Stand Up Straight and Sing!

by Jessye Norman

  Only seven years later, in 1972, just two years into my own professional life, I had the wonderful surprise of being present for a performance of Les Troyens at the Metropolitan Opera House, on an evening when the great Marian Anderson was in attendance as well. I do not know which made me happier: seeing this production or knowing that Miss Anderson was in the house. Coincidentally, this would be the opera in which I would make my Metropolitan Opera debut in 1983, though such a thought was far from my mind on this particular evening. Meeting Miss Anderson by chance in the lobby of the opera house was more than one could even dream. I was introduced to her. She was as gracious as one could imagine she would be.

  “Where were you born?” she asked simply.

  “Augusta, Georgia,” I responded, probably too quickly, being rather excited.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I sang there, I think sometime at the end of the forties or the beginning of the fifties, at Paine College, in your hometown.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “And everybody still remembers it, I promise you.”

  Of course, I was barely a gleam in the eyes of my parents at the time Marian Anderson graced the stage at Paine College in Augusta, but to this day, a highwater mark in that city and for the college is the memory of “that time that Marian Anderson came to town!”

  At the Met, now, a crowd began to form around her and the whole place seemed to be abuzz. In our short, personal time together, I felt an aura—an energy that was unmistakable. There was a kindness and joy there. Surely, there were lots of reasons why she could have displayed quite a different character, but she showed only patience, the patience that comes from knowing oneself fully. I watched from the sidelines as she greeted her admirers with a humility and warmth that were unmatched. I learned a great deal that evening: kindness is its own reward.

  Over the years, we forged a friendship and bond that I shall cherish forever. She lived not too far from my home in New York, about forty-five minutes due northeast, in Danbury, Connecticut. I was always struck during our visits by the fact that she was much more interested in what I had been singing and where, than in recounting her remarkable life. I would say something like, “Oh, please, just talk about any of your experiences—I do not mind what. Tell me about any trip or program,” and she would answer, so gently, “No, no, let’s not talk about that. What did you sing in your last performance? Where did you sing this? How did you feel?” That simply amazed me. It still does.

  Because life can sometimes offer blessings beyond anything you might hope for, I had the opportunity to sing for Marian Anderson at a matinee performance at the Met in Ariadne auf Naxos, of Richard Strauss, conducted by James Levine, with Kathleen Battle in the role of Zerbinetta. The entire cast had been told that she would be present. Miss Anderson was seated in the center box of the parterre, so we could sing the entire performance to her. There was neither nervousness nor worry, even though that performance was being videotaped for an international audience, for the purpose of turning the recording into a DVD. The thought of her presence had a distinctly calming effect on me. I wished only to do the very best that I could, because one of my mothers—one of the people who helped to form me—was sitting in the audience. Miss Anderson served as a wonderful inspiration for that performance, and I was so grateful that she was there. She came backstage afterward, as did the music producer Quincy Jones, also in attendance that day. We took loads and loads of photographs and had a perfectly wonderful afternoon together.

  Erlkönig • FRANZ SCHUBERT • Erl-King

  ***

  Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind? Who is riding so late in the windy night?

  Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind. It is a father with his child.

  Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, He holds the child close in his arm

  Er fasst ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm. He holds him securely and keeps him warm.

  Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht? My son, why such fright in your face?

  Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? Father, do you not see the Erl-king?

  Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif? The Erl-king with a crown and tail?

  Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif. It is the play of the fog, my son.

  Du liebes Kind, komm geh mit mir! You beautiful child, come with me

  Gar schöne Spiele spiel ich mit dir. I will play wonderful games with you.

  Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand, There are magnificent flowers on the beach

  Meine Mutter hat manche gülden Gewand. My mother has costumes made of gold.

  Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht, Father, my father, do you not hear

  Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? What the Erl-king says to me so quietly?

  Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind: Be calm, rest easily, my son

  In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind. It is only the rustling of dry leaves in the wind.

  Willst, feiner Knabe, dur mit mir gehn? Lovely child, won’t you come with me?

  Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön, My daughters are waiting for you already

  Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn My daughters make their dance of the night

  Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein. And will rock, dance, and sing you to sleep.

  Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort Father, my father, do you not see there

  Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort? The daughters of the Erl-king in that dark place?

  Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau: My son, I see it clearly

  Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. The gray of the willow trees shines in the night.

  Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; I love you, I am enraptured by your body

  Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt. And if you are not willing, I’ll take you by force.

  Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt fasst er mich an, Father, my father, he’s taking me

  Erlköning hat mir ein Leids getan! The Erl-king has done me harm.

