"First violin?"
"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe?"
"Will you begin upbow or downbow?"
It was the concertmaster, and he pushed his hair back from the side of his face with a nervous gesture. "Downbow."
"Very good. The violin section will please annotate their scores. Cello?"
The first cello was a tall, blue-eyed German exchange student with flaxen-yellow hair. He straightened in his chair, coming to a rigid, straight backed position. "Jawohl, Fraulein Doktor?"
"Abstrich oder herunterstrich?" The German rippled with the ease of long practice. It had been the subject of a heated argument between the exchange student and several of the American students. The exchange student had adamantly insisted she was German-born because of her classical Viennese accent and had refused the evidence pointed out in the Biographical Dictionary of Musicians that she'd been born in Cincinnati. A student had asked her about it in class and had been ignored.
"Herunterstrich, Fraulein Doktor."
"Sehr gut. Cello will begin downbow – please annotate your score. Viol?"
"Yes, Doctor Wycliffe."
"Will you begin upbow or downbow?"
He was a tall, gangling man in his early twenties, and he was leaning on his instrument and nonchalantly chewing gum. He shifted his gum reflectively to the other side of his mouth and almost but not quite shrugged. "Downbow."
She looked down at the music in front of her, her face expressionless, and the silence slowly stretched out into long, taut seconds. The bass viol player moved his feet uncomfortably and stood more erect and he stopped chewing his gum. A couple of the other students glanced up at him furtively in sympathy then looked back at the conductress.
"Begin downbow and play the first two bars, please," she said quietly.
He straightened and shifted his shoulders, then the looked down at the music and began playing the notes. The moaning, rumbling sounds of the viol echoed through the auditorium as he sawed the bow back and forth and moved his fingers up and down the strings. Then his face tightened as he pulled the bow more slowly, trying to drag out a last note without reversing the direction of the bow, then he switched direction and there was a slight shift in timbre.
The baton rapped against the podium and the sound of the viol stopped. "Those notes are accoppia to, are they not, Mr. Butler?"
"Yes, but…"
"But what, Mr. Butler? Did you play the notes accoppiato, or did you introduce a break and play the second note accrescendo?"
"Well, I…" He shrugged and shuffled his feet as he fell silent.
"Do you propose to improve Beethoven, Mr. Butler or is it simply that you didn't study the score?" The volume of her voice was still low, but it was becoming more acid and penetrating, and the slightest hint of a German accent was beginning to creep into it.
"Yes, well, I studied it," he said defensively. "I studied it, all right."
Her expression was still neutral, but her lips were somewhat thinner as she looked at him. The silence in the auditorium and on the stage was taut and breathless, and the sound of a car on the street outside came clearly through the window. She looked up at him for a moment longer, then looked back down at the music in front of her. "Begin upbow, Mr. Butler," she said the tone of her voice less incisive. "And when you study your scores in the future, you might find it a not inconsiderable assistance to have your instrument available to examine the bowing technique in conjunction with your studying. I cannot overemphasize bowing technique – as you have just demonstrated, it is crucially important in string instruments. As important as tuning."
The tension faded as she turned a page of the music in front of her, looking at it. The bass viol player started to chew his gum again, then he discovered that it wasn't in his mouth; he had swallowed it. He started to reach into his pocket for more, then he changed his mind and tapped his bow nervously against his leg, glancing around. The drummer's eyes met his, and they exchanged a wry grimace before looking back at the conductress…
She continued talking to the players of various instruments for a few minutes, then she rapped the podium with the baton and raised her hands. There was a quick rustle then absolute silence as they looked at her, waiting. Her hands swept down, and the auditorium was filled with the thunder of the first notes of the opening. She snapped the baton in a quick, whipping motion to set the driving cadence of the music and shot her left hand toward the kettle drums and lifted it, bringing in the deep, roaring rumble of the drums, then she suddenly dropped her hand,; and rapped the baton sharply against the side of the podium, frowning at the oboist.
Silence immediately fell again, and the oboist looked at her and cleared his throat nervously.
"Mr. Harcourt, your performance during class last week was not exceptional, but at least your oboe sounded like an oboe. Now it does not, Mr. Harcourt. In fact, with the possible exception of the primitive whistles made by some aboriginal tribes for uses in their ceremonies, it does not sound like a musical instrument, Mr. Harcourt. May I ask what you have done to your oboe to produce the sounds which are coming from it?"
There were muffled sounds of mirth and a quiet stirring in the orchestra, then absolute silence again. The oboist cleared his throat. "Well, maybe it's the reed…" he suggested weakly, then his voice died away and he cleared his throat again.
She looked at him in silence, then sighed and looked down at the music in front of her. "Mr. Harcourt, what is there about the reed you are using which would distinguish it from the reed you were using last week?"
"Well, I tapered it myself…"
A thin smile lifted the corners of her lips slightly… "I see. Your interest and enthusiasm is duly noted." She raised her head and looked around the orchestra. "Some of you might not be aware of the fact that most oboists in symphony orchestras cut and taper their own reeds to fit the individual requirements of their embouchure. However," she glanced at Harcourt and her slight smile returned, "they normally check the reeds to see how they sound before they try to use them." There was a murmur of quiet laughter from the orchestra, and Harcourt squirmed. "Do you have a factory reed in your instrument case, Mr. Harcourt?"
"Yes, well… yes…"
"Please replace the reed in your instrument, Mr. Harcourt, and you might check to see if Professor Leibel will have an opportunity to work with you on cutting and tapering your own reeds – he is a brilliant oboist, and I'm sure he does his own." The oboist began digging in the instrument case by his chair, and she looked up at the drums. "Please watch my left hand, Mr. Campbell, and bring in the roll as I raise my hand. But that is only for the volume, not the tempo. You must be very careful about the tempo as you increase the volume watch the baton and the notes on your score."
There was a rattle as the oboist put the mouthpiece back on his instrument, and she almost smiled again as she glanced at him, waiting for him to get ready. He adjusted it and dampened it, nodding to her, and she raised her hands and poised the baton again. "Very well. Tutti." She swept the baton down, and the swelling throb of the entrance to the first movement filled the auditorium once more.
She drilled them on the first movement of the symphony for the entire class period, going over and over it and occasionally stopping to correct wrong notes and technique. By the time the end of the period approached the music was beginning to flow and she was working in the pitch and balance of the various instrument sections, refining it. Finally she glanced at the clock over the exit and rapped the baton against the podium.