A Composer First, a Lady Incidentally

Who knew? The eccentric English gentleman has become so accepted that he is now cliché, but what about those Victorian / Edwardian ladies? People like Gertrude Bell who energetically managed to be a writer, explorer, archeologist, state maker, administrator, and…oh, did I mention spy?

It’s been a rather trying time here—I have been battered for four months with construction in the street; at one point there were two jackhammers, an electric generator, and a tractor busy breaking up cement. And last night, I arrived home from the café which provides me escape as well as coffee to discover that there was no water. What had happened? Well, the construction workers had broken our water main, and had deemed it easier to turn a valve before the break than actually repair the break. So that they had done, leaving me very sweaty on one of the hottest days of the year.

Nor was calling the water company the solution, since I had no idea what our account number was, and of course had thrown the bill away after I had paid it. This prompted the less than helpful observation from Mr. Fernández that he always has the most recent electric bill in his wallet.

With the restraint for which I am famous, I forbore to point out that Mr. Fernández has the last 20 years of electric bills—as well as every receipt for everything he bought in the last two decades. And why is that? Because he throws nothing away. He also, however, can find nothing.

Right—got the account number by accessing “edit payees” on my bank’s electronic site. Then Raf called the water company, and waited for twenty minutes for a voice that was attached to a person, and then spoke for another twenty minutes to a charming lady who managed to locate our account—though incredibly it was under neither of our names, social security numbers, or any current address. That done, the nice lady gave us a work order number, with the assurance that someone would come and repair the break—or at least turn the valve a quarter turn.

Did they?

Well, it was nice to have the number.

And today, the little guy with the two pierced lips was busy at work, having been encouraged by Mr. Fernández. At this point, I have traveled through annoyance, anger, outrage, fury and am now squarely in abject misery. A sort of Stockholm syndrome has taken over—the little guy was my best friend, my savior.

“You won’t,” I said, “ever, ever take away my water again. Please!”

So I trotted off to see my shrink, who assured me that he wouldn’t sniff me too closely. Then I came home and thought to check in on a classical music website that was going to tell me a list of the 10 greatest gay composers. Well, I had a good idea—there’s Copland, Barber, Poulenc, and…duh, Tchaikovsky. But I had forgotten some big ones—most notably Franz Schubert (contested, but likely) and Handel (ditto).

And then there was Ethel Smyth.

Say whah?

Yes, in fifty years of listening to music, I had somehow never come across Ethel Smyth, 1858-1944, who studied composition in Leipzig with Carl Reinecke, where she also met Dvorak, Grieg, and Tchaikovsky. And it was Tchaikovsky who said, "Miss Smyth is one of the few women composers whom one can seriously consider to be achieving something valuable in the field of musical creation."

Well, the lady got around—among other passions was the Suffragette movement, and when Mrs. Pankhurst urged her followers to break the windows of any politician who opposed them, Miss Smyth did, and then paid for it by spending two months in Holloway Prison. The conductor Thomas Beecham went to visit, and found Miss Smyth conducting a group of Suffragettes in a rousing anthem called “The March for Women,” which she had composed, and which had become the anthem for the movement. The Suffragettes were in the courtyard; Miss Smyth was conducting—with a toothbrush—from out a second floor window.

And she was vigorous in other ways—golfing, mountaineering, and fox hunting. Here’s how she described herself:

Because I have conducted my own operas and love sheep-dogs; because I generally dress in tweeds, and sometimes, at winter afternoon concerts, have even conducted in them; because I have written books, spoken speeches, broadcast, and don't always make sure that my hat is on straight; for these and other equally pertinent reasons, in a certain sense I am well known.

Throughout her life, she had passionate affairs with women, but apparently only one male lover. At the age of 71, she fell in love with Virginia Wolf, who described it as “being like caught by a giant crab.” Nonetheless, they became good friends.

Right—and the music? Wow! Check out the cello sonata below—it’s original and fresh. Is it top drawer? Perhaps not, but it’s well above floor level….