Alone

Dear Readers,

Welcome once again to the Straight Times! theokwek has just sent us a latest hot-off-the-press essay about a blind cellist. Many of the thoughts within this story are his own, while real-life scenarios are taken from musicians around him. FYI, this essay - theokwek personally thinks it is the best in quite a long while - makes use of a passage from 1 Corinthians 13, King James Version, the Holy Bible.

tired, alone, and hungry?
The Straight Times Editor

Was blind, but now, i see?

It was not often that he was alone.

After all, trapped by unexpected reality in the dark abyss where sounds were all that he saw, he often needed others to support his weak form, to listen to his hesitating voice, to return a sense of direction to a world in which signs meant nothing. But out there, where some stood close to lend him their hands – and eyes, there were many, who like vicious piranhas, snipped at his toes, who like double-headed vipers, pretended to be his friends, who like cunning porcupines, sprayed sharp spines at him with acidic tongues.

Which were true lion-hearted friends, which were fickle-minded fair-weather mates, or which were envious green-eyed colleagues he knew not. After all, he lacked the faculty of sight that might have allowed him to pick up tell-tale signs of body language, detect shifty glances or stare, with what many told him were piercing blue eyes, straight into the souls of those he met. So today he was alone, having decided to temporarily evade that inevitable question of who he could trust in this confusing world.

He sat, cello between expertly positioned knees, bow firmly in grip and tangent to the curve of the gold-core steel-bound Larsen strings, end-pin removed and placed aside. The breathtaking scenery of the natural canyons that Rosie had taken him to might have appealed to his natural artist’s flair for beauty, had he been able to see it, but today, far as he was concerned, he was alone. Alone, with the cliffs and the rivers, alone, with the swiftly swaying grasses, alone, with the twitter of the birds and the call of the swan.

Then he began to play. Bach’s first cello suite, prelude, the very piece that Pablo Casals had performed when he was a child, the sound of which still lingered in the far reaches of his memory today. And as the notes flowed from his fingers, effortlessly, weightlessly diffusing in waves about his frail, exercise-wanting form, everything faded into oblivion.

He began to think.

Friends, lovers, parents, teachers, students, in his illustrious career, heralded by journals and newspapers everywhere he went as “that glorious blind cellist”, he had met all of the above. He remembered all of them clearly: Theodore, a violinist friend of his who stuck with him through the tumultuous high school years, Shanqi, that pretty oboist a year older than him, Rosie, a devoted family friend who’d taken custody of him the very day his parents passed beyond, Maestro Lim, his musical predecessor without whom he doubted he would have gone thus far, Benjamin, a most promising pupil of his own who went on to achieve great heights on his own…All he remembered as clear as day. No relationship, he concluded, with a sigh that momentarily dislodged a high G – yet failed to affect his ethereal playing – could ever be smooth. There would always be rough and bumpy passages, devilishly difficult dilemmas, and feverish arguments. But what can man, meager as he is, do about it, except to wait out the storm? Love is long-suffering, and is kind.

As with many of his fellow virtuosos, over the years, not a few had been chillingly jealous of his great skill with the instrument: the perfection of his technique, carefully trained over years of quiet practice, and the depth of his emotion, which few realized was released from the soul of one deprived and often disillusioned, a soul that sought and found hope in its music. Playing the cello somehow came naturally to him – the wood was tender and familiar to his skin, the music reflected his thoughts. How was it that it was difficult for others, he could never fathom, nevertheless, he lent a listening ear to them and gave them pointers on the instrument. Still they envied him. Just as he envied their sight. But then, as he told himself, sitting, unseeing, in front of a billion-dollar view, setting his heart free with the God-given talent in his hands, Love envieth not.

When he was young, he often wondered why at the end of marvelous concerts, where luminaries from all under the sun had heard and praised his soul-searching tone, his teacher would always give a mere grunt in reply and remind him not to stop practicing. Was it that he was not allowed to enjoy the fruit of his labour? Was it that he was getting proud about his playing? Was there anything wrong with being praised? Surely… surely he deserved some sort of reward?

The fluctuating semiquavers of Bach’s masterpiece coursed through his veins, and in a flash, he had the answer to that mysterious question of his childhood. Pride goeth before a fall. Humility comes before honour. His teacher, himself a weather-beaten musician, had, in his youth, tasted the bitter reality of a shattering blow dealt by pride and high self-esteem. And now he was passing the age old lesson on to his diligent pupil. Love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.

His thoughts continued drifting as the piece increased in technical difficulty and entered its second half. Just as the piece approached its nexus, he, too, was approaching the prime of his musical career. And yes, he had achieved much. But still, he had not reached perfection. When one is cursed – or blessed – with a physical imperfection, he longs all the more for the flawlessness of the intangible things that float just beyond our reach. How could he be the perfect cellist? What, actually, was the perfect cellist? Perhaps, it was the cellist that won the most competitions. Or performed at the most concerts. Or taught the most students. Was it? Or was it simply the cellist who enjoyed his own music-making, brought the simple joys of a soulful melody to others, and drew age-old wisdom from the pursuit of happiness? The cellist who was perfect both on the cello and in his heart, the cellist who knew, understood and loved his music? What is the ideal musician? Love doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil…

Though his mind was not on the piece beneath his fingers, he knew it by heart, and bit by bit, the finale was drawing closer. It was then, with a sort of heartache, that he realized what the great masters had realized, that vital belief that distinguished the maestro from the player, the virtuoso from the amateur – he saw, through blinded eyes, that that perfection that he yearned so much would never be reached. Yes, he was human, and by that inevitable plague of our race, he would never be perfect. No matter how much love we put into our music, or draw out of it, we can never be perfect. How then, should we live? Does the absence of perfection warrant a withdrawal from all attempts to reach it? How should he deal with the troubles of the present?
His beat unconsciously quickened, and his bow flew faster and faster, his fingers beat out hasty vibratos, and sweat flew from his brows. All the scenes of his life-long musical pursuit passed across his eyes – from the days he sat at the feet of his old teacher, through the concerts he had given, the orchestras he had played in, then eventually led, even the unkind words of rivals in the field – were they all for nothing? Was there no hope in music? Was it another illusion, one that he, blinded in more ways than one, had seen, then lost sight of?

No! He drew his last chord. Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things, Love never faileth. He would not give up in his music – it was sight to him, it was colour to his life, it embodied what he stood for, it was him.