Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [67]
The opening night of our European tour was a smash hit. The Italians were the most difficult audiences to sing for. They knew and loved music; operas, which were mainly for the elite in other countries, were folk music and children's songs in Italy. They loved us, we loved them. We loved ourselves. It was a certainty: if Italy declared us acceptable we could have the rest of Europe for a song.
We stayed in Venice for one sold-out week. During that time the stars were feted by city officials and the well-to-do, while the chorus was adored by the ordinary folk. We were hailed in the streets like conquering heroes and given free rides on the canals by gondoliers, who sang strains from Porgy and Bess. One owner of a glass-blowing factory presented us with delicate figurines, which we stowed in layers of cotton for our imminent trip to Paris.
I bought a French-English dictionary and packed it with the Italian-English phrase book and other belongings and had them taken to the bus which waited in the square. Fans crowded around us, offering cheeks to be kissed, hands to be shaken and flowers. We exchanged hugs and some tears with people who hadn't known of our existence only seven days before.
When the bus drove toward the station where we were to take a train to Paris, I thought of the city as a larger replica of some of its museums. Venice was itself an object of art, and its citizens and artists who had created it and were constantly re-creating it. I waved my hands, wagged my head and made sorry, sad faces to the well-wishers, as if I was being carried off against my will. Loving Venice and Venetians nearly made me Italian.
The Blue Train sped through Italy. I sat in a compartment with Lillian, Martha and Barbara Ann, listening to them talk about recital salons, and concert halls. Lillian mentioned a voice teacher whom someone in New York had recommended. Martha drew herself up and said the greatest voice teacher in the world was her teacher, in New York, and she wouldn't stand for anyone else messing with her voice. (Operatic singers are fiercely loyal to their teachers.) Lillian told her that was stupid: “Your teacher couldn't be the best vocal teacher in the world because I've heard some terrible stories about her.” An argument grew and thrashed around the small space between us. I had nothing to add, since Wilkie was the only voice teacher I'd ever met, and I didn't want to mention his name in case I'd be obliged to defend him. I kept quiet. Barbara Ann said conciliatingly “Well, you know, it's hard to say who is the best voice teacher in the world. That is until you've heard everyone. There are teachers in Texas no one has ever heard of who are very good.” That was for Martha. She turned to Lillian and said, “Just because a person is gossiped about doesn't necessarily mean that the person is guilty.” She looked at me for confirmation and added, “I mean, look how they talked about Jesus Christ. Am I right or wrong?”
I said I didn't know, and all three singers turned to me, their questions pouncing on my ears.
“What do you mean you don't know about Jesus?”
“They talked about him like a dog.”
“Don't you remember about the Philistines and the Pharisees?”
“Your grandmother would have been ashamed of you.”
“What about the money lenders in the temple?”
Martha said, “What about 'buked and scorned?” and then she began to sing: “I been 'buked and I been scorned.” Her voice was the most perfect I had ever heard in my life. It was like hot silver being poured from a high place.
Lillian laid her full contralto under the glistening sound:
“I been 'buked
And I been scorned
I been talked about
Sure as you're born.”
Barbara