three days a week. I hated going to practice and on a particularly rushed day, my mom was harping on me to get my horse caught. I think this was Chiam (Kai-am). I can never remember which one I used which year. His advantage over other horses, he was easy to catch. In addition, it was a hot day. Horses aren't anxious to move on a hot day. So, I walked up beside him with sloppy, careless, yet confident steps. He started walking away. I followed. He walked faster. I trotted along side. He took off. He had never taken off. I ran. With a burst of gas and a flung rear hoof, he kicked me in the upper thigh. 

I collapsed in pain. Screaming. Yelling. I lay in the hardened hoof-hacked dirt. Grinding my teeth, pissed off at that horse. Chiam stopped, turned, a wondered back over toward me. He lowered his bobbing head, his eyes carrying apologies. I didn't care. Grabbing a clod of mud, I chucked it at his face. He spooked and ran off. Worst of all, my parents still made me go to horse practice, with Chiam and the hoof-shaped bruise he left on my thigh. (I don't bruise easy.)

And this bring me to Cassandro, the woman-hating rich gentleman, whom Rosina is trying to make fall in love with her. She works her 'pretend simpleton' magic on him, softening him up: until she asked for a ring (of course for all this to happen in one night breaks a bit of time constraint logic). Here's where he breaks into the aria Ella vuole ed io torrei. Something must have happened. Something made him bitter and jaded. The music starts of noble,"I won't" then intensifies with a mix of fear and anger. After the first huff, it sighs as he says, "Once she gets my ring, her love will be done." Following the breather, it gets more intense. With the music, young Mozart nicely flecks out the confused emotions of a once beaten dog, wanting the meat, yet seeing a lofted stick. (The simile is at the end of the aria.)

I would venture to say, La Finta Semplice was Mozart's first occupational kick to the thigh. I could imagine a youth, who'd received nearly nothing but praise, going into this project with lofty hopes, and even arrogant assumptions. Even, if he was correct in his assumptions, I doubt divas and royalty would have taken too kindly to such boldness. They didn't. And, I don't think they even gave him a fair chance. Leopold was no help, either. And, the Mozart's felt that hoof strike. Leopold grabbed his own clod of mud, trying to put a hurtin' on those who refused to pay for the opera. He took the lot to court. In the end, the Mozart looked the fools, and lost their loot. Their looking like fools likely stole away the archbishop's patience for their having been gone much longer than planned.

Consequently (I'm not sure what Mozart learned), Leopold grew shrewder. He lost trust and when he ventured to Italy, he made sure to get payment in advanced. I can't help but wonder if he lost a hint of trust in Mozart? A burrowing mistrust in Mozart social capabilities, that created a need in Leopold to do everything for his son, instead of teaching him to take care of himself.

K. 51, La Finta Semplice, Marito io vorrei

As I have said, I have been chewing on Mozart's Opera La Finta Semplice for a spell. I'm trying focus. Trying to figure out what I want to write. "Can I devote enough words to one blog?" I've asked my self. No. So, I'll hit a few chunks here and there. A La Finta Semplice series is a'coming. This is a crucial benchmark work in Mozart's life. 

La Finta Semplice. 'The pretend simpleton.' Why pretend to be a simpleton? Wouldn't you want people to know you're smart? Hmmm. Children, until a certain age, are obliviously honest. They spit out whatever they're are thinking and feeling. And, they often surprise adults with their comprehension. Of course, this honesty makes it hard to get away with things. And, it also heaps expectations. I know if my kids are capable of something, I expect them to do it. Then, they turn the age where they learn to 'play dumb.' Oh, I see this tactic used all the time from the boys at the residency where I work. "Ah... Well... I didn't know that we weren't supposed... yada." Not buying it. Not buying it.

I can hardly blame them. I've done it. I still do. Even this blog is a shell of me playing dumb. From time-to-time I tell my lazy self, these post don't need to be perfect. I've out right declared that I'm a troglodyte. They expect me to be stupid. "So what, if I get something wrong?" 

