ALLARGANDO
1982
Northeastern Conservatory was showing signs of effervescence on a bright Sunday morning in early May for its first conducting competition. Among the candidates was feisty Rachel Ellinson, along with her mentor, Mr. Fielding, one of the profession's foremost conductors. Her parents, Ron and Angela, had also come, to provide general support and encouragement.
Rachel had been working toward this chance since her acceptance into Juilliard's conducting program. She was quite excited. She was the sort of person who could be calm, patient, and analytical during development, preparation, or learning processes, but who reacted like a fine race horse once it entered the course, ready to go and impatient to hear the starting signal.
That signal was to come on Monday. Rachel would spend Sunday settling in. She wanted very much to identify the spaces in which she would do her mental preparation for the conducting rounds. She always felt better when she had found her place in new localities. In the same way she would hesitate to be the one to initiate a conversation or discussion. She was not inarticulate, but she preferred to know where she could situate herself in the exchange before contributing. The habit she had of passing her hands through her short, bushy hair or embedding them in it was a symptom of this need.
They had been instructed to report to Billings Hall as soon as they arrived. From there they would be escorted to their hotel room and given a tour of the campus by a Conservatory student. In the hall, they found a registration table where they received name badges. As they moved away from the table, a chubby blond man went up to it, received a short explanation from the student at the table, then went up to them and began talking to Mr. Fielding and Mr. Ellinson.
"Hi, I'm Larry. I'm a student here at the Conservatory. I've been asked to help you find your way around. Where's your contestant?"
Mr. Fielding smiled and turned to Rachel, who lifted one finger.
Larry gave a slightly nervous laugh and said, "Sorry, I goofed."
Larry brought them across the campus to the hotel, explaining the day-to-day logistics of the coming week as they went.
"Your name badges allow you into the dining hall for your meals, so remember to have them with you. The SU has television rooms, lounges and a snack bar if you'd like to relax. And here's your key to practice room 241. We have to keep them locked because of problems with vandalism. Of course, if you don't like it, we can propose other rooms. Just speak up and let us know." As he said this he placed what he thought was an encouraging hand on Rachel's shoulder. The Ellinsons and Mr. Fielding, following them, had a good snicker and exchanged glances; they knew well that there was no need to encourage Rachel to speak up when she had something to say. Rachel put her head down to disguise her own reaction, a sigh of weariness.
Rachel had had to fight for her place at Juilliard. She knew well the meaning of being the only girl on the program. She had overcome any opposition so far, not least from Mr. Fielding himself, but still felt irritated by it and anticipated more conflict to come. She was already prepared to meet it with assertive, in-your-face, or provocative behavior. But she was as passionate about music as she was competitive. She was a star violinist and a competent pianist, with great determination to succeed.
In the hotel, they found Mr. Fielding's room across the hall from the Ellinsons' suite. The suite was spacious, and Rachel immediately spotted a corner chair and table that she would monopolize for the week. She sat in the chair, set her violin case between the table and the wall, and unpacked her music briefcase in order to lay claim to the spot.
"Rachel," said her mother, seeing the maneuver, "isn't that just a slight skewing of priorities for the moment? You can't go out of the hotel wearing your scores."
Rachel knew that this was not a serious criticism. "Why not?"
She got up, brought her suitcase into her room, laid it on the bed, and opened it. That's enough for now, she thought.
She came back into the central room and said, "I'm going to see what Randy's room is like." This was one of Rachel's ways of dealing with the immensity and the fame of her mentor. She would never call him "Randy" to his face; no one could ever see this tall, patrician, elegant, refined violinist and conductor as a "Randy". She brought him down to a level that she could handle with such little touches.
Rachel knocked on Mr. Fielding's door; he opened it and motioned her in. "All unpacked?" he asked in his clear English accent, as he continued his own unpacking.
"Yes, Mr. Fielding. Mozart, Berlioz, Brahms, Prokoviev, Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky . . ."
"Ha, ha! Already at work, I see." Mr. Fielding sat down on the bed. "Do you feel ready for this?"
"Yes!" was the resounding answer.
"Nothing that you want to talk through?"
"Not right now."
"Just make sure you do talk to me about anything you need to talk through. I don't know if you'll win this; it depends on who's competing. But I want you to go in as fully prepared as possible. We'll be doing as much as we can together to put the finishing touches on things before each round. Remember, I declined to be a judge for this competition so that you could enter and have your chance. I expect you to make it worth my while."
"That's just what I want to do. After all the times I heard 'Forget it, you're a girl' or other such dismissive things, I'm glad to be here to show everybody what I can do. And I want to show you for sure that I was right to fight for your confidence and a place in your program. You, the first person who said, 'What makes you think you can conduct?'"
"Rachel, be careful about that approach. You're angry with the sexists, from me on down, and you want to 'shove this competition up their collective ass,' as you would no doubt put it, but don't go into it thinking that way. Remember that the most important thing is to be yourself. You're tough, you're scrappy, but you're not a naturally belligerent person, so going into the rounds with any kind of a vendetta will work against you. Forget that you have something to prove, and just prove it by doing it. The way you did with me."
"OK, I'll remember. Thank you."
Mr. Fielding, feeling at that point that he had given just the right tone of mentorship to this farce, sent Rachel out to explore the campus. Her absence, he felt, would give him time to prepare for what was to him the real interest of being in Boston for this week: swaggering before the panel and mentors.
Mr. Fielding had a tendency to produce carbon copies of himself in his conducting program. Rachel had had to fight to get into his program because of obvious differences that did not allow this carbon-copying: she was of the wrong gender, did not favor an intellectual approach to music, and lacked egocentrism. Mr. Fielding had let her in and mentored her, but was beginning to tire of the empty novelty of training a girl to conduct. He had accepted her wish to compete here because the competition was in its first year and he did not expect it to become prestigious, because he had the time to go, because he could enjoy lording it over the other conductors there, and because he felt that Rachel's failure at this competition (and he was ultimately expecting failure) would finally demonstrate to her the inadequacy that he felt she possessed but would not admit to. He had given her his best preparation for her fall in order to be able to say afterwards that all his vast mentoring ability was not enough to get her through. He was planning on enjoying himself during this week and breathed a sigh of pleasure at playing his role so well. He checked again to see if his best suits were wrinkle-free.
In the early evening the contestants, mentors and families were welcomed at a wine-and-cheese reception in a large room that usually served for band and choir rehearsals. All of the chairs and stands had been moved onto the risers, and a table had been placed in front of the blackboard. Larry and some other young men were pouring the wine, juice and water and taking the glasses around. Rachel saw one other woman of her age there; she was not helping to serve, so Rachel judged her to be either a family member and supporter . . . or perhaps a contestant? She did seem to know the servers; she was exchanging words with them as they passed her.
Once most of the people had been served, the Director of Northeastern Conservatory spoke above the buzz of voices. "Good evening, and welcome to the Conservatory. I'm happy to say we have a promising group of candidates for our first conducting competition. We panel members are looking forward to a rich musical experience. I would like to take this opportunity to present them."
As he announced the members he indicated them among the group, and they acknowledged his attention with different smiles, waves, looks at the group or bows.
"And of course, we also have here the fine conductors who have disqualified themselves from serving on the panel in order to encourage their proteges to compete. They include our own Aguri Makuwara, Monsieur Jean-Sebastien Lallemand from the Conservatoire Nationale Superieure, and a man who needs no introduction, Mr. Randall Fielding."
There was discreet but sincere applause from the guests who had no glasses in their hands. Most seemed too awed to do more than that.
"I wonder if we could get Mr. Fielding to say a few words of encouragement to our contestants."
Mr. Fielding raised his eyebrows, but came up to the Director's side.
"Well, this is an unexpected honor. I would have thought that the choice would be for Mr. Makuwara, but perhaps the students here have heard quite enough of him, as my students usually do of me." The guests laughed politely.
"I am certainly looking forward to hearing the new talent that we will reveal at this competition. And I know that the panel has prepared a good clean fight. No beating time below the belt." The guests laughed again, more heartily.
