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arg.
So, apparently I can't study for music history like a normal person.
First- mild panic, not able to see straight let alone recall which exam is when - it would be typically Fenella to think Monday is history exam, while it's really this week. sigh.
Fen: *phones Kat*
Kat: Allo?
Fen: Please tell me I'm not going crazy.
Kat: Were you ever not crazy?
Fen: ... not helping, really.
Kat: What did you want, then?
Fen: Theory and Historical exams.... theory is Thursday, historical is on Monday, no?
Kat: *hysterical laughter* Clearly Crazy. It was inevitable.
Fen: ... not helping, really.
Then this, *stuff* that I guarantee won't be on my exam...
I give you fic, that you really don't want to read. Vivaldi/Anna. Don't say I didn't warn you.
<><><><>
That Concert Thing
<><><><>
The first time that Anna ever saw father Antonio she thought to herself, “Oh my. What an awfully big nose!”
She was still quite young back then – nine or ten – but old enough to recognize an uncharitable thought when she had one. So in the middle of orchestra rehearsal, Anna sent a prompt plea upwards to God begging for forgiveness and saying that really, she was trying.
Anna really didn’t see why God would bother himself with himself with her silly thoughts (despite what the Reverend Mother said), but Antonio Vivaldi was a priest, and clearly deserved her respect.
But then again, father Antonio had stopped saying mass long ago – Anna stopped to chew her lip here – why, was it that they’d excused him? She remembered the flute girl saying something about –
Oh! Oh!
Anna dropped her bow and violin in her lap, and clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from giggling hysterically.
“Poor Father Antonio,” had said the flute in a tone that dripped ‘isn’t this just scandalous’, and ‘isn’t is wonderful?’ “It must have been horrible for him – his asthma is so severe, he simply can’t get through saying the whole mass anymore!”
The girls had hummed and hawed at the at the time, praying for the poor man, but now Anna found it hilarious – what good was it to have a nose that enoromous (large was simply an understatement) if it didn’t even do anything useful?
Anna could feel her face turning red and she made strange choking sounds, that were her attempts at swallowing laughter – she’d be punished for sure, and was expecting the voice of the stern initiate that was the first desk violin.
Instead, and she noticed this with surprise when she finally looked around, the fussy woman was looking rather pink with her mouth in a thin smile. Father Antonio it seemed, was singing her praises in the quiet, endearing way of his that Anna had heard so much about in the two months that she had come to stay at the Pièta.
Everyone was watching the touching scene that father Antonio presented – all except the bassoon, who was glaring at Anna without remorse. This didn’t bother Anna though – the girl, who was four or five years older – had been sulking all day. Anna, who was still rather the new girl there, was still learning violin and violin alone. As a result, the back desk violin had been forced to play bassoon; one of the girl’s many useful talents. The bassoon girl had ever so many, the sharp-tongued … please forgive me, God.
All uncharitable thoughts were put out of Anna’s head, though, when father Antonio picked up his violin and began the new concerto that he had composed for them. The tone, the raw emotion behind his playing – the way that he made his violin sing.
Anna vowed then, with God as her witness, that she would be happy if she could ever sing half as well as father Antonio’s violin.
<><><><>
When Anna was fifteen, it was decided for her that she should concentrate on her voice. She’d only ever be a second rate violinist in the Pièta, although Antonio (this is what Anna now called the father in her head) was far too kind to ever say as much. Instead, he gave her a sweet, firm smile and told her that “your voice, my dear, has so much potential – you’d best concentrate on that.”
Anna was so distraught over losing her lessons with Antonio – whom she respected above all others – that she barely noticed when he said that he was writing her a small part in his next opera.
<><><><>
Anna Giraud, as she was billed at the theatre, did not have a spectacular voice. Instead, the critics said that it was “nice” and sometimes, “pleasant”. She was praised though, for her acting abilities and a certain flair for the dramatic.
Anna was whom they went to see, when they wanted to be entertained. She was never larger than life, never that singer, the diva who could afford to throw tantrums and order everyone away. She was always polite, always charming, and always had Antonio Vivaldi at her side.
Antonio composed and Anna sang; this was the way that things worked.
Contrary to the latest gossip, Teacher and Protégée were not together – Anna had long since discovered that despite the convenient alibi that Antonio’s asthma provided for getting out of mass (to finish his latest concerto or oratorio), he was a man of unwavering faith. And for her part, Anna respected this.
Whether or not the greater powers at the Pièta believed them or not, they asked for Anna to return – for the time being, at least. Anna was bound to the orphanage by all sorts of vows and signatures that she didn’t quite want to understand.
The Pièta was quiet and familiar, and after some sulking, some thinking and a substantial amount of time spent in confession, Anna reassumed that this was where she would live out her life.
At least, there, isolation from the outside was never as complete as it might have been.
Concerts, music, old friends and new; with time, Anna’s only objection to life at the Pièta was Antonio’s notable absence.
<><><><>
Anna was twenty-three when Antonio finally returned to the Pièta.
Upon questioning, the Reverend Mother (who several lifetimes ago, had been that stern first violin) said quite pointedly that the maestro was in his office and not to be disturbed.
But as Anna made her way through the hallways to Antonio’s office, she didn’t even bother to ask God for forgiveness; for what it was worth, she felt that none was needed. God could forgive her (or, withold forgiveness) at his on leisure.
When she knocked, she only had to wait seconds before Antonio opened the door and smiled at her, with an all too familiar smile. Since Anna had long since learned that Antonio was a direct man, who preferred people to get to the point, she didn’t waste much time in doing so.
And so devoted to his cause, was father Antonio, that he didn’t even protest as her white robes were crushed against his black ones, her mouth against his.
<><><><>
First- mild panic, not able to see straight let alone recall which exam is when - it would be typically Fenella to think Monday is history exam, while it's really this week. sigh.
Fen: *phones Kat*
Kat: Allo?
Fen: Please tell me I'm not going crazy.
Kat: Were you ever not crazy?
Fen: ... not helping, really.
Kat: What did you want, then?
Fen: Theory and Historical exams.... theory is Thursday, historical is on Monday, no?
Kat: *hysterical laughter* Clearly Crazy. It was inevitable.
Fen: ... not helping, really.
Then this, *stuff* that I guarantee won't be on my exam...
I give you fic, that you really don't want to read. Vivaldi/Anna. Don't say I didn't warn you.
<><><><>
That Concert Thing
<><><><>
The first time that Anna ever saw father Antonio she thought to herself, “Oh my. What an awfully big nose!”
She was still quite young back then – nine or ten – but old enough to recognize an uncharitable thought when she had one. So in the middle of orchestra rehearsal, Anna sent a prompt plea upwards to God begging for forgiveness and saying that really, she was trying.
Anna really didn’t see why God would bother himself with himself with her silly thoughts (despite what the Reverend Mother said), but Antonio Vivaldi was a priest, and clearly deserved her respect.
But then again, father Antonio had stopped saying mass long ago – Anna stopped to chew her lip here – why, was it that they’d excused him? She remembered the flute girl saying something about –
Oh! Oh!
Anna dropped her bow and violin in her lap, and clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from giggling hysterically.
“Poor Father Antonio,” had said the flute in a tone that dripped ‘isn’t this just scandalous’, and ‘isn’t is wonderful?’ “It must have been horrible for him – his asthma is so severe, he simply can’t get through saying the whole mass anymore!”
The girls had hummed and hawed at the at the time, praying for the poor man, but now Anna found it hilarious – what good was it to have a nose that enoromous (large was simply an understatement) if it didn’t even do anything useful?
Anna could feel her face turning red and she made strange choking sounds, that were her attempts at swallowing laughter – she’d be punished for sure, and was expecting the voice of the stern initiate that was the first desk violin.
Instead, and she noticed this with surprise when she finally looked around, the fussy woman was looking rather pink with her mouth in a thin smile. Father Antonio it seemed, was singing her praises in the quiet, endearing way of his that Anna had heard so much about in the two months that she had come to stay at the Pièta.
Everyone was watching the touching scene that father Antonio presented – all except the bassoon, who was glaring at Anna without remorse. This didn’t bother Anna though – the girl, who was four or five years older – had been sulking all day. Anna, who was still rather the new girl there, was still learning violin and violin alone. As a result, the back desk violin had been forced to play bassoon; one of the girl’s many useful talents. The bassoon girl had ever so many, the sharp-tongued … please forgive me, God.
All uncharitable thoughts were put out of Anna’s head, though, when father Antonio picked up his violin and began the new concerto that he had composed for them. The tone, the raw emotion behind his playing – the way that he made his violin sing.
Anna vowed then, with God as her witness, that she would be happy if she could ever sing half as well as father Antonio’s violin.
<><><><>
When Anna was fifteen, it was decided for her that she should concentrate on her voice. She’d only ever be a second rate violinist in the Pièta, although Antonio (this is what Anna now called the father in her head) was far too kind to ever say as much. Instead, he gave her a sweet, firm smile and told her that “your voice, my dear, has so much potential – you’d best concentrate on that.”
Anna was so distraught over losing her lessons with Antonio – whom she respected above all others – that she barely noticed when he said that he was writing her a small part in his next opera.
<><><><>
Anna Giraud, as she was billed at the theatre, did not have a spectacular voice. Instead, the critics said that it was “nice” and sometimes, “pleasant”. She was praised though, for her acting abilities and a certain flair for the dramatic.
Anna was whom they went to see, when they wanted to be entertained. She was never larger than life, never that singer, the diva who could afford to throw tantrums and order everyone away. She was always polite, always charming, and always had Antonio Vivaldi at her side.
Antonio composed and Anna sang; this was the way that things worked.
Contrary to the latest gossip, Teacher and Protégée were not together – Anna had long since discovered that despite the convenient alibi that Antonio’s asthma provided for getting out of mass (to finish his latest concerto or oratorio), he was a man of unwavering faith. And for her part, Anna respected this.
Whether or not the greater powers at the Pièta believed them or not, they asked for Anna to return – for the time being, at least. Anna was bound to the orphanage by all sorts of vows and signatures that she didn’t quite want to understand.
The Pièta was quiet and familiar, and after some sulking, some thinking and a substantial amount of time spent in confession, Anna reassumed that this was where she would live out her life.
At least, there, isolation from the outside was never as complete as it might have been.
Concerts, music, old friends and new; with time, Anna’s only objection to life at the Pièta was Antonio’s notable absence.
<><><><>
Anna was twenty-three when Antonio finally returned to the Pièta.
Upon questioning, the Reverend Mother (who several lifetimes ago, had been that stern first violin) said quite pointedly that the maestro was in his office and not to be disturbed.
But as Anna made her way through the hallways to Antonio’s office, she didn’t even bother to ask God for forgiveness; for what it was worth, she felt that none was needed. God could forgive her (or, withold forgiveness) at his on leisure.
When she knocked, she only had to wait seconds before Antonio opened the door and smiled at her, with an all too familiar smile. Since Anna had long since learned that Antonio was a direct man, who preferred people to get to the point, she didn’t waste much time in doing so.
And so devoted to his cause, was father Antonio, that he didn’t even protest as her white robes were crushed against his black ones, her mouth against his.
<><><><>
no subject
Is there a sequel? :)
I'll never think of Vivaldi in the same way again. And I assume Anna's real too? Another wiki-person probably.
I think music-history fic is your new niche.
no subject
2) No.
3) Do you often think of Vivaldi? No, not wiki this time.
4) Dear God, no.
And: Sally says I must add this in the comments (stage whisper: It does funny things to her when you take small digs at flutes, even if it's not aimed at her) Alors, the bassoon player originally went around, muttering about hell and damnation.
Actually, come to think of it, there's a lot of stuff that didn't make the cut. Sadly, it was mostly the better half :P
Disclaimer: Fen in no way is advocating bassoon/flute hate.
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Bassoonist's ragings can go here:
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and no. i refuse to write more music-history fic. so there
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SOMEONE needs to finish a certain paganini-fic before they can disown their new niche.
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Once writing something is a fluke. Twice is a mere coincedence. But three times? That dangerous, that is :P
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*squashes urge to write Frescobaldi fic*
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