As they entered the performance hall, the Doctor had warned Rose that this
was far from the popular classical music she might have been vaguely familiar
with.
‘The Festival international d'art contemporain de Royan prides itself on
focusing on contemporary composers, Rose…you’re more likely to hear any
Beethoven or Mozart or anyone you might have picked up on in a commercial or on
TV or in a movie than you will here. These are writers working in the moment,
and their music may be a little strange. Boundary pushing, even.’
‘How strange, Doctor?’ Rose asked, a little concerned.
‘Well,’ the Doctor said, thinking carefully about his answer. ‘How strange
would you say a piece of candy that tasted like marmite on toast would be?’
Rose scrunched up her nose. The Doctor couldn’t help but laugh.
‘If you keep an open mind, you may find a lot to enjoy. Otherwise, you may
think its just noise. A lot of people do. Do you want to know my suggestion?’
Rose nodded.
‘Don’t have any preconceived notions and just see how you react to it. It’s
the best way to experience any music.’
Rose nodded.
‘Umm…will there be any intermissions? Refreshments? Long lines at the
bathroom?’
The Doctor smiled. ‘Maybe one, probably not, and most likely not, in that
order. If you’re thirsty, I’d suggest getting something to drink now, and
afterward, we can find someplace to get something more substantial.’
Rose brightened up. ‘Chips?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘You and your chips. You’re going to turn into a
chip at the rate you’re going!’ He laughed, unable to control himself. He
looked up as he saw the lights dim twice in succession.
‘It’s about time for the performance to start. Shall we?’
Rose smiled as she took his hand. She felt him stiffen up for a moment, and
then relax.
‘Yes, let’s find our seats.’
They walked to the doorway into the hall, where a stuffy attendant stood.
He was obviously bored with is task, and went through his routines as
perfunctorily and unctuously as possible.
‘Tickets, please?’
The Doctor held up a familiar leather bifold. As usual, Rose saw only a
blank sheet of paper, but the Attendant’s eyes widened. ‘My apologies, sir. If
you will come this way…’
Rose watched in confusion as the attendant motioned for one of his
associates to take his place at the door, and he led the Doctor and Rose to a
pair of seats a half dozen rows back from the orchestra pit, stage center. ‘I
hope these are acceptable. We obviously did not know until the last moment that
you were going to attend, sir.’
The Doctor smiled and waved his hand. ‘It’s no trouble at all. I should be
the one apologising...I'll make sure my attendance is confirmed in further advance next
time.’ He looked over to Rose, who was still taking the performance hall’s
opulence in. ‘I’m certain these seats will be just fine. Thank you. Should my
guest and I require anything at any point in the performance…’
The attendant stood, ramrod straight, and clicked his heels together. Rose
had to stifle her laughter at the near comical move. ‘You just get me, sir, and
anything you wish will be provided. Again, sir, my most humble apologies for
my…’
The Doctor waved his hand. ‘Only doing your job, my good man. You needn’t
worry about me.’
He looked over at Rose. ‘About us, rather.’
The attendant bowed and scurried off as the Doctor and Rose sat down. Rose
leaned over and whispered conspiratorially into his ear. ‘And who exactly are
we tonight, Doctor?’
‘Well,’ whispered the Doctor, ensuring he was not overheard, ‘if you really
must know, tonight you are attending the finale of the 1977 Festival
international d'art contemporain de Royan with George Philip Nicholas Windsor,
the Earl of St. Andrews, which would make you Lady Marina-Charlotte Windsor.’
Rose looked at him, aghast. ‘Your wife?’
The Doctor chuckled softly. ‘Hardly, Rose. My daughter.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Rose couldn’t figure out why she felt disappointed at that
fact, but she blocked it off pretty quickly. ‘So, when will this be starting?’
The Doctor looked at the watch on his wrist. ‘Well, if I were to guess, I’d
say…’
The lights dimmed.
‘Right about now.’
Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘All my life, ‘Marina.’ All my life.’
~~~
The audience sat respectfully through the evening’s repertoire of works.
There was huge applause for Wolfgang Rihm’s latest work, ‘Lichtzwang,’ and
while Rose couldn’t quite grasp what was so stunning about it, she did have to
admit it was definitely different from anything she had heard before. She
doubted she’d listen to this very much in the future, but the Doctor was
right…expanding her horizons was turning out to be an adventure just as
interesting as seeing an alien planet.
Well, kind of. If you left out the aliens, and the running. There always
seemed to be an awful lot of running involved. But if you left out all of that,
this was an adventure.
