A Trip to the Opera

This past weekend I took Four to the Opera. It was a production of The Magic Flute that was specially tailored for a young audience and sung, of course, in English.

We had dressed up for the occasion – Four looked absolutely charming, as always, in a new, berry coloured dress and matching knee socks, hair in a swinging ponytail with an assortment of random clips in her hair that oddly worked – the effortless style of the carelessly beautiful at work, I suppose. I looked slightly less charming in a peculiar mix of what still fits and what is vaguely clean topped by a new, soft grey cardigan that I have grown fiercely attached to (a bit like Four and her teddy). Husband loyally said we both looked lovely and One wiped his nose on my trouser leg in agreement, leaving his signature tide-line and mark of ownership upon my person. 

We set off in great anticipation and excitement with me explaining along the way that it would not be exactly like a play or a movie, it had real people in it and they were going to sing the story to us. Four immediately became very competitive and started singing loudly from the back of the car with no particular attention to melody or tuning. She did create her own libretto, though: “Oh we’re going to the opera and we left Baby behind because he is the destroyer and he just eats everything and he likes to poop, yes he is a stinkerbutt and he poopypoopypooperstinkeroony”  etc. You get the drift. It was a long 10 minute ride.

Once we arrived, there was a bit of a scuffle to find seats – it was a free-for-all general seating plan and parents and grandparents were aggressively guarding entire empty rows and snarled like wild dogs if you enquired if a seat was available or not. This was a bit of a shock to me – I’m unaccustomed to general seating, unless it’s at a movie where people are generally more relaxed, or at least can smile when saying no, especially where children are involved, but the opera seemed to draw a crowd from the wrong side of town. The affluent, educated, entitlement gang had their numbchucks and knuckledusters out, and were prepared to draw blood if you threatened the culture-soaking viewpoint of their offspring or dissed them by making a mild enquiry.

Eventually we found seats on the balcony with Four on the aisle so she had a reasonable view.  I entertained her with stories from my childhood about sitting on the balcony of the movie theatre where bad boys threw popcorn on to the people below (it seemed imprudent to mention that I did too) and we named all the different instruments in the truncated orchestra below. We had a program with a synopsis of the story,which I read to her. It was very confusing, even to me (thanks, Mozart!) with many characters and subplots and changes of  loyalty.  Four was perplexed and kept asking questions that I was unable to answer when fortunately the performance began.

Now I wasn’t sure that she was going to last the duration. It’s such a wiggly age and let’s face it, even I find it hard to sit through the opera, enriching and worthy though it is.  So I was prepared to leave when she’d had enough or started disturbing others.

But she sat, literally on the edge of her seat, face rapt, eyes glowing and mouth open for over an hour, pausing only to ask me questions about parts of the plot that she didn’t quite understand or to look at me with delight, share a funny moment or to clap together, sometimes holding my hand in a scary part. 

I tried to watch the Magic Flute, but mainly I spent the time looking at my little daughter, filled with love and wonder, and also an odd kind of ache.  As I looked at her, so tiny, seeing things with such new eyes, I couldn’t help blinking back tears and remembering when I was the little girl sitting on the edge of my seat, and my mother or grandmother had taken me to see a performance in my best dress. It’s only now that I see that it wasn’t just a huge treat for me, it was also a huge treat for them, and that there is something indescribably important and meaningful about passing down these experiences through the generations.

At the end everybody clapped and whistled and Four turned to me and caught me surreptitiously wiping my cheeks. She hugged me sympathetically and gave me an affectionate kiss and said “Don’t worry, Mummy, it always has a happy ending”.

But I hope this is not an ending. I hope that this is a story that keeps on being told. For me and Four, for Four and her children, and for those children and their children and for you and your children.

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