A weekend of unexpected gifts. Visiting Toulouse, I walked into the city's breathtaking Basilique Saint-Sernin to be greeted by gusts of 'Ave Maria' sung by a rehearsing choir. I'm not sure which composer's arrangement- not Schubert's, for sure- but the high soprano solo was stunning. I sat awhile listening, and was about to leave, when the organist embarked on a gloriously familiar ostinato. If you've wondered for years how your favourite carol would sound live, and have suddenly have it burst upon you in such a gorgeous location, you can probably be excused a little moisture in the eye. The original French of 'O Holy Night,' that perfect blend of coziness, dignity and magnificence, warmed the church right up to the soaring vaulted ceiling.
Returning home, as the plane began its descent, I reflected on the moment and thought of a line of Jaccottet I had posted recently in a tribute to Schubert: 'there is revealed that which no one hoped for any longer' ('là se révèle ce que nul n'espérait plus') He wrote of the gift of unexpected snowfall (imagery I had long associated with Schubert's last sonata, to the point that "listening to the D960 on a snowy day" had been on my bucket list for a while).
A la plus petite heure du matin je sors,
la neige emplit l'espace jusqu'aux plus fins bords,
l'herbe s'incline devant ce muet salut,
là se révèle ce que nul n'espérait plus.
At the earliest hour of the morning I go out,
the snow fills the space right up to the finest rims,
the grass bows before this mute salute,
there is revealed that which no one hoped for any longer.
(from L'inattendu ('the unexpected') by Philippe Jaccottet (My translation))
A few minutes later, the cabin crew slid open the doors of the aircraft. Curtains of white billowed around us as we descended the stairs.
Opmerkingen