The applause died down as the conductor, Maestro Ernest Bour, took center
stage. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘To conclude this final evening of the 1977 Festival international, we are
pleased to present to you a world premiere composition. Tonight you shall hear
the first ever performance of Henryk Górecki’s most recent orchestral opus, his
symphony Number Three, in three movements. He has subtitled it ‘Symphony of
Sorrowful Songs.’ Joining the orchestra this evening shall be Stefania
Woytowicz, who will be singing the soprano vocal solo.’
Maestro Bour paused, swallowing deeply.
‘Madames et Messieurs, the Symphony Number Three.’
Silence filled the hall as Bour took his place at the podium. The Doctor,
Rose, and the audience watched as Stefania Woytowicz strode to center stage,
opened her copy of the vocal score, and patiently waited. The tension built,
and then…
A single phrase rose from the silence. It was simple, just a few notes,
slow and spread across several bars. It repeated, each time rising by fifths, a
canon of such simplicity and minimalistic beauty that Rose felt herself being
swept in the waves of sound the orchestra conjured from such simple structures.
She looked around, seeing the confusion on the faces of the audience, hearing
quiet mutterings here and there, then looked back at the Doctor. He seemed
transfixed by the magic pouring fourth from the orchestra. Where the Rihm piece
was certainly challenging, this was something that matched the name the
composer had gifted it. It was sorrow incarnate, voiced in a way that only
music…this particular music…could achieve.
She watched the Doctor nodding slightly in his seat, in time with the slow
pulse of the bass strings. She wanted to reach out to touch his hand, to assure
him that everything was alright, but somehow she knew that there was more going
on here than just the music. So she waited, feeling that same music touching her
as well. She thought about her mother, Jackie, who was probably wondering where
exactly she was. She thought about Mickey, and what he was doing without her
around. He was probably worried too. She would be worried too, if she wasn’t
living day to day in amazement of what new wonders she would experience.
The music died down for a moment, and then she heard the voice.
‘Synku miły i wybrany,
Rozdziel z matką swoje rany,
A wszakom cię, synku miły, w swem sercu nosiła,
A takież tobie wiernie służyła.
Przemów k matce, bych się ucieszyła,
Bo już jidziesz ode mnie, moja nadziejo miła.’
She didn’t understand it, of course…all she knew was that it was beautiful, and heart breaking, and it made her want to cry. She struggled to find her program, and quietly turned the pages to find anything she could on this piece. There, near the end of the evening’s program, she found a translation:
My son, my chosen and beloved
She didn’t understand it, of course…all she knew was that it was beautiful, and heart breaking, and it made her want to cry. She struggled to find her program, and quietly turned the pages to find anything she could on this piece. There, near the end of the evening’s program, she found a translation:
My son, my chosen and beloved
Share your wounds with your mother
And because, dear son, I have always carried you in my heart,
And always served you faithfully
Speak to your mother, to make her happy,
Although you are already leaving me, my cherished hope.’
She felt a tear run down her cheek, and she wasn’t willing to stop it. The music, the singing, still ringing in her head, through her soul, she turned back to the program and read on as the symphony shifted into its second movement:
“I have to admit that I have always been irritated by grand words, by calls for revenge," says Górecki. “Perhaps in the face of death I would shout out in this way. But the sentence I found is different, almost an apology or explanation for having got herself into such trouble; she is seeking comfort and support in simple, short but meaningful words. In prison, the whole wall was covered with inscriptions screaming out loud: ‘I’m innocent’, ‘Murderers’, ‘Executioners’, ‘Free me’, ‘You have to save me’ - it was all so loud, so banal. Adults were writing this, while here it is…an eighteen-year-old girl, almost a child. And she is so different. She does not despair, does not cry, does not scream for revenge. She does not think about herself; whether she deserves her fate or not. Instead, she only thinks about her mother: because it is her mother who will experience true despair. This inscription was something extraordinary. And it really fascinated me."
She felt a tear run down her cheek, and she wasn’t willing to stop it. The music, the singing, still ringing in her head, through her soul, she turned back to the program and read on as the symphony shifted into its second movement:
“I have to admit that I have always been irritated by grand words, by calls for revenge," says Górecki. “Perhaps in the face of death I would shout out in this way. But the sentence I found is different, almost an apology or explanation for having got herself into such trouble; she is seeking comfort and support in simple, short but meaningful words. In prison, the whole wall was covered with inscriptions screaming out loud: ‘I’m innocent’, ‘Murderers’, ‘Executioners’, ‘Free me’, ‘You have to save me’ - it was all so loud, so banal. Adults were writing this, while here it is…an eighteen-year-old girl, almost a child. And she is so different. She does not despair, does not cry, does not scream for revenge. She does not think about herself; whether she deserves her fate or not. Instead, she only thinks about her mother: because it is her mother who will experience true despair. This inscription was something extraordinary. And it really fascinated me."