"And of course, ultimately, each of the twenty young people here is anxious to know the outcome. Nothing is decided in advance, and each of them will be able to shine or stumble before these judges. In the end, the most favored candidate will be the one who communicates most surely, who knows how to listen to the orchestra and make it listen as well. It will be the one who conducts astutely, with firm techniques and an interpretation based on sound, solid, deeply-rooted music-craft. But I wish all of you luck, and I can't wait to see the performances."
Mr. Fielding stepped away from the Director's side to the polite applause of the guests.
"Great speech," said Mr. Ellinson as Mr. Fielding approached.
"And so short," said Rachel teasingly.
"Oh, that was all that was needed. Besides, I think most of us are here for nibbles and conversation. This way, I could leave everybody to enjoy it." And leave himself to hobnob, Rachel thought as Mr. Fielding strolled over to the nearest panel member.
As the Director approached to talk to the Ellinson parents and another pair next to them, Rachel moved away, looking around at the different people talking in small groups. She was hesitant about joining in; as always, she found it difficult to begin conversations with strangers. She soon found herself standing alone near the music stands.
"It's a good thing they chose this room. It's built to absorb sound."
Rachel turned to find the only other female of her age standing next to her.
"Shunning or shunned?" she asked.
"Um, I'm not sure," Rachel answered.
"I'm shunning. Possibly shunned as well, but really not interested in noticing. You haven't stood too near the boys' groups, I noticed. You chose right. They're going through the pathetic 'outdoing each other' routine. That group over there is trying to see who can be the most aesthetic and intellectual, the one by the buffet with Mr. Fielding is having a repertoire quiz, and that other one in the corner is talking about the NBA playoffs. The jocks and the non-jocks jockeying for position."
Both women laughed lightly.
"I'm Madeline. I study here."
"Rachel. I'm from New York."
"Ah, the other metropolis. I was reading The Bostonians recently. It was very interesting to see the cultural rivalry that was supposed to be going on between the two cities at that time. I don't see that as happening today, though, do you? They seem a bit more equal and ready to cross-nurture, I think. Is this your first time in Boston?"
"Yes."
"I'm still looking forward to my first trip to New York. I'll have to wait until I'm out in professional life, I think. Studies and sheet music take up most of the budget."
Madeline took a glance around the room, then continued.
"I saw you talking with Mr. Fielding a while ago. You seemed at ease with him."
"He's my mentor. We've been working together for a while now."
"Ah. You can work with him then."
"I don't see why I couldn't."
"I'm sure I couldn't work with him. My temperament wouldn't go with his. I feel very happy and honored to have Mr. Makuwara as my guide. He's more discreet and subtle, and very nurturing. I've learned a lot from him."
"Are you competing?"
"Yes."
Just then a handsome, clean-cut, dark-haired student came up to Madeline and put his arm around her waist. "Just wanted to know if you were coming to my place tonight."
"Brian, you know I'm not. I've got a busy week this week, I'm going home."
"So I'll go home too."
Madeline smiled and pushed him gently away. "To your home, Brian. We'll see each other next week."
"OK, I'm going, then. See you next week."
Rachel found it odd that he left without wishing Madeline good luck.
Madeline said, rather philosophically, "Sorry I didn't introduce you, but that's Brian. He swoops in and swoops out. I think I'll be off, too. Good luck, Rachel."
"You too, Madeline. See you at the end."
The competition began on Monday with a two-day compulsory round. The panel had set three works for strings. The twenty contestants were easily reduced to ten through overblown crescendi, overintense fortissimi, and rhythmic confusions. Rachel gave a controlled performance and a sense of ensemble to the playing.
The ten to continue were announced immediately at the end of the Tuesday session and given a piece to prepare for Wednesday. Rachel and Madeline were included.
Rachel talked about her round later with her parents over dinner in the dining hall.
"I think that it was the Stravinsky that I impressed them with most. I really wanted the staccato to be subtle."
"Rachel, please don't conduct with your fork, you're going to start a food fight," responded her mother.
Her father chimed in, "Anyway, it's good to have that round over with. I had a little glance at some of the stuff coming up, and the other scores seem to have a lot to trip you up with."
"Dad, were you fiddling with my music, on that corner table?"
"Well, yes, I - "
"Dad, don't do that again please. That's my space. I need it to be all set up for me. If you mess with it I'll lose my way in it."
"I was only - "
"Whatever you were 'only', stop, please."
"I'm here to help."
"I know that, and the one thing that you can do to help is keep your hands off my music. Please."
As always, Rachel was happy to have the unflinching support of her parents, and occasionally a bit tried by the overblown nature of it. "Little League parents," she called them in her mind. The Ellinsons were indeed very supportive, and enthusiastic to a fault. Both had musical knowledge, but neither had become a musician; they were living their music vicariously through Rachel. Rachel was aware of this, and took it into account whenever their attitude seemed excessive. She blessed them for it and their help, but wished she could discipline them more.
The second round on Wednesday involved vocal performance, and included the only piece of music which was given to the candidates to study during the competition itself, an eighteenth-century aria. Northeastern Conservatory was happy to have the participation of Frederica von Stade for the singing.
Rachel went up to the podium in full confidence. For someone with her passion for Shostakovich, Mozart seemed easy. She was even surprised that they had chosen such a simple aria, in a rondeau form with minor variations.
They began, and the first part went by smoothly, but then Ms. von Stade began to deviate from the score. Rachel was alarmed. She suddenly remembered the tradition for these arias; the singer improvised embellishments. Rachel was aware of the practice, and Mr. Fielding had talked about it on different occasions, but Rachel could not remember having heard a demonstration of it. And now here she was in the middle of it.
She could feel her rhythm jarring with Ms. von Stade's. She began to panic, forgetting the music itself to beat time as closely as she could to what seemed to her an erratic vocalization. Then the memory of her game as a child flashed in her mind. She would try to accompany her movements around the house with her violin, making big bowings for big steps, spicatto for skipping. Improvise! Have fun! She let herself imagine moving her feet to the rococo embellishments, and found herself within the music and fully supporting Ms. von Stade's trills and glissades. By the time she had come to the first of the pauses which Rachel had until then found incomprehensible, she was prepared as Ms. von Stade surged into a true cadenza of ornamentation. For the final pause, Rachel imagined herself standing on tiptoe waiting for the signal to return to the main phrase; she heard Ms. von Stade's embellishments, followed her breathing, and brought the orchestra in with her.
Mr. Fielding went out of the auditorium with her, feeling secretly vindicated. He said, "Well, you managed to find your way out of that difficulty. What happened?"
Rachel explained her memory. "I just tried to think of improvising."
"And pulled things together for the end of the piece. But the 'il piu barbaro tormento' cost you points. Be careful not to make mistakes in the next round."
"Did I do that badly?"
"Less badly than some of the others. Only one person did a perfect job on it, and that's because she's a singer."
"Aha! So it was the other female contender?"
"Damn it! I wasn't supposed to let you know who was doing what. Yes, it was her, but never mind about her, don't think of outmaneuvering her. Just concentrate on your work, like a good girl."
Rachel jumped. "Excuse me? A 'good girl'?"
Mr. Fielding gave Rachel a look of impatience. "You know what I mean."
"That's what bothers me. You know the problems you'll get from me if you start thinking of me as a 'good girl'."
"I know the problems I get when I start thinking of you as a girl at all. I'll never understand this instinct for unsexing yourself."
"'Unsexing myself'!? Because I 'don't conduct like a girl', as you've said a few times? You've never told me what that means. But I think I know now, now that you've made this comment on unsexing. In your mind I only have two conducting choices, girlish or unsexed, don't I? And since I choose musical rather than either of the other two, I don't 'conduct right', according to you. I just won't follow those options."
Mr. Fielding admitted, "You never have. Ultimately, that's why you're here at this competition. I want to see how you come out of that conundrum."
"It's not my conundrum, Randy." She walked away. "Randy!?" he repeated, in a contemptuous tone. He was definitely hoping for a third-round elimination.
Round Three was the only one in which the contestants had a choice of works. Rachel was excited to get into this stage of the competition, feeling that she had created a good program which would show her guts and daring. However, she was a little apprehensive because, for the first time since working with Mr. Fielding, she had gone behind his back, submitting a different program from the one that they had prepared. She could be impatient with any frustrations set in her way, and was not above using hook-or-crook methods to achieve her ends. This was her crook for getting the program that she wanted.