And, poor Mozart. He laid all his talent aces on the table at a very early age. He lost any chance of being the pretend simpleton. And, he may have never had to have worried about it up to this work. A gob of effort poured into a full length opera. Never to be performed in the city having requested it. Maybe only a patronizing pity performance was later requested from the Archbishop a year later.

So, why pretend to be simple? I think sometimes, it simply makes life easier. Even in the realm of love. That's why I chose the aria marito io vorrei. A key motivator of simplicity (not the right use of the word, but I'm using it anyway).  Sung by Giacinta, this aria speaks of a woman who wants love. She has recently had a bit of a spat with her love. Realizing the work a relationship takes, she sings with a longing voice. A pining voice. A voice we have all bellyached within our lives. "I really really want something. I just don't want to deal with all the strife it takes to get it." Giacinta's actual words, "I want a husband, but without the work. To have him if he suits me, to leave him if he is troublesome... I just want him to do whatever I want him to do." No one today in our selfless society says such babble. 

And, we too want our life goals to come easy. I want my work accepted by the masses after the first draft. I want to create what I want to create, without catering or even seeking what others might be interested in. But, life is not that easy. I'm not that great that I can just whip out something without work and get others to like it. Even if I was that talented, it wouldn't matter. Mozart was, but he still couldn't get everyone to swoon over all his stuff. 

Sure, you can tell me we need to follow our happy-hippy dreams, but we can't expect them to come easy. And, we can't expect to be entitled to them. (I'm yelling at myself about this all the time.) It is hard. Most dreams won't come true by playing dumb. And so, I'm reminded of something I wrote from my book Schizic.

K. 45, Symphony No. 7

Mozart fled to avoid the Viennese smallpox epidemic, but that didn't turn out so well. He got it anyway. Then, he returned back to Vienna. And, this is where/when he wrote K. 45. As I have mentioned, I am also chewing on La Finta Semplice, and it is interesting to note that this symphony is used for the overture.

The first movement chugs out with the-little-engine-that-could aggressiveness. As if to say, "This is tough but I'm going to gnash my teeth and push through this with positivity and eagerness." It toots exhausted here and there, but keeps pressing on. The 2nd movement, is that of exhaustion, but not despair. "I need to rest," it says. Some places sigh darker. The 3rd strikes like a slap in the face, marching, pressing on with new sets of motivation. It gets exhausted again once more, but slaps back some motivation and continues. The 4th chunk, is a looking back of all the trails, as it stands on top the hill and shouting, "Hey world. I did it. So there!"

I wonder which movement would best have illustrated Mozart's mood during that point in his life. I'd go with the 3rd, maybe the 2nd. His world was starting to make its demands. It needed something in return. Archbishop Schrattenbach was no longer bearing patiently with Leopold's absence. Critics and skeptics scowled. Mozart was growing pass the cute stage. The novelty of watching a kid do tricks was wearing, yet he wasn't old enough to be taken serious as a 'real' musician. This trip did not end with a 4th movement victory proclamation.  But, with broken promises, courts complains and tort tirades. (Will elaborate more when I post on La Finta Semplice.)

Ultimately, this trip did not go according to plan. And, all those involved didn't take too kindly to the Mozarts after that lot. That's life. Generally people will tolerate failure, only if they still get something from you.  And, they love seeing failure from those who rub them the wrong way. Mozart was losing his cash-calf status.

Zaide (The Young Adult Novel) Chapter 3: Ruhe Sanft

Currently, I am chewing on La Finta Semplice. I don't know how many times I have to watch it or what-not before I will find the right words. This work is indubitably a character creating milestone of Mozart's personality. I would declare it to be Mozart's first experience of a major failure. (Not saying the work was a 'failure' but its reception).