  Dem Vater grauset’s er reitet geschwind, The father in horror rides quickly

  Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind. while holding his moaning child.

  Erreicht den Hof mit Müh und Not: He reaches the farmyard exhausted and fearful

  In seinen Armen das Kind war tot. The child in his arms is dead.

  6

  Growing Up in Germany

  “ON MY JOURNEY, NOW”

  On my journey now, Mount Zion,

  And I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey, now.

  One day, one day, I was walking along

  When the elements opened, and the love come down,

  Well, I went to the valley, but I didn’t go to stay,

  Well, my soul got happy and I stayed all day.

  You can talk about me just as much as you please,

  But the more you talk, I’m gonna bend my knees,

  On my journey now, Mount Zion,

  And I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey, now.

  I say often that I grew up in Berlin. It was where I came to understand more fully that the world was made up of so very much more than I had imagined or studied. The Berlin Wall was erected in 1961, and of course this historical event was discussed in our high school history classes. Yet it was quite another matter to arrive in this city and experience the starkness of the wall firsthand, and to find that “Checkpoint Charlie” was nothing more than a series of temporary metal-and-glass sheds, and that crossing from West Berlin into East Berlin with an American passport was a matter of walking across a street. No bridge, no overpass—just a short walk to the other side of a city street. The distance was not very far, but the divide—economically, politically, socially, and yes, culturally—for a people with a common heritage could hardly have been wider.

  My mind expanded there. I learned a great deal in a relatively short time. For instance, I was introduced to the great works of German expressionism—something that I do not recall having stu
died in my art history courses. I was fascinated by the German romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich. East Berlin served as a major part of my world university. And I was a sponge absorbing it all. I was engaged to sing at the opera house in West Berlin, yet I would spend a great deal of time on the other side of that menacing wall.

  I came to know students and their families, and to find that the wall prevented travel for anyone under the age of sixty-five who wanted to leave the Eastern bloc, beyond what one referred to as the Iron Curtain. I was asked by adults not that much older than myself to describe Paris—to talk of the city lights, the River Seine, and the Eiffel Tower—or even something closer, such as the grand concert hall in West Berlin, the Philharmonie. “What does it all really look like?” they would ask.

  Until then, I considered my education to have been well rounded, while understanding at the same time that one never really stops learning. But this experience of East Berlin and its sister countries across such an awesome political divide was profound. The warning to never take anything for granted was driven into my consciousness in a new way.

  Having been raised in the United States, with the blessing of fresh fruits and vegetables from my grandparents’ farm and the variety of foods available at the neighborhood grocery stores, it was surprising to visit a part of the world where you could go for two years without coming across oranges for sale, or where you would have to be up at 4:00 A.M. in order to have a chance at purchasing a loaf of fresh bread.

  Yet despite such deprivation, or more likely because of it, the arts thrived. The concert halls and opera houses were always full in Eastern Europe. People arrived at arts performances early, long before the scheduled starting times, to take their seats. I experienced a deeper understanding of the power of music, the transformation that can come from gazing upon a great work of art. In Eastern Europe, the arts provided a source of strength and spiritual nourishment that could not be taken away by the building of a concrete wall or the denial of civil rights—of human rights. The human spirit would not succumb even in the midst of such politically inspired cruelty.

  ON MY VERY first visit to Germany for the Bayerischer Rundfunk Internationaler Musikwettbewerb competition, two years before I moved there, I’d found it illuminating to meet so many other young musicians at about the same stage of preparation and study as I. The competition was not limited to singing; many other disciplines were included, such as piano, wind instruments, string ensembles, and solo orchestral instruments. It was such a delight to meet a singer from the Netherlands named Marco, who was already a television star in his native country, with his own Saturday-evening variety show, in addition to the members of the then newly formed Tokyo String Quartet, and the American clarinetist Richard Stoltzman.

  After my disturbing exchanges with the judges in the first two rounds of the competition, I’d found the third round by far the most challenging in every way. All of the finalists performed with orchestra and all of us required rehearsal time. The conductor was charged with preparing a good deal of music within a rather short time period. Hercules Hall was full that evening; the sense of anticipation and excitement was palpable. It was all I could do to maintain concentration. After all the finalists had presented the required two or three compositions, we could do nothing but wait for the adjudicators’ decision. We were taken to a room backstage; the audience waited in the hall. Trying to relax in such a situation is fruitless; I sat with a book, pretending to read.

  For hours the jury deliberated. One of the things that made these hours almost bearable to me was the knowledge that the following day would be my twenty-third birthday. Only my friend Julius knew this—not another contestant, and surely no one waiting in the hall for the announcement of the winners.

  Sometime late in the evening the door to our backstage quarters opened. Hermann Reuter, the designated head of the jury, entered the room with various papers in hand. I sat up in my chair and, as did everyone else in the room, waited for his remarks. He began by thanking us all for being a part of the vocal competition, and wishing us success in our professional lives. We waited. Eventually, Mr. Reuter read the names of the singers who were to receive honorable mention prizes. Then, as is customary, he announced the fourth prize and upward. The first prize for the men’s section of the vocal competition was read: Michael Schoepper took that honor. Mr. Reuter seemed quite emotional in reading this name, as a German singer had won first prize on his native ground. Finally, the first prize for the women’s vocal competition was announced.

  I do not recall my own reaction to hearing my name, but I do remember the kindness of every one of my fellow contestants as they rushed over to congratulate me and give me a hug. Soon we were all on the stage of the hall again, with the patient remaining audience members in their seats, and the announcement of the prizes was offered in precisely the same manner as had been done backstage. The audience erupted when my name was read. I was overwhelmed by the response. It was after midnight. Only then did I say to one of the other contestants that it was my birthday. I was too shy to allow her to make a general announcement, so we kept that bit of news to ourselves.

  I had no way of making phone calls that evening, as my youth hostel had no private telephone and the concierge was by then long asleep, making any plea to use his phone impossible. The next day, however, I had two calls to make: the first, to the United States Information Agency to announce my news and ask, “What now?” Most of the contestants who had been sent to Europe by the USIA had been entered in more than one competition. We had all been advised that should we be recognized in the first contest, awarded an honorable mention or whatever, rather than continuing on to the next competition we should instead take advantage of a Eurail pass and travel to a European city of our choice for our further education and a round of sightseeing, before returning to the States waving whatever level of recognition we had received in the first competition. However, there had been no instruction as to what the protocol was if one happened to win the first competition. My second competition was to take place in Geneva, and all my plans for traveling there were set.

  Having had to wait until a reasonable hour to make the call to USIA that day, given the six-hour time difference, I had had a moment to absorb the events of the previous night. It was with no small amount of cheekiness that I spoke with the appropriate person at USIA, first with the news of my win, which he insisted I repeat, thinking he had perhaps misheard me, and then to ask, “Well, what about Geneva now?” We both relaxed and laughed as it became clear that I would not be continuing on to Switzerland for the next competition. I was overjoyed, over the moon.

  The next phone call was of course to my parents. In my mother’s absence my youngest brother, George, then about nine years old, answered the phone. He was happy to find me on the other end of the line and insisted on having a conversation. I asked where Mother was, and he informed me that she was in the backyard. My entreaties to him to go and get her fell on ears not hearing a word. George had begun piano lessons a few months prior to this time, and he took tremendous joy in his progress. Rather than go find my mother, George insisted that he now play something for me. It happened that in our house the piano and the telephone were in the same room. As I stood in the post office at the train station in Munich, the pile of coins that I’d brought with me for the pay phone became smaller and smaller as I listened to my brother’s piano solo. After his performance, George returned to the phone to tell me that not only was the piece, “The Little Red Hen,” new, but that he had just played it with both hands! I did not wish to seem unenthusiastic, but I am sure a bit of desperation must have begun to creep into my voice. Finally, my mother came to the phone and I was able to tell her my news. She said she could not wait to call my father and everybody else. Then, with a tone in her voice that identified her as a mother, she asked, “But you are still coming home for Thanksgiving, yes?”

  “Of course,” I responded.

  We talked until the coins ran out com
pletely, with her last words ringing in my ears: “Happy birthday, honey.”

  I learned two important lessons then and there: Coming in first in an international competition would be significant from a professional point of view. But only with my family, the supporting characters in my life, my mentors, my teachers, my friends, was it possible to “win” anything.

  In Munich there were several promoters and agents who traveled to the big international competitions, on the lookout for emerging talent. I was lucky to be offered some engagements that were to begin in a matter of months. I would have to take a deep breath and plan the next steps with advice, clarity of mind, and the full knowledge that I was only twenty-three years old. I was, for all intents and purposes, still in my “babyhood” for a singer, with a voice that could not be characterized as “coloratura” or “light lyric soprano,” or one that, over the course of time, would most likely remain in the same repertoire. I understood that my voice was changing, and I was willing to allow that to happen and simply looking forward to the experience. Yet in singing, as in so much in life, people are more comfortable in their interactions with you if they are able to place you in a category that is supposed to reveal to them all that you are able to do, the music that “suits your voice,” the roles that you will sing onstage, and indeed the roles that you will play in life.