Mr. Fielding found out when the panel members were having a word with the mentors about the round in the judges' room, which was across from the door to the auditorium. When he received the program lists, Mr. Fielding looked at Rachel's section and saw with a shock that she had included the fourth movement of Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony and George Crumb's Diptych as well as the Brahms serenade that they had worked on. He had intended her to perform Mozart's Jupiter Symphony and Stauss's Til Eulenspiegel. He did his best to hide his surprise.
Then Mr. Fielding went into the practice room area, sure that Rachel would be doing some violin work in order to fill the time and keep her nervous excitement under control. He found room 241, strode in, interrupting Rachel's Prokoviev sonata, and slammed the door.
"What in blazes are you doing with this program?" he shouted aggressively.
Rachel looked at him in mock innocence. "What program?"
"You were supposed to do Mozart and Strauss."
"That was your decision. This is mine."
Do you really think that you're going to get through this round with the Shostakovich?"
Rachel looked at Mr. Fielding with a mixture of amusement, challenge and confidence. "What exactly is it that you're worried about? Obviously you're concerned about the main theme -" and she began playing it from memory - "and how I'll dovetail it into the next theme" - she continued with the violin and woodwind melody. "And how in the world am I going to get those trumpets in right?" And she played the trumpet punctuation. "Or perhaps - "
"All right, enough." He paused as Rachel put her violin on the piano. "You've obviously thought about this."
"I've done that more than anything since we started talking about this competition. You know I want to get going on Shostakovich. And I know you're holding me back from it. You keep making me wait for my modern works. But I'll only wait if you prove that I'm not ready, rather than supposing it's too hard. Just as I wouldn't give up going into conducting until someone could prove to me that I couldn't do it, rather than because of what they were assuming. I won't work by others' assumptions. Let people decide after hearing me, not before."
Mr. Fielding recognized that he would have to support Rachel in order to avoid damaging his reputation as a mentor. He also felt admiration in spite of his exasperation.
"You're an undisciplined child."
"Well, that's a step up from 'good girl,' isn't it?"
"And the Crumb?"
"For all Crumb's modern sounds, his structures are straightforward. No problem."
While she said this, Mr. Fielding's mind caught up with the situation, and the thought that was uppermost was that he could not change the program without losing face himself. He also wished to regain some control of the situation. He asked, "But when can we go through these? We really haven't much time."
"'We' won't be going through them. You've worked on the other rounds with me, and I'm glad of it and very grateful, but this is my round, and I'll take it on myself. I'll stand or fall by it. It's all mine, this music's all mine, it belongs to me."
"I can't understand why I didn't see this coming."
"Because you counted on your charm and charisma to keep me in line," Rachel answered conciliatingly.
"So much for charm and charisma," Mr. Fielding answered, gratified that she had recognized his possession of both.
"I'm replacing it with the strong, solid instruction you've given me."
Mr. Fielding paused.
"Alright, you're on your own for this one." That way you can fail on your own terms, he thought. After another pause, he added, "I'm still behind you, though."
Rachel gave him a genuine smile of trust. "I knew you would be."
She went into the round with bravura from the beginning. She respected the decisions made during Mr. Fielding's coaching for the Brahms; the Brahms and the Crumb were clean but vibrant. Then she launched into the Shostakovich. She chose to discard the accelerando poco a poco in order to give a frank tempo from the beginning, and anchored herself to the brass with her eyes as much as the orchestration would allow. She even coaxed a brass-like brightness out of the strings in the most energetic passages. She held all the time and tempo changes, and at its most headlong never let it descend into chaos. She and the orchestra took a big breath at the end of the movement, after holding it from excitement. It was almost eerie not to hear applause as they ended. She turned, dazed, to bow to the panel.
Mr. Fielding was waiting outside the auditorium. He was completely rattled. He had just heard a masterful performance and would never have believed Rachel capable of it. He was finding it difficult to admit to himself that he had perhaps been wrong about Rachel; he certainly would not admit it to her.
"You did everything completely backward from what we had ever talked about during the Shostakovich," said Mr. Fielding as Rachel came out of the auditorium.
"Backwards, or astutely and based in sound, solid, deeply-rooted music-craft?" asked Rachel, allowing a slight touch of irony in her voice. She kept walking on, euphoric from her Shostakovich.
The final round was now upon them. The panel had made the difficult decision to allow only two contenders into the finals, instead of the three that they had planned. They simply felt that no third person could have a fair chance against the two who had shown the highest capacity. They were the two woman candidates.
These contenders were allowed to keep one work out of the Round Three program; Rachel chose the Shostakovich, and learned that Madeline had chosen to keep Tchaikovsky's Fifth. The other two pieces were imposed: Berlioz's Corsair Overture and Schumann's Piano Concerto. This time, the contestants would hear each other's sessions, one in the afternoon and the other in the evening. The public was also invited. The panel decided the concert order by a toss of a coin, which chose Madeline for the afternoon performance.
Rachel spent the morning in her corner, pacing and going through the works in her head, passing both hands through her hair. Madeline added an extra hour of yoga.
Rachel sat down in front of her parents and Mr. Fielding in the auditorium for the afternoon round. She was interested in hearing how this fellow-student performed, but uneasy about being influenced by her. She found her mind straying from the music as she thought of her own performance of the evening. The Corsair went by with no real attention from her.
The Schumann concerto also progressed without much notice by Rachel, until a moment in the third movement when she felt her attention was being pulled from her own thoughts. She thought she had heard a problem of cohesion the first time that Madeline went from the straightforward easy waltz time to the extended hemiola measures. Rachel waited to hear the return of that passage, but found nothing amiss that time.
However, she began to listen more carefully when Madeline came to the Tchaikovsky. She was pleased to hear the allegro con anima of the first movement as a brisk march; apparently, Madeline had the same feeling as she did about it, that most orchestras sounded like they were slogging through mud in the beginning. In that way Madeline kept life in the molto piu tranquillo, avoiding the maudlin over-ripeness of some interpretations. Rachel watched Madeline's catlike elasticity on the podium, and noticed that she brought big brass passages in without raising a fist.
The second movement had the right lyricism without too much sweetness, and the waltz was done simply and tastefully. The final movement was crisp and exhilarating; Madeline succeeded in raising the hairs on Rachel's neck with the trombone entry in the middle of the movement and the trumpets of the maestoso. The small audience, mostly music students, teachers and professionals, showed great appreciation at the end.
"Well, I guess that wasn't bad," said Mr. Ellinson loyally as they went out of the auditorium. Rachel responded, still in the spell, "It was kick-ass."
By evening, Rachel was saying, "It was kick-ass. And it's what I have to beat."
Rachel walked on stage in the evening with the first qualms of nerves that she remembered having. She was concentrating on the beginning of the Berlioz, with the violins leaping into their runs after the downbeat and the syncopated woodwinds. She felt stronger once she had gone through that work, and went on happily to the concerto. She remembered her experience with the Mozart, and settled into an attentive accompanying mode, signaling the moments of orchestral effervescence clearly but discreetly and enjoying the tutti punctuations. She tried to think ahead to rather than to apprehend the problems of the third movement. She carefully kept her beat as the orchestra shifted into the hemiola rhythm. Not until they were out of that passage did she dare let up her concentration.
It was in the Shostakovich that she took her leap. She gave the opening theme all the drama she could, slashing the beats to get her leaping intervals. She brought the oboe and bassoon lines in with almost eerie control before the forte renewal of the theme in the violins. The second theme flowed convincingly out of that, and her sharp gesture brought the piano staccato in to mold the next passage.
The second and third movements went by well, then Rachel said, "I don't need to discuss this," and they began the fourth, reproducing the whole thrilling movement that they had performed the day before. Applause followed immediately on the cutoff. Rachel came off the podium to bow with a big smile.
The candidates and their supporters waited in the auditorium foyer while the judges made their deliberations. After about thirty minutes, the panel brought them all into the judges' room. The panel was seated. The contestants sat down to face them in two of the chairs placed before the panel. The mentors and the Ellinsons remained standing.