So, as I chew on this opera for a spell, I will nurture the suckling throngs of fellow troglodytes desperate for their weekly fix of Mozart, offering another bit of opera dabbled on during Mozart's wound-licking period following his biggest failure. Zaide. This may even represent a failed dabblement of my own. But, hey, I wrote it... Just as well share some of it. The third chapter of my Young Adult novelization of Zaide. The Ruhe Sanft chapter.  The chapter devoted to the most beautiful aria in all of opera. If you haven't read the other chapters you can read the on my Zaide page.

3HREE

Ruhe Sanft

Gomatz smashed his pick into the dirt. His palms burned as if the shaft was a smelted rod. The rest of his muscles grew past pain into numb-deadened weakness. Nothing but will was moving them. He tried not to let himself think. Only nasty thoughts slipped into his head when he did. His jaw ached from teeth gnashing when he let his thoughts think.

From pick swing to pick swing, Gomatz looked to the hillside. A drab green dress fluttered with the grass. The woman who had saved him watched over the slaves. He breathed the breaths of a brooding strings section.
His last glance on her, stirred his brain. Why is she watching us? Is this a game to her? Foul creatures everywhere. Enjoy the pain of others. Or could… The brooding string section mood switched to that of a lone, hopeful oboe. Does this girl care? Is she… Darker moods returned. Back and forth, hopeful tones clashed with brooding moans.  It couldn’t be. How could she care? Why should I care? Stuck with criminals. Forced into slavery. Why didn’t I just let grandfather die… No… No.. Stop such laments. But, why? To what end. Why should we both die? His soul’s prepared so is mine. If I remained here longer… I could… But, it is too late. I’ve made my bargain. I may keep up with the work today, and even possibly tomorrow, but surely at this pace, I will die. Ah, but death could only ease my sufferings. Death shall be my salvation. I could have ignored my grandfather’s plight. Only to have swallowed more misery for a longer time. Yes. Gomatz. You have chosen correctly. Freed from guilt today. Freed from a life of slavery tomorrow, or at least soon. Oh. My head. My eyes. They are growing black. I shall die among criminals, as my savior. Faint… Go ahead just faint. It would be a sweet release right now.

Gomatz trembled.  He swooned and began to collapse.

“Time to go everyone,” Osmin yelled.  

Gomatz woke from his nearly fainted state as slavemasters gathered up everyone and chained them neck and neck.  And now I must bear that dreadful tune once again.

Osmin yelled at Gomatz. Gomatz understood it to mean, he had been successful, but the following days would be difficult.

As the shackles went around his neck, Gomatz took one last glance over to the hillside.  The woman was gone.

***

Brothers, Brothers, be now merry

Find your courage, swallow your gripes

The Earth is cursed, we’re all doomed

Everyone, too, is wrought with strife

Let us sing

Let us laugh

 

You can’t make it any different

This world, this pain, doesn’t matter

No one, no where is free of pests.

 

The slaves trudged through the valley like a mud-thickened river. Osmin swung his arms as he marched along side. His face beamed with the pride of a hard days work.

Zaide followed from the hilltops using that song as her guide. The sun’s last crest dipped below the horizon. The valley was dark. The hilltops glowed.  Having still not eaten, Zaide’s legs slugged through the grass. Her stomach gave up its ache, knowing she wasn’t going to feed it. Her head turned to complaining instead. He is going through much worse. I can bear this for a day. Zaide chided her headache.

Let us laugh

Let us sing

 

The music stopped, down deep in the dark valley. Zaide trotted to the top of a hill. Reaching a lone cypress tree, she leaned her chest against it, staring down into the valley. From below, a light shone from the barn, a stone building dug into the hillside. The stones came from the fields, built by the slave that stayed there.  The large opening without door glowed, torches burned on each side. The slaves marched just inside and waited to be unchained.

“Oh poor Gomatz. I have to help. I have to do something. No way will you survive. What can I do to give you strength?”

As slavemasters unlocked the group, Zaide trickled down to the barn. Her lungs found it hard to digest her breaths. Her ears heard every step as thunder. Her throat seemed as if it was eating itself. Zaide reached the outside wall, throwing her back into the rock and mortar. She found a shadowy nook where a pillar blocked the torch light.  Closing her eyes, she listened.

Slavemasters shouted orders, laughing from time to time. Most were ready to be done for the night.

“Finish locking them up,” Osmin said. “Give that one some extra food. I want to keep him alive for one month. I must leave. Allazim will be back tomorrow.”

Zaide held her breath as Osmin walked outside the door and down the dirt road. He didn’t look back. Rubbing the rock grains with her palms, she exhaled, waiting for Osmin to move out of sight.

With small, shifting steps, Zaide shimmied closer to the door. Once to its side, she peered around the support beams. The livestock scents of hay and filth hit her. Cages of rusty iron were spaced far enough apart to make whispering between impossible. Gomatz chewed a dry hunk of bread, as a slavemaster guided him toward his cage. A tear dripped from Zaide’s eye as she studied his haggard head. Extra bread, will do no good.  She had learned to tell when death was stalking a slave.  

The slavemaster didn’t throw Gomatz into his prison. They didn’t need to. As soon as his feet hit the heather, Gomatz collapsed.

Sparse, yet intervaled, metallic clanks echoed throughout the barn as the rest of the slaves settled into their beds. Once everyone was locked up, the bulk of the slavemasters left. One lone guard watched the lot for the night.  He usually tucked himself in the back of the barn and slept. No one was worried about anyone escaping. Even if they managed to get out, slaves had nowhere to go.

Once the guard trickled to his place, Zaide snuck in. All the torches but one had been snuffed. It cast dancing shadows between the cages. Zaide tiptoed toward Gomatz’s prison. Half-snore breathings calmed her, letting her know everyone was likely sleeping.
At Gomatz’s cage, Zaide dropped to her knees. His face rest on the bars. Belly down, he breathed heavy into the heather. A patch of fuzz fluttered beneath his nose. Zaide reached a hand through, stroking his soft, oily hair. Leaning her forehead into the bars, she began weeping, tears falling on Gomatz. They struck him both sharp and soft, like a violin string plucked with the meaty portion of a finger.
“How can anyone be so good? So pure? So noble? I will never deserve someone like this. I have my reward in Soliman. But, if only… Oh Gomatz. Why should you die, because of your pure heart? Can I do anything to give you strength?” Her whispers seemed to flow in harmony with his breathing. Zaide placed her hand on her aching chest, grabbing her dress, clenching tight the cloth. The pocket underneath stirred a hint of hope.

Reaching in, Zaide pulled out her pocket. Crafted from the finest lace, it held her most priced possession. She pulled out her picture, staring a briny stare, examining her ideal self. “This is the kind of girl you should have.” Zaide folded the paper and tucked it into Gomatz’s hand.

“Sleep, my dear. Sleep like you have never slept before. Sleep until your strength has returned. I give you my portrait. Let it penetrate your dreams. See my smile. My tender smile. A smile I have never smiled, but want to. Let that smile fill you with the sweetest dreams. If your spirit is renewed by the photo, then I too will be renewed.”

She let a few more tears fall on Gomatz and left.

***

Patterned mosaics covered the seraglio walls. A bath of several hues of blue tucked itself beneath window well. The stained-glass slept for the night. Torches flickered, their lights catching the glossy strips of tile.  Zaide dropped her veil. Jasmine floated in the air, but it couldn’t quite kill the humid stale smell. Wives and odalisques giggled, their echo cackled against the arched ceilings.  

Zaide walked through the gaggle of gossiping woman. “Hail. The Sultan’s favorite. Enters as late as she pleases.” The oldest wife said. She was just over thirty.

Zaide closed her eyes, rolling them in their sockets. I can’t deal with these women. “Quiet, or I’ll tell Soliman you beat me.”

The woman scowled. “The day you run out of favor…”

“The haggard buzzard seeks prey. The ugliest of birds can’t kill on its own, so it has to wait for something to die.”

Wiggling her finger at Zaide, the woman’s mouth dangled open. Her raging lips trembled toward shut and then back open as if they were trying to say something, yet couldn’t find the right words. After a sneering shake of her head, she whipped around and left. The rest of the women gawked at Zaide as if their throats were stuck shut, mid gulp. They parted, letting the young girl through.

Untying her sandals, Zaide sat at the bath’s edge, lowering her dirty cracked feet into the water. Oh. Zaide. You have to be more careful. You can get in trouble letting your feet spoil.  Digging the corner of the soap in the her feet, Zaide massage each sore spot. The cracks were small, barely breaking the skin. Once she dried off, she rubbed her feet with oil. The jasmine scented oil wafted into her breathes. She relaxed and closed her eyes. The raw area lost their burn as she massaged for a few minutes.

Feminine chatter softened, as doors opened and closed. Zaide stood and stretched her legs. They ached a dull and deep, with viscous weakness.

Huhhh. Ffft. Huhhh.

Sniffling sobbed from the other side of a pillar. Zaide walk to the pillar of blue and gold. She caught the edge of sandy hair dangling over the knees of the fetal sitting girl. Her arms pulled her legs tight against her chest.

“That’s the new girl.” A fellow odalisque said, lounging on the nearby couch. “She was given to her new husband.”

“Hmmm.” Zaide stepped to the side of the pillar and leaned against it. She stared straight ahead, not daring to look at the girl. Forcing her tone callous, she said, “She’s going to have to get used to it.” Then she switched to English. “It doesn’t get any easier, you just get harder.”

Even from her peripherals, Zaide recognized the girl. She looked up, her makeup smeared black and blue. Her crimson dress with gold trim was a far leap from her previous drab black and dingy white outfit. “He didn’t touch me.” She sniffled.

Zaide’s brows dropped as she looked a hint more toward the girl. “Why are you crying then?”

“They touched me all over when they washed me and forced me to wear these dreadful clothes and makeup. For what purpose?”

“You belong to someone. You must please your master. Who were you given to?”

The girl shuddered. “I… Um.  He was older. Alli… Alla.. Some name of that sort.”

“Allazim?”

“Yes. Yes. That is it.”

Ah, that is why he was not in the fields. “Blessed are you among us.”

“How am I blessed?”

“You could not have been given to a better man.”

“But, I am still owned.”

“Isn’t everyone? Better to belong to someone good.”

“Could anyone good, own another?”

Zaide shrugged. “So what did Allazim do?”

“When he saw me in bed crying, he patted me on the back, said something I couldn’t understand, and left. A few hours later, they brought me back here.”

Zaide stared forward, quiet.

Although Zaide had been no comfort, the girl inhaled and wiped her eyes as if she felt better. She let her legs drop forward. And stared forward in the same way as Zaide.

“What is your name?” Zaide sighed.

“Abigail. Yours?”

“Zaide.”

Abigail over to Zaide. “Do you know how my family is doing?”

“I have seen your brother.”

“How is he?”

“He is brave.”

Abigail smiled. “I know.”

“It will probably get him killed.”

Abigail dropped her grin. “I know.”

Abduction from the Seraglio via Queen City Chamber Opera

I remember those middle school days. (I hated Jr. High). We'd taken a trip to a youth convention in the Black Hills. A gob of guys had Magic: The Gathering cards. I watched them play from the side. 'Oh, that looks so fun,' I said to myself. I kept asking them questions. Why did you do that? What does that monster do? What's the difference between water monsters and earth monsters... As I yapped like an annoyed lap dog, the nerds (sorry for my bitter words, I'm not really stereotyping) grumbled with snappy, short, uninformative answers. I never learned how to play. Probably for the best, it is most likely a time-wasting, mind-warping drain--I have twitter for that. (Deepest apologies, for those who play, for I speak from a place of ignorance.) 

