Read Online Middle C by William H. Gass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William H. Gass
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stage name, not her real name, Mr. Hirk told him. Her real name was Marcellina Kochanska—Kochanska—as a name Kochanska would not do—and she came from a part of Poland the Austrians owned. I know the place, Mr. Hirk said proudly. Lem. Berg. It runs in families like my arthritis does. The gift, I mean. I know a lot of similar histories. Her father—her father taught himself to play—from hell to hallelujah—half the instruments. So she knew notes by the time she said daddy. She was sitting up to the piano by four. Perched on a Bible. I know. It’s as if I was there. And she was playing a violin her father made for her when she was six. Six! In ringlets. It’s so. It’s not even unusual. That same father—the father of her—taught his wife the violin. Yes. True. By seven … you just linger on the number, boy, linger on her age … by seven she was playing in the family string quartetwith her brother, who was born before her, a cello’s child. Then an old man who heard her, when the family minstrelized around the country to make ends meet, sponsored her for the Conservatory because he loved her as she should have been loved. In Lem. Berg. I know the building. I know the halls.
Joey had read of worms that glowed in the dark. Mr. Hirk was glowing. Like one of the plant’s leaves, his face was glowing, and his voice cleaned itself up as if it were going to church.
When Marcella went to him—to Stengl, her teacher, sent by one lover to another—she was about your age—how Stengl must have adored her little fingers—with a waist that didn’t require a corset. Though in later years … Mr. Hirk spoke of Marcella Sembrich as if she were an old friend. He spoke and he glowed. Yes, yes, Marcella stayed with him—with Stengl, stern as he was—studying—she stayed despite his sternness for eleven years. Joey heard the word “stayed” with a pang. Eleven years of piano. Mr. Hirk made a point of it. Not eleven years of voice, not five. No. Though she sang in some community choruses during that time and was thought to have a pretty soprano. Mr. Hirk always stood to talk, because scrunched up he was short of breath, but his voice was aimed at the floor. She married the old man, Stengl, eventually, after he’d kissed her fingers often, growing old in his role as her teacher, and after she, who had arrived as a bud, became a blossom. He had taken her to Italy to study singing, because he believed there was more to her “pretty” voice than prettiness, that inside her small light soprano there was something big and dark. Oh yes, he did hear a darkness. And that “big” voice was born there too, in sunny Italy, like a baby born to a giant. Then he swept her off to London without even telling her why. He had said to his young wife one day, We are going away to London. Why? She wanted to know of course. It was natural to want to know. You shall see, her husband said. It will be for the best. And Stengl figured out a way to get her heard there. Not just heard there … heard well. She sang a selection from Lucia with the Covent Garden Orchestra accompanying her. Imagine. The entire orchestra playing, she singing. Just imagine. You have heard of Covent Garden? On that legendary stage. She sang. There, where the great Patti had just rehearsed. She sang. Marcella Sembrich sang. Well, they rose, the violins first, to applaud her performance. They said she sang like a violin—and in fact she played that instrument,though not as well as the piano. After that the happy couple—wouldn’t they have been a happy couple?—his wisdom and her fingers, her figure and her voice, his worship and his passion—traveled to Russia and Spain and America, too. Where she was an astonishment. In Lucia . At the Met. In I Puritani , in La Sonnambula . What vocal calligraphy! You know about the Met? You should have heard her in The Magic Flute . Such a queen—such dark power—with her voice—she invoked it. Like a setting sun calls
Joey had read of worms that glowed in the dark. Mr. Hirk was glowing. Like one of the plant’s leaves, his face was glowing, and his voice cleaned itself up as if it were going to church.
When Marcella went to him—to Stengl, her teacher, sent by one lover to another—she was about your age—how Stengl must have adored her little fingers—with a waist that didn’t require a corset. Though in later years … Mr. Hirk spoke of Marcella Sembrich as if she were an old friend. He spoke and he glowed. Yes, yes, Marcella stayed with him—with Stengl, stern as he was—studying—she stayed despite his sternness for eleven years. Joey heard the word “stayed” with a pang. Eleven years of piano. Mr. Hirk made a point of it. Not eleven years of voice, not five. No. Though she sang in some community choruses during that time and was thought to have a pretty soprano. Mr. Hirk always stood to talk, because scrunched up he was short of breath, but his voice was aimed at the floor. She married the old man, Stengl, eventually, after he’d kissed her fingers often, growing old in his role as her teacher, and after she, who had arrived as a bud, became a blossom. He had taken her to Italy to study singing, because he believed there was more to her “pretty” voice than prettiness, that inside her small light soprano there was something big and dark. Oh yes, he did hear a darkness. And that “big” voice was born there too, in sunny Italy, like a baby born to a giant. Then he swept her off to London without even telling her why. He had said to his young wife one day, We are going away to London. Why? She wanted to know of course. It was natural to want to know. You shall see, her husband said. It will be for the best. And Stengl figured out a way to get her heard there. Not just heard there … heard well. She sang a selection from Lucia with the Covent Garden Orchestra accompanying her. Imagine. The entire orchestra playing, she singing. Just imagine. You have heard of Covent Garden? On that legendary stage. She sang. There, where the great Patti had just rehearsed. She sang. Marcella Sembrich sang. Well, they rose, the violins first, to applaud her performance. They said she sang like a violin—and in fact she played that instrument,though not as well as the piano. After that the happy couple—wouldn’t they have been a happy couple?—his wisdom and her fingers, her figure and her voice, his worship and his passion—traveled to Russia and Spain and America, too. Where she was an astonishment. In Lucia . At the Met. In I Puritani , in La Sonnambula . What vocal calligraphy! You know about the Met? You should have heard her in The Magic Flute . Such a queen—such dark power—with her voice—she invoked it. Like a setting sun calls
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