Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  doggerel

  dogmatic

  am I being over-impressed by the circumstances

  suddenness

  pain

  but it’s a gift. thank you

  love me love my

  styrofoam?

  Well, I got up and brushed off my chin, then. The silent dog was still standing there. I went up to him carefully. He did not move. I had to wonder about what it meant, the Falling Dog, but I didn’t have to wonder about it now, I could wonder later. I wrapped my arms around his belly and together we rushed to the studio.

  At the Tolstoy Museum

  AT THE Tolstoy Museum we sat and wept. Paper streamers came out of our eyes. Our gaze drifted toward the pictures. They were placed too high on the wall. We suggested to the director that they be lowered six inches at least. He looked unhappy but said he would see to it. The holdings of the Tolstoy Museum consist principally of some thirty thousand pictures of Count Leo Tolstoy.

  After they had lowered the pictures we went back to the Tolstoy Museum. I don’t think you can peer into one man’s face too long—for too long a period. A great many human passions could be discerned, behind the skin.

  Tolstoy means “fat” in Russian. His grandfather sent his linen to Holland to be washed. His mother did not know any bad words. As a youth he shaved off his eyebrows, hoping they would grow back bushier. He first contracted gonorrhea in 1847. He was once bitten on the face by a bear. He became a vegetarian in 1885. To make himself interesting, he occasionally bowed backward.

  Tolstoy’s coat

  Tolstoy as a youth

  I was eating a sandwich at the Tolstoy Museum. The Tolstoy Museum is made of stone—many stones, cunningly wrought. Viewed from the street, it has the aspect of three stacked boxes: the first, second, and third levels. These are of increasing size. The first level is, say, the size of a shoebox, the second level the size of a case of whiskey, and the third level the size of a box that contained a new overcoat. The amazing cantilever of the third level has been much talked about. The glass floor there allows one to look straight down and provides a “floating” feeling. The entire building, viewed from the street, suggests that it is about to fall on you. This the architects relate to Tolstoy’s moral authority.

  In the basement of the Tolstoy Museum carpenters uncrated new pictures of Count Leo Tolstoy. The huge crates stencilled FRAGILE in red ink . . .

  The guards at the Tolstoy Museum carry buckets in which there are stacks of clean white pocket handkerchiefs. More than any other Museum, the Tolstoy Museum induces weeping. Even the bare title of a Tolstoy work, with its burden of love, can induce weeping—for example, the article titled “Who Should Teach Whom to Write, We the Peasant Children or the Peasant Children Us?” Many people stand before this article, weeping. Too, those who are caught by Tolstoy’s eyes, in the various portraits, room after room after room, are not unaffected by the experience. It is like, people say, committing a small crime and being discovered at it by your father, who stands in four doorways, looking at you.

  At Starogladkovskaya, about 1852

  Tiger hunt, Siberia

  I was reading a story of Tolstoy’s at the Tolstoy Museum. In this story a bishop is sailing on a ship. One of his fellow-passengers tells the bishop about an island on which three hermits live. The hermits are said to be extremely devout. The bishop is seized with a desire to see and talk with the hermits. He persuades the captain of the ship to anchor near the island. He goes ashore in a small boat. He speaks to the hermits. The hermits tell the bishop how they worship God. They have a prayer that goes: “Three of You, three of us, have mercy on us.” The bishop feels that this is a prayer prayed in the wrong way. He undertakes to teach the hermits the Lord’s Prayer. The hermits learn the Lord’s Prayer but with the greatest difficulty. Night has fallen by the time they have got it correctly.

  The bishop returns to his ship, happy that he has been able to assist the hermits in their worship. The ship sails on. The bishop sits alone on deck, thinking about the experiences of the day. He sees a light in the sky, behind the ship. The light is cast by the three hermits floating over the water, hand in hand, without moving their feet. They catch up with the ship, saying: “We have forgotten, servant of God, we have forgotten your teaching!” They ask him to teach them again. The bishop crosses himself. Then he tells the hermits that their prayer, too, reaches God. “It is not for me to teach you. Pray for us sinners!” The bishop bows to the deck. The hermits fly back over the sea, hand in hand, to their island.

  The story is written in a very simple style. It is said to originate in a folk tale. There is a version of it in St. Augustine. I was incredibly depressed by reading this story. Its beauty. Distance.

  The Anna-Vronsky Pavillion

  At the Tolstoy Museum, sadness grasped the 741 Sunday visitors. The Museum was offering a series of lectures on the text “Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves?” The visitors were made sad by these eloquent speakers, who were probably right.

  People stared at tