Maundy Thursday

Every year from childhood on I have attended a concert/performance of the St. Matthew Passion by J.S. Bach. As a child we would go to the try-out the evening before the concert. It cost us next to nothing, and although sometimes part of an aria, which to us children seemed very long already, was not to the conductor's liking and had to be repeated, at least we heard the whole Passion life. It was amazing to us to see the boys who seemed to have dropped down straight out of heaven with their angelic voices, shouting and running around outside during the interval or before the concert, using language which was strictly forbidden at home and in school.

Since a number of years friends buy me a ticket to go with them to the Passion in the Pieterskerk in Leiden, a fabulous gothic church. It is one of the best known performances, sung by professionals and accompanied by a selection of musicians from the Concertgebouw Orchestra in Amsterdam. The tickets are expensive, so I am very grateful for this gift. This year they could not attend, but they bought me a ticket anyway. It is always freezing cold when the St.Matthew Passion is performed in the Pieterskerk, people dressing up in boots to prevent their feet from turning into blocks of ice, wrapping comforters around their necks because of the draught. This time, for the first time in my life, it is a warm summer's day and the church is very hot. Women are sitting in sleeveless summer dresses and men ask permission to take off their jackets. It is a relief to be able to go outside during the interval to get some fresh air.

The Passion is always very moving. I just do not understand why the tempo has increased so much during the past decade or so, so much so that the soloists hardly get a chance to use the full potential and warmth of their voices. It is as if they want to go home as quickly as possible and get it done and over with, which is such a pity. Nobody longs back for the slow pace of 30 or 40 odd years ago, but this is extreme. One of the cellists complained about it. He could hardly keep up with the singers.

I sit next to a man who knows a lot about the orchestra and likes to gossip. He points out a beautiful elderly violinist, a woman with a shock of grey hair, pinned high up in a loose bun. She looks very elegant."One of Haitink's mistresses", he whispers.  "And I can tell you more", which he doesn't.

I have brought my score as I like to follow the music closely. As soon as the interval begins he says: "Any mistakes?" He makes me laugh.

For the first time in my life I cycle into Leiden without a coat, and I do not even need it when I cycle back at 23.15. It is a balmy night, a summer night, and quiet in the streets. The music goes on, all the way towards home, the haunting aria's which I know by heart and could sing if I only had that voice. They never bore me, always move me, more than any sermon about the passion of Christ could ever do.

Here one of the aria's sung by a formerly well-known Dutch alto.