Now, onto an opposing example. We'd taken a family vacation to the Wisconsin Dells. My oldest son (Byron) loved trains. Having seen a brochure for train rides, we thought it a no-brainier. "We have got to do this." The prices were reasonable (touristy places often jack up prices) so we went. The trains were charming, small steam engines--not pupil popping giants. The ride down was beautiful. Pleasant. (Though, Byron did get a little scared from the vibrating sound.) The ride alone was well worth the money, but it was the above-and-beyond bits from the volunteer-staff that made an impression. When the ride was over with, my sons watched as the men tinkered with the train. Coupling, uncoupling... and a gob of other trainy words that I don't know. They gentlemen saw my boys watching, came over and asked if the wanted to help fill the train with water and coal. 

Of course they wanted to. With gleeful faces, they trotted over to the refilling station. The men let them help, answering questions.  And, they even let my boys push the handle for the train 'merry-go-round'. When the day was through, my wife and I even donated extra money to the cause. (We rarely do that, because we're cheapskates.) If anyone is ever in the Wisconsin Dells area, I highly recommend you visit the Riverside & Great Northern Railway.

People are often afraid to outright ask about something they are interested in. There is no greater way to kill a cause, than to trample on the hint of interest someone reveals. On the flip side, you can nurture an interest, like the volunteer from the railway. Seeing a new face watching everyone play, you can be the person to go over and invite that person to join. 

So, what does any of this have to do with The Queen City Chamber Opera's performance of the Abduction from the Seraglio? 

There are a gob of academics, and artsy-hippy types wondering how to get our youth interested in classical music. And, there is all kinds of debate as to whether or not classical music is dead. (To a troglodyte, the deadness of something only adds to its appeal.) And, if it is dead, how does one revive it? Some say, the answer lies in bigger, better productions. Others say, more radical, modern performances. 

Neither are the answer. Both solutions are simply for those who already love classical music. The former, for those who want to see their favorite music at the peak of perfection. They want every note humming in an environment that cascades forth at its purest. (This tone-deaf man wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a tap-water note and spring-mountain-rain note.) The latter solution comes from those bored with hearing the same music, the same way.  

Accessibility. Accessibility is the key to spurring a love for a cause. Oh, how fitting that I speak of Queen City Chamber Opera's (QCCO) performance of The Abduction from the Seraglio for such a post. Whereas Zaide struggles truer to the way things are, The Abduction calls softly for the way thing ought to be. Pasha Selim desperately wants Konstanze to love him. He's being patience (by patient, I mean his understanding of patience). But, Konstaze just can't love him. She just can't force it to happen. This big towering figure is not accessible to her heart. After a series of up and downs, twists and turns, threatening of lives, Selim captures an escaped Konstanze and her true love, Belmonte. Their fate is in his hands. But, here's where Selim truly shows he loves her. He let's her go. In turn, Konstanze can praise Selim. Not in the manner he wants, but still praises him. 

A bit back, QCCO performed The Abduction. They have recently posted pieces of that performance on Youtube. I'd been eagerly waiting for it. I encourage you to watch, here.  This organization has the right philosophy to spur a love for opera. A love for Mozart. Accessibility. This is not saying, they aren't focus on quality, because the voices and the music are very good. I'd bet my right hearing (not that I need it), that this performance sounded better in person. From the first time I saw their production of Zaide, Isaac Selya, the conductor, has illustrated this philosophy of accessibility--from posting less common works on Youtube, to positive feedback of a lowbrow wrestling with the highbrow.  

Though, it does take discipline... You love something. You want others to love it as well. Takes discipline not to force it on other. My wife often laughs at me when I speak of a disdain for 'elitists', yet she is quick to point out I love classical music. But, it's not the art that makes one an elitist, but the pressure to push any given love upon a populace for its own good. 

Of course how does one even make the music accessible? How do you educate without a hint of prodding? I don't know. And, aren't there gobs of organizations that are accessible? Yeah. Yeah, there are. Unfortunately, accessibility does not guarantee appreciation or love, but it is necessary. It takes patience and a soft, enduring passion to spread a love for a cause.