Caliban awakes

I don't know if any other male of a certain age sometimes feels as if they were Caliban. I used to be a stage hand for a very good amateur ballet company, which included a ballet, The Infanta's Birthday, based on Oscar Wilde's tale and set to Ravel's Rapsodie espagnole. I first saw that ballet as a member of the audience when I was about nine: the costumes were after Velázquez's famous picture of a young Infanta "Las Meninas":

I was a little too young, or a little too naïve, to realize that the Infanta was meant to be a pretty but horrid, spoiled and heartless child. I just was deeply moved by the hunchback who fell in love with her, wished to dance for her, only to discover for the first time his own hideousness when he waits for her and sees himself in a mirror. He dashes himself to death. When the Infanta and her courtiers discover his body, she stamps in frustration that he is no longer alive. On being told he has died of a broken heart, she insists that no one may come to entertain her who has a heart.

Years later I became a stage hand for that company. It was hard work, and I had little time to dream. Yet there was one dancer who spent time talking with me when the company was on tour. I was flattered by her attention, but I imagined it was just friendliness on her part. Meanwhile the music had insinuated itself in me in ways I did not fully appreciate.

Hearing Rapsodie espagnole again today for the first time in ages stirred memories - Calibanesque memories: the kind where he longs for a hedonistic existence of being stroked, of hearing music, and of the promise of bliss with young maidens. I guess there was something of Caliban in me in my teens - and his spirit revives when I hear that music. Yes, I know it sounds creepy to say so - but I suspect there must be others who feel this way from time to time.