The director announced the news. "We wanted to tell you that this choice was very hard. We spent a long time deliberating. It was truly difficult to come to a final decision. But we have come to one. The prize goes to Rachel Ellinson."
Mr. Ellinson let out a cry. Rachel sat still, stunned by the news. Madeline slowly stood, came over and held out her hand to shake Rachel's. Her face was blank.
"Congratulations. You were good."
Only then did Rachel fully realize what was happening, and take Madeline's hand. "You were too." Then she got up, gave five to her parents and shook Mr. Fielding's hand.
As she turned away from them towards the judges, she saw Madeline standing before Mr. Makuwara, her head bowed low.
"I'm sorry, my master, I have failed," said Madeline.
"No, that is not true. You did very well."
Madeline did not respond or raise her head.
While Mr. Makuwara and Madeline left, the judges congratulated Rachel and explained the procedure for the next week. On the next evening she would conduct at the closing concert, performing one of the works that she had rehearsed during the competition. Mr. Fielding and Mr. Makuwara would conduct the other two. Then Rachel would stay during the coming week at the Conservatory, attending classes with the Conservatory students and sharing her experience with them.
This part surprised Rachel. "My musical experience?" she asked.
"Well, yes, how you felt competing and winning, useful techniques," a judge responded. "We feel it would help our students to learn from a fellow-student for a change. They think that we professors are such fuddy-duddies."
Rachel was dubious. She knew that she felt music, but found it odd to talk about feeling it. And she found the situation a bit mixed. She began explaining this to her parents as they left the room. "It's a bit contradictory, isn't it, 'dispensing wisdom' and 'being one of the guys' at the same time?"
"What does it matter?" asked her father effusively. "You're the winner, and you're going to show that to these other students. That's the important thing. You're going to show them what a real musician is made of."
Rachel smiled. "I guess I am," she answered.
"Now, let's go celebrate!" said Mr. Ellinson.
"Champagne?" asked Rachel.
"To start with!" responded Mrs. Ellinson.
"Yes!" Rachel cried, and ran ahead of them out the door.
On Monday morning, Madeline despondently but calmly entered her first class of the day: Mr. Makuwara's conducting seminar, held in the rehearsal room. The other students were already there, talking; the talk died down as soon as she came in. She went to her seat in the first row, next to Brian, and began setting down her belongings without noticing the change in the others' behavior.
Larry, sitting in the third row on the other side of the room, said, "This had better be good."
When Madeline noticed that no one else was responding to the comment, she turned half around and said, "What?"
"'What' is the big news," said Jon, sitting next to Larry. "'Favorite cherub conducting student fails miserably'."
"Yes, I - I didn't win," Madeline stammered out.
"I'll say," added Ralf. "Brilliant move, letting us and the school down."
Madeline added, resignedly, "And Mr. Makuwara."
"He'll have to live with that. We want our explanation."
Madeline was nonplussed by this animosity.
Nathan joined in. "Any one of us could have gone into that competition, but no, it had to be you. And now you just stand there, no comment, no nothing."
"But Nathan, you have no idea if you could have won it, any more than I had when I went in," reasoned Madeline.
As this conversation continued, Mr. Makuwara entered. He chose to allow the discussion to take its own course and stood by the piano.
"Like heck. It takes focus, guts, and a little more than 'feminine intuition'."
"I used all my skills. And I came in a very close second, according to the judges."
"That's just the same as coming away with nothing. We wanted a win," said Jon.
The Ellinsons entered as Madeline responded to this comment.
Madeline said, "There are other rewards to it than the prize. I'm glad I had a chance to try out the Tchaikovsky. That score showed me a lot of things."
"That's just it," responded Larry. "You were too busy 'discovering' to compete."
"You always discover something when you deal with a work, Larry, even during a competition. And it's not a question of 'letting people down'. People shouldn't be interested in a competition just in order to root for someone."
Gareth said, "You sound like the Oscar losers and their 'it's a pleasure just to get nominated'. That's just rot."
"It's not. It was a learning experience."
"So what did you 'learn' from it, then?" asked Gareth.
Madeline took off her glasses and handed them to Mr. Makuwara. "If you would, just for a moment, master."
Then she turned her back on the class and went down on her knees. She placed the crown of her head on the floor and her hands around the back of it, fingers interlaced. As she came up onto her toes, her body made a deep, slanted upside-down V between her hands and her feet. Then with a little spring she came into a balancing position on her head, slowly extending her legs straight, her feet pointed and slightly turned in. She held this position for a while, then came down out of it and sat on the floor with one bent leg tucked under the other.
"That is called Salamba rasana. I've been trying for weeks to get it. Over the weekend, after the competition, I did."
Brian responded, "I don't see what that has to do with the competition."
"I'm saying that losing the competition was a blow to me, and Mr. Makuwara knows it. But I know that I can move on from that. I can build and develop from it. It could only be positive. I am getting it into perspective." But Madeline did not sound convinced by her assertion.
Mr. Makuwara handed Madeline's glasses back to her and said to the class, "Now you can talk about what the winner of the competition can move on to. Here are Ms. Ellinson and her parents. Please welcome them."
There was sullen silence from the students. Madeline moved back to her seat in the front row to show her wish to participate as a student and not as a losing contender. Rachel took the bull by the horns. "Hello, I'm Rachel Ellinson. I'm glad to be here to discover how the Conservatory students work." That's for you, Larry, she thought.
Mr. Makuwara and Madeline helped get the discussion under way. The other students eventually participated, turning their hostility into more of a "devil's advocate" attitude rather than confronting Rachel directly. Rachel found the resulting debate positive for her.
As Rachel was walking out of the class, she saw Brian holding Madeline. She noticed his smug, proprietary air.
"Now that it's over, things can settle down. We can relax and have a little fun."
"Fun sounds like a good idea," Madeline answered.
"Would you like to hear my ideas on that?" Brian asked.
Madeline took her arms from Brian's waist and put both hands on his chest.
"No," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because they're always your ideas, Brian." She walked away to attend her next class. Brian shrugged his shoulders, obviously sure that he could persuade her later.
That evening, in Billings Hall, Rachel went out of her practice room and was walking with her violin down the corridor toward the water fountain when she heard music coming from a room. Stopping at the half-open door, she saw a classroom with four chairs set in the center. A group of students, including Madeline, was singing and playing together, singers facing instrumentalists. She did not know the piece, but found it pleasant enough. Then something went odd in the music, and Madeline stopped singing.
"Sorry, peeps, that was me again."
One of the women responded, "It doesn't matter, Madman, you're just still off your game a bit, after what that bitch Rachel did."
Madeline gave the woman a resounding slap.
"LENORE, I WILL NOT ALLOW THAT LANGUAGE OR THAT ATTITUDE."
"OK, OK, I'm trying to help."
"But I've already told you, that attitude doesn't help. It is not a question of bitches and victims, I lost a competition, competitions take place once in a while, then you go back to making music. Feeling animosity does not help. That's not the problem."
Just then Madeline noticed Rachel at the door.
"Here's what helps. Please, come in, Rachel."
Rachel hesitated, then walked in with an assured step to face the hostile students.
"Here's just what we need. A violin. I keep getting confused because Sandra's not here, I'm expecting her cues. Rachel, would you sit in with us?"
Rachel looked at the musicians. There was three-fourths of a quartet facing the singers.
"As I suppose you heard, this is a 'help session.' We often get together just to go through scores for the fun of it, and my friends here thought I could use some fun. But one of our violinist friends has come down with something. Could you sit in with Bill, Rhonda and Leo?"
Rachel sat in the first violinist's seat and looked at the score that she was sharing with Bill. It was a mass by Delibes for women's voices and organ. Rachel noticed immediately that the organ writing was such that a quartet could share out the parts easily. "This looks like fun stuff," Rachel said out loud.
They began again, and Rachel discovered a pleasant, flowing composition and the pleasure of playing with singers, something she had not had the chance to do lately. As they went, she noticed that the other members of the quartet were little by little deferring to her in her position as first, and seemed to accept that situation. She began to pay more attention to that role than she had at first.
At the "O Salutaris," the other women stepped aside and said, "It's all yours, Madman." The quartet began the piece, then Madeline stopped it.
"That's too slow."
"But it's marked andante sostenuto," Rachel opined.
"Yes, I know, but think about the breathing for a moment. Try it, the four of you. Speak the first double phrase at that speed and see what happens."
They went through it. "That is a bit stretched," admitted Rachel.
"Exactly. I can do it at that speed, but I won't do it just because I can. Give it more of a lilt, and the phrasing will be more supple." She demonstrated by singing the first measures and beating time. The string players began again.
As Rachel played she listened to Madeline and was impressed. It was evident that subtle shading and sensitive nuances were her strong point as she molded the phrase. Rachel submitted to this leading voice, accompanying it and enjoying following it and supporting its unfolding.
When they were done with the Delibes, they went on to a Bach cantata. As opposed to the Delibes, this took some discussion, as the reduction was less straightforward for the strings and there were no men singing that evening; Bill and Leo demurred, not having the habit of singing and playing at the same time. But after a little talk, the group was able to begin.
The second movement was a duet, and the women again left the alto part to Madeline. Rachel again was impressed, this time with the agility of Madeline's voice. She clearly reveled in Bach's sixteenth-note writing.
When they came to the end of the cantata, everyone relaxed. Rachel felt regret that it seemed to be over. She had left behind this kind of comradely music making in the last couple of years, as she developed her conducting skills.
Rachel was chatting with Bill when he said, "Come on Madman, out with it."
Madeline looked up and said, "What?"
"Don't tell me 'what'. You're not talking, head down, rubbing your lower lip with your thumb. We all know what that means. You've got one of your ideas."
"Yeah, I do. What would you think of adding a few pieces to these and doing a 'post-competition concert'? It would give us a chance to finish the semester playing together. What do you think?"
Everyone became enthusiastic after having a short moment to think. Rachel saw that the string players included her in the concert, and felt pleased. Madeline continued to elaborate the plan, deciding on a flute and oboe for the Bach and mentioning other works that they could include. Everyone was pleased with her ideas.
As the others were putting things away, Madeline came up to Rachel.
"Have you worked on Saint-Saens's Danse macabre before?"
"No, but I can work it up. I'd like to do it."
"And I'd like to accompany you."
"Sounds good."
As they left, Rachel asked, "Does your boyfriend participate in these sessions?"
"Ex-boyfriend."
"Oh. Sorry."
"No need. I think it was coming. He's far too macho for me."
"Oh?"
Madeline looked surprised at Rachel's comment. Rachel, a little embarrassed, explained. "I'm sorry, but something made me think that that wouldn't bother you."
"What?"
"Seeing you with Mr. Makuwara after the announcement. To be frank, you looked pitifully humble, just like the submissive woman."
"That's not so much a sexism thing as a cultural thing. I've learned that a good relationship with Mr. Makuwara needs some . . . Asiatic tones to it."
"Sounds a bit hypocritical."
"No, it's not. It's not playing Japanese, it's wanting the relationship to be on the best basis, and that means allowing for his nature. He allows for mine as well." After a pause, she added, "except for the results of the competition."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I'll never really know what I could have done better. Mr. Makuwara will never tell me. He'll just quietly steer me into the direction I should have taken. I won't participate in the change, or even know that it's happened."
"That sounds unfair."
"Well, to us, yes. A part of me says that I should be responsible for the change, I should face it, I should make the effort. That's our Western way of doing things. But another part of me asks if we all don't insist too much on taking charge, taking control. I ask myself if it matters if I make the change myself, as long as it comes about."
"What's your answer, then?"
"I don't have one," Madeline said self-effacingly. Tomorrow at 2, in 189?"
"You're on," replied Rachel with a smile and a pointed finger.
Madeline had taken her favorite practice room, with a vintage half-grand, so that she and Rachel could work on the Danse macabre easily. They immediately did a full play-through without stopping. It was not polished, but the discovery of it and the fun were evident to both of them. Madeline was thrilled with Rachel's dexterity and command of her instrument.
Then they had a long session, not because of difficulties with agreeing on the interpretation, but because they were feeding so much off each other. They tried the passages in several different ways before settling on an approach, just because they could. By the end, Rachel had come to a complete understanding of Madeline. She was in love with music, exuding joy in a new piece and exploring every detail of it. "Discovering" was obviously an important notion to her.
Rachel set her violin on the piano and said, "I'm glad we're doing this. I've seen you conduct, but seeing you making the music yourself is different. It explains some of what you did in Round Four. You're very tuned to nuances. Is that why you avoid cueing the brass?"
"What do you mean, 'avoid cueing the brass'?"
Rachel made a firm gesture with her fist and a "ta-ta" to accompany it.
"Fists and music just don't go together in my mind. I could never give a cue that way."
"But then how do you make the conducting of it completely yours?"
"I don't. It's the opposite. I belong to the music. Or I hope to."
"You see, to me that doesn't sound like a very firm basis for conducting. I don't see how I could feel I was in control if I didn't make it my music, and if I didn't give the musicians my directions in my way."
"Well, maybe that question of 'control' is the crux of it all. I can understand the notion of self-control in order to have concentration and technique, but your notion of control seems to refer to others, not yourself. It seems kind of dominating, almost manipulative, to me."
"I feel I need to master the people who are mastering the music," Rachel responded, with a slight laugh.
"That shows when you're on the podium. And doing this concert shows me the great musicianship behind your conducting. I'm glad we're working together. I'm enjoying this while I can, 'cause we may not make music together often. I think we work together well."
"I'll say. We just spent two hours on a seven-minute piece, just because we were having so much fun. I loved it."
"So did I. Best music-making I've done this week. Plus playing together solves the problem of the competition results."
"Problem? You mean the 'that bitch Rachel' thing? That's not a 'problem', is it? It was just that friend of yours and some of the conducting students. I can take that. I suspect I'll need to for some time. There's always a battle when it comes to women."
"You think so?"
"Don't you? You don't think that all that flak you got from your fellow conducting students was partly from their attitude about 'girls'? I know the problems that I had getting into the Juilliard program. I'm sure it was a sex thing."
"I can't understand prejudice any more than I can violence or competition."
"Well, you'll probably have to, if you want to continue conducting."
"You mean I'll have to put up with this bad atmosphere again?"
"And again and again, most likely."
Madeline sighed. "That's why I heard someone say we were only in the final because they were afraid of being accused of sexism if they didn't choose us. But it's not just that. After all, you saw Lenore's attitude; you're not going to tell me that's sexist."
"Well, no."
"All the students have an opinion on the competition, from 'Rachel's a bitch' to 'Madeline's an asshole for losing'. I want everybody to forget the competition, to stop taking on the competitive attitude, and start making music again. I know competitions are necessary, and I'll compete again sometime, I suppose, but I can never feel that people can compete and make music at the same time, or for a long time. You do it for a competition, but then you get back to real music-making. I'm hoping that seeing us play together will make them think of the music, and not of the results."
When the other musicians arrived in the evening, Madeline was writing the program on the board, already thought out. Rachel was surprised when Madeline gave her the score to a Faure mass. Then she saw the violin obbligato indicated in the piano reduction. This was obviously a piece chosen to give her more visibility in the concert, along with the Danse macabre. Everyone was surprised when Madeline presented the poster she had prepared. It began with "Rachel and Madeline invite . . ." Some of them found the double name questionable, but no one dared say anything.
They went through the new pieces first, then did the Bach with the men's voices, oboe, and flute. They decided that Rachel would lead the string players in one room on Wednesday evening, while Madeline would work with the singers in another.
Again, Rachel detected new qualities in Madeline. Her lack of competitive instinct was obvious; she preferred to share music rather than use it to succeed, dominate or excel. All the same, she was evidently the leader in whatever ensemble she performed in, because of the force of her musical conviction, the wealth of musical capacity that she manifested, and her abundant ideas about choices of repertoire or interpretation. She simply carried all with her in her wave of musical inspiration.
The rehearsal ended, and as the musicians were leaving Rachel's parents came by to bring her back to the hotel. Rachel asked, "Can I show them the program, Madeline?"
"Of course."
Mr. Ellinson glanced at it, then looked at Madeline with a sour expression. "So this is what you've concocted to ride on Rachel's coattails with."
Madeline looked dismayed. Rachel was surprised. "Dad!"
"The sore loser has to get some of the glory anyway, is that it?"
"No, that's not it at all, Dad!"
"If that's not it, then why weren't her parents there to congratulate her? They must know she's a freeloader."
Madeline turned and walked down the corridor.
"Why did you say that!?"
"Because it's true."
Rachel looked at him in exasperation. "Here. Take my violin. I'll come back to the hotel later." And Rachel ran down the corridor after Madeline.
She caught up with her outside. "Wait, Madeline, don't go yet."
Madeline stopped and turned to Rachel. Rachel could see that she was upset. She paused a moment, not sure how to begin.
"They're not like that normally."
"Well, maybe they shouldn't leave their normal lives, then. Not follow you around to your competitions. I'm sorry, Rachel, but that was really offensive."
"I know it was. I'm going to talk to them about it tonight. Could I just ask - "
"What?"
"Just, why your parents weren't here? I mean, are you an orphan?"
"I'm an artistic orphan. I had tuneless, Philistine parents. I had a mother who would barge in while I was practicing and tell me I had to do some household chore right then because she said she was sure that I was only using music as an excuse to get out of the chores. I had a father who said, in exactly so many words, that it was stupid of me to spend so much money on a college education so I could come back home and give piano lessons to schoolgirls."
"As if that were all you could do with a music degree!"
"And as if it were his money. They both used to moan about the cost of putting their kids through college, but not one of us had a cent from them for our education. I left home at eighteen and never went back."
"I'm sorry about my parents. I'm going back to the hotel to talk to them. See you tomorrow?"
"As planned."
Rachel found her parents at the hotel, getting ready for bed. She began the conversation immediately. "That was rude of you to talk that way to Madeline, Dad."
"I still say it was true."
"I say it isn't."
"But that doesn't make sense, Rachel. You won the competition. You were the best. That's all there is to it. We want people to remember that. Especially her, the also-ran. You remember how she stole your thunder in the conducting seminar yesterday? Got in there to get all the attention before you could."
"That's not how it happened. And the panel said it made a close decision."
"That was out of politeness. Anyway, there's more in you than in her."
"That is NOT true."
"You can't tell me that there's any ambition in her. Look at what she did when I said what I said. She just walked away. She didn't even try to defend herself."
"No . . . that's true. It's not ambition that's in her. But she has a real love for music and a good feel for it. You saw that in her Tchaikovsky, and you'll see it in the concert. You can't tell me that that doesn't count for anything."
"You can have all the music in you that you want, but you need to have guts too."
"And if you have to choose between music and guts?"
"You don't need to ask that question."
Rachel was not sure how to respond to that.
Rachel's week of "musical experience" continued between rehearsals. Being more of a doer than a talker, Rachel found this a bit awkward at first, but once the students had asked a few questions and the discussion could be firmly based in musical matters, Rachel felt more at ease. She was even surprised by some of her own observations. Her parents had in the meantime stopped coming with her. Rachel guessed that they wanted to avoid seeing any more supposed "pre-empting" by Madeline.
On Thursday evening the musicians played the concert program in order, to test the cohesion and work out entrances and exits. Everyone was pleased at the end.
The group began to pack up. Bill asked, "Oh, what about bows at the end?"
Madeline answered, "Group bow-wows are a pain, I really would rather avoid them. Unless Rachel vetoes my idea," said Madeline.
"But the bow by the organizer, Madman," Lenore said fairly pointedly.
"Organizers," Madeline corrected. "We're doing this, the music is from all of us, there will be no singling or doubling out of people. OK, Rachel?"
"Sounds fine. We'll all just stand at the end."
No one seemed ready to argue the question further.
"It all sounds good," Rachel said to Madeline as they were leaving.
"I think the audience will appreciate it. Thanks for being in on it, Rachel."
"I've been happy to. And I hope we'll be friends after this."
"I'd like that. And if I don't get a chance to tell you, good luck with everything."
"You too. And I'll bet on you in the next conducting competition."
Madeline made a slight gesture of deprecation.
"We'll see about that. In the meantime, you're on your way, aren't you? What are your plans?"
"I can't plan anything yet because it'll depend on the contracts. But my first Shostakovich cycle as soon as I get a chance."
"I'll be watching for it on record."
They said, "Good night" and separated as they came out into the corridor.
The concert was well-received by a large audience. The musicians went into the final madrigals in pure joy, feeling that they had made good music. As the audience applauded, the singers stepped away from Madeline and Bill took Rachel's violin and encouraged her to step forward. Madeline stepped through the musicians and gave a big smile as she put her arm around Rachel and they bowed together.
On the next morning, Rachel and her parents left for the train station. Rachel's first ever contract, the main prize from the competition, was in her hands, and she was reading it through again with excitement at the prospects that it was opening up.
??1980s
Rachel's contract led to other engagements, and she found herself doing much traveling in order to keep her conducting in. As a result, her work with Mr. Fielding became sporadic, then finally ended. Guest appearances led to some more long-term engagements, but nothing that seemed permanent for the time. And there were conflicts with the orchestra members. Once there was a real head-to-head between her and a percussionist during a rehearsal. Each time she would react with what she thought was assertion against what she interpreted as sexist comments.
When the 1989 Conductors Guild conference was announced, Rachel made sure to be in New York. Conductors from all levels and all genres were coming, and Mr. Fielding was to be given a Lifetime Achievement Award. Rachel was still very mobile in her career. She went to the conference to see Mr. Fielding after some years of being out of touch, and to make contacts with other professionals. She hoped to begin to develop some more permanent arrangements from these contacts. In New York she usually stayed with her parents, but for the conference she found it more practical to stay at one of the hotels so that she could be in on any late-night conversations. She was walking down the hall to her room, past another hotel guest just opening her door. As Rachel got out her key, she heard that guest call out, "Rachel!"
She turned and saw Madeline smiling at her from the door that she had just passed. She was now wearing her hair longer, in a chignon, but otherwise she had not changed. Rachel smiled as the two of them approached each other. "It's been ages."
"I know. I've always felt sorry at not keeping more in touch with you."
"It can't really be helped. I've got a nomad's life right now. You could only really write to me at my parents' place. Are you here for the conference?"
"Yes. I thought it might be time I found out what these things were about."
"Why don't you come over to my room for a drink and we can catch up some right now? It's the best moment, before we start running around during the events."
"Great. Just let me put my bags in and I'll be right over."
While waiting for her Rachel thought about the few letters that she and Madeline had exchanged during the past years. Unlike herself, Madeline had other interests than music; the lengthy, well-worded letters revealed someone at once more well-rounded and less focused. She had had dance lessons, loved literature and theater, and practiced Iyengar yoga. She entered fairly easily into topics, and was capable of clever and subtle jokes. The woman revealed in these pages was a deep thinker and a deep feeler, and this seemed to interfere sometimes with more practical matters. Rachel had often found difficulty responding to the almost philosophic tone of the letters, and wondered if her earnest, factual ones were an adequate reply.
When Madeline came in, Rachel offered her a drink and they settled down on the sofa.
"Still a nomad, you said?" Madeline prompted.
"Yes, guesting and assistanting here and there. Still having trouble getting the really big engagements. No one seems to find fault with my conducting, but I'm still not making headway. I wonder sometimes if I'm being taken seriously."
"That does sound a bit strange. I can imagine orchestras or administrators mistrusting an ambitious new-comer, but when they see that there's something behind the ambition I should think they would be happy to take the person on."
"Well, I would too. But that doesn't seem to happen, not yet anyway. There is musical fulfillment, of course, but I still want to take on something more . . . substantial, more complete . . . more developed. I have no long-term relationship with an orchestra, nothing to build. I get the feeling I'll still have to wait a good while for my Shostakovich cycle to get under way. Plus there's the sexism. For example, not long ago I heard a clarinetist making comments about my physique."
"What did he say?"
"Um, it was about being happy that I faced the orchestra rather than turning my back to it. It was about pitying the audience. Can you believe it?"
"And it's not even true."
"Anyway, you can't tell me he does that when he's playing with Thomas or Radner in front of him. A good conducting experience these days is one in which I don't have to call a player on his attitude, not one in which we've reached a musical peak."
"That goes back to your old comment about your 'need to master the people who are mastering the music'. What if you have to choose between the people or the music?"
"The one depends on the other, as far as I can see."
"Could it be that you're simply being a little impatient and that this time of development is needed or expected? That it's your apprenticeship?"
"I have mastered all the music that I have worked on, I have possessed it. There's no more apprenticeship there. I have to work on mastering those who make it."
"Including yourself?"
"I keep my temper in a monumental way in comparison to what I'd like to say!"
Madeline was silent, looking into her wine.
"I want more, and I want it soon." Rachel poured herself another whisky. "And you?"
"I've settled into my niche. I've been working in Boston, mostly conducting, but also doing some accompanying or other ensemble work from the piano. I'm here to see if I can't get something in New York. It offers me more opportunities. I've become a great ballet conductor. Of course, I don't mean great as in famous, great as in fit for it. I played for a ballet school when I was younger and got free lessons in exchange, so I know how to pay attention to the choreography. Since I show that kind of attention to the dancing, I'm in demand for ballet conducting, in Boston anyway. But New York has more companies."
"So you'd have quite a lot of regular work. Still, being 'just' a ballet conductor would not suit everyone."
"Especially not you. Where would you feel your career had gone without the Shostakovich cycle that you have planned? You don't get to do that as a ballet conductor. And where will the musical world be without Rachel Ellinson's Shostakovich cycle? I personally can't imagine it."
Rachel smiled, and Madeline continued.
"But that's just not what's important to me. You know that. It's the music itself."
"'Belonging to it', you'd said."
"Yes. With the ballet, I do. And I'm doing a variety of music. And I'm always working with others, not over them. That's my Karmasana."
"Your what?"
Madeline sat on the floor with her legs straight along the floor at a 45-degree angle to each other and bent forward, sliding her arms backwards under her legs until her chin came to the floor. Her muffled voice came out. "The most humble of humilities."
On the next evening the conference-goers went to the reception offered for Mr. Fielding. Recordings of works conducted by Mr. Fielding were playing, television monitors were showing footage of his rehearsals and performances, and one corner held a photo collage. Mr. Fielding was strolling from group to group, taking in their congratulations and making knowledgeable and superior comments to all. As he left one of these groups, he came upon Rachel, who offered him her hand.
"Glad to see you again, Mr. Fielding. And congratulations on the award. I don't need to tell you how well-deserved it is."
Mr. Fielding smiled and continued strolling; Rachel walked with him. "You wouldn't even if you did need to. You're still the most maverick of my students."
"A chip off the old block, then."
"Not quite. When was your age I had conducted the major European orchestras. Being a lone wolf is nothing in itself."
"I'm working my way to Europe. It's just tough to hitchhike across the Atlantic," Rachel replied with a touch of ruefulness.
Mr. Fielding smiled. "Your most recent successor in the Northeastern Conservatory Competition is working with the Cleveland Symphony."
"That's impressive. How did he get from that little competition to Cleveland?"
Mr. Fielding stopped and turned to Rachel. "It's not a little competition any more. It has acquired quite a bit of prestige since you won it."
"Well, it was a good thing I won it then."
"No, it's a good thing for the Conservatory that you won it."
"What do you mean?"
"Certain people in our profession who have worked with you have taken that competition as a benchmark, because you won it."
"Really??"
"They see a competition that recognized your talent as eminently creditable."
Rachel was at a loss for words. "That's . . . quite a vote of confidence."
"It is. If only your career reflected that."
"That's exactly what I would like."
"Yes, but your 'chip off the old block' needs a bit of whittling. I've heard from other colleagues that you're too much of a Fielding protege."
"What do they mean?"
"That you're a great musician, but an impossible person."
"Because I stand up for myself when provoked?"
"Because you take too many things as provocation. Rachel, as it was I who trained you, I am interested in seeing you progress. I have noticed that you have not, as far as you could have. You showed me at that competition that I had underestimated you. You've shown me since then that my underestimation matters little."
Mr. Fielding walked on to the next group; Rachel stood still, fuming.
??1990s
Rachel's career continued to progress, but as it did she felt the continued challenges. She finally got her first recording project, for which she began her dream of a Shostakovich cycle. She was preparing it with the Philadelphia Philharmonic, while she was vying as one of the candidates for that orchestra's music directorship. As Rachel walked down the central aisle of the concert hall on the first evening of rehearsal, she noticed the concertmaster whispering to his neighbor. She tossed her things in the nearest seat and brought her score and baton on stage.
"Danil, I suppose you would like to share that last comment with everybody?"
Danil did not respond.
"Come now, I'm sure that if it's something of worth, we would all like to hear it."
Danil began to look sullen.
"I take it that it was not something of worth, then."
This tactic worked less well than it had in the past. Danil's Slavic temperament reacted differently than had that of other musicians, most of whom had been from Western European cultures. Danil was quite content to show signs of martyrdom without feeling the need to validate his attitude. His murmuring continued.
After three rehearsals, Rachel brought him into the office.
"Danil, what exactly is the problem with having a woman conductor?"
"It's not a woman's place."
"Isn't your mother a musician?"
"A brilliant pianist, and a great inspiration to me."
"And has she had concert tours?"
"Of course not. She is a wife and mother."
"Then how can you say that she's a brilliant musician?"
Danil looked surprised and offended. "Don't insult my mother."
"I'm not insulting her, I'm asking a question. If a musician is brilliant, doesn't she give her music to the public?"
"No woman must be public."
"So a woman is supposed to keep all that to herself?"
"Yes."
"But how could she be a mother then? Being a mother is the opposite of keeping things to yourself. Men keep things to themselves. How can a woman be a good mother if she keeps things to herself? And how can she be a good musician?"
"She can have a small place in her heart for music, after the large place for the husband and children."
"But if no one has asked me to marry him and I've met no one whom I wanted to marry, why can't I make music in the meantime? I'm not stealing any kind of care and attention from a husband and children."
"Your activity encourages you to steal them from a future husband and children."
"So I'm suffering from some kind of mental block against marriage and children because I'm making music?"
"Yes."
"Is my music that bad? If it's only produced by a mental block, it can't be good."
Danil did not answer.
"You can't answer that. You can't say that my music is bad because that's not true, but you can't say it's good because it goes against your thinking to say that."
Danil remained silent.
"Danil, at our next rehearsal, you will either tell us why I'm not a good musician or just sit there and make music and stop making comments. This cannot continue."
Danil gave her a look of amused irony and left.
??1999
Rachel got out of the taxi and stomped into the apartment building. During the whole trip from Philadelphia she had fumed about the difficulties that she had encountered during the rehearsal. She had told the manager that if this was how this first year as director was going to be, she would not finish it. She felt that the men in the Philadelphia Phil were unbending, and none of Rachel's past tactics was producing a result.
She felt the change from cold to heat as she went up to her apartment. Once in, she tossed her coat and case onto the couch and sat down next to them. Hand in hair, she looked about the room, feeling her mind rev down. She was unable to decide between repose and movement. After a moment she did get up and turn on the computer. On a whim, she typed in "tonightinnewyork.com" and found the details of a performance of The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center that evening. She decided that the ballet was just the sort of distraction that she needed. She made a quick call to find out if there were tickets left; there were.
As she had made the decision so late, she arrived late, and was allowed in after the overture. She quickly settled in her seat and set aside all thought as she listened to the murmur of the opening music of Act I; she found it pleasant to let her sensibility wander through those uncomplicated sounds. She felt ready to sink into the story.
The performance began well, but during the dolls' dances, Rachel began to notice something odd. The dancers were dancing in time to the music, but not in a way that brought out the qualities of their dancing. Rachel recognized that the tempi were inappropriate to the choreography, and guessed that they also were inappropriate to the dancers' interpretive intentions. As Act I progressed, Rachel continued to notice the passages which seemed to hold together well and those which did not. The conductor was giving an uneven rendition of the work in relation to the choreography.
As the applause died down and the lights came up, Rachel heard a sigh from her neighbor to the right. "Was that for the performance?" she asked discreetly.
"Really irregular, isn't it?" he responded, smiling and lowering his eyes. "I had come just because of the conductor - she's known for her Tchaikovsky - and she's been replaced because of illness. This replacement obviously hasn't the knack for ballet."
"She must be some conductor, to be known for ballet work. Who is she?"
"Madeline K. Manchester. Very well-known in the dance world. 'Empathy incarnate', the reviewers say."
Rachel felt the mixed shock of two surprises. First was the realization that, by mere chance, she would have actually been hearing Madeline conduct tonight. She imagined the pleasure that the encounter would have given both of them. Close behind the first came the sad surprise of learning that Madeline had had to cancel her appearance; somehow Rachel felt that the gesture was not typical of that distant friend.
Act II continued in the same uneven fashion, with some of the character dances succeeding and some wobbling a bit. The Waltz of the Flowers came out intact. Rachel held her breath for the beginning of the pas de deux; she soon let it out in a sigh of disappointment. It was clear that the conductor was far from being in sympathy, let alone empathy, with the dancers. Rachel had another thought for Madeline, feeling a pang for her and hoping she would not have to hear about the failed performance.
The final chords were intoned, and the curtain closed.
As the audience applauded fulsomely Rachel noticed that the curtain was taking longer to open than usual. When it did, the dancers went through their bows in a fairly wooden manner. They know what a piece it was, thought Rachel. The conductor was led on, according to tradition. Then another suited figure appeared from stage left, and the soloists stepped back to give him center stage.
The newcomer on stage introduced himself as the artistic director of the company, and excused himself for this irregular appearance at the end of the ballet. "I am sure, however, that those who are true devotees of dance will understand my wish, and the wish of all those on stage with me, to express our great regret upon receiving the news of the demise of our conductor, Madeline K. Manchester, earlier this evening."
Rachel went numb.
"We in the dance world will truly miss her enthusiasm, her knowledgeable approach to the conducting of a broad range of dance works, and the energy that she showed even during that terrible illness which has finally gotten the better of her. This is truly a great loss for dance."
By this point, quite a few dancers of both genders were unabashedly crying on stage. The director finished with more of the usual comments made on such occasions and asked for a last round of applause for the departed one. Then the curtain closed. Rachel turned to her neighbor and offered her hand, saying, "My condolences." The neighbor took it absently, then said, "I had heard that she was ill, but I didn't think it was this bad."
As she was leaving, Rachel thought of the irony of her wish being granted; Madeline would not hear about the evening after all.
All the way home and during the hours in which she could not sleep, Rachel thought about the ironies of the evening - going to a concert that Madeline would have conducted, hearing the assessment of a fan discussing her as if she were unknown to Rachel, learning about Madeline's death through an onstage announcement. She could not stop herself from wondering what musicians would cry to hear about her own death.
Then she thought about Madeline, how she had heard nothing about her illness, and how they had communicated so little in the last few years. She suddenly heard her memory of their Danse macabre, and recalled the sounds which had drawn her to that doorway, the Delibes mass. She felt the hairs rise on her neck again from a trombone entrance in Madeline's performance of Tchaikovsky's Fifth. She remembered Madeline's ways of expressing her real love for music - her light, agile singing, her attentive accompanying, her glow when expressing ideas.
Then she remembered Madeline in her yoga pose on the floor in the hotel room. Her muffled voice came out. "The most humble of humilities."
She began to understand for the first time the way such humility could function.
Rachel tried to apply this humility to her next guest appearances. She said to herself, "This is a learning experience," and determinedly thought of herself standing on her head. Little by little she found the right tone. Finally she felt ready to try her new approach on the Philadelphia players, and returned to Philadelphia for a new rehearsal of Sibelius's First Symphony which had given her such difficulties.
They began the first movement, and again Rachel came up against the horn players at their entrance introducing the marcato motif. She set down her baton.
"Alan, you're the leader for this passage, since you're first horn. Tell me how you would like to play this passage."
Alan looked dubious but amused. "I don't see the point."
"But I'm interested. I'd like to know how you feel it."
"FEEL it!?!?!?"
"Well, yes. It is music, right? And music is something we do well when we feel it in us, isn't it?" She paused. Alan said nothing. "So, how do you feel this passage?"
Alan did a half-hearted, mezzo-piano tootle of the passage.
"Alan, I'm sorry, but I can't believe that for a moment. With all the richness of your musical experience, with all the artistry you are capable of, you must have a better idea than that of what this passage does. Show me."
Alan did a burlesque, overly-fat version of the passage. Some of the musicians laughed. Rachel did not. One of the other horn players also did not laugh.
"Gordon, how would you do this passage?" she asked him.
Gordon took a slower tempo and gave the most vibrant, stirring, full-throated version of the passage that Rachel had ever heard.
"Thank you, Gordon. That was a revelation. Neil, can you reproduce that?"
The first trombone played the passage, giving it a bit more richness through his instrument's lower tones.
"Excellent. How about you, Ian?"
The clarinetist brought the tempo closer to the faster one that Rachel had been trying to use but kept some of the expansiveness through the softer wind tones.
"This is all excellent input. I really want us to build on that. Could we try using Ian's tempo, but still keep Gordon's broadness of feeling? Let me take us through the first measures of the allegro energico like this - " she demonstrated the movement with her hands and a "da-da-da" - "and then we'll come to this passage like this - " she showed the progression into the punctuated passage. "Let's try that now."
The musicians began the movement again, following the new directions a bit tentatively but keeping cohesion. As they came to the horn passage, Rachel flashed a huge smile to the players and gave them their cues with the baton and an open, side-turned left hand. The new tempo allowed more richness in the orchestral texture; then Rachel heard what she wanted to craft into the movement. Rachel cut them off at the end of the last statement of the marcato by the winds.
"I think we've found our way in this now. Can we move on? I would like us to keep the feeling of that marcato, in both the long-note theme and the staccato one at E."
The rehearsal continued without any difficulties, and Rachel built the movement step by step from that beginning notion.
At the end, there was a buzz of excited conversation as the musicians left to pack their instruments. Rachel, exhausted but encouraged, came down from the stage and bent to take her coat from the first-row seatback.
The concertmaster passed behind her and murmured, "Fascinating capitulation."
Rachel gave Danil a resounding slap.
"I WILL NOT ALLOW THAT LANGUAGE OR THAT ATTITUDE. That's just not what it's about."
"I'm telling the union about this."
"By all means do. I would love to talk to the union about music and about making music. In the meantime I've already told you, that attitude doesn't help. It is not a question of bitches and virgins, bosses or capitulations. We are here to make music. Feeling animosity does not help. Please think about that."
And she went out through the empty concert hall.
??2007
The reception for the Conductors Guild conference was in full swing. Rachel moved from group to group and chatted with colleagues and friends. They were all full of congratulations for the three awards that she had won: the Groper, the Deutsche Gramophon and the Diapason. Rachel was pleased, but was more interested in talking to and listening to people.
The Guild was greeting her as guest of honor, and had set up in the reception area enlarged images of the newspaper announcements of the prizes. Recordings made by her were playing and there was a display of photos and videos covering Rachel's career. She walked by the different monitors and watched the footage with some detachment.
At the end of the reception hall she came abreast of the photo exhibit for the first time. It was a collage of several images in more or less chronological order. Over it was a highly enlarged photo from 1982 showing the group of competitors from the first Northeastern Conservatory conducting competition.
Rachel stood and looked at the different faces, most unremembered, and settled her gaze on one on the left side of the photo: Madeline's. She smiled sadly, then raised her glass of water to the photo, drank a swallow and moved on.
Jennifer says: This story has the setup to be a small, literary gem, but it still needs some polishing. First, you need to shorten it; there isn't enough action for the length. Second, you need to scale back on some of the drama. Nobody goes around slapping people these days; not unless they want the police called in. Third, you need to sprinkle your musical allusions with a lighter hand. Give us fewer musical references and more interactions between your characters. Finally, be sure to show us everything and tell us nothing.
Plot - 20
Characters - 20
Mechanics - 21
Enjoyment - 18
TOTAL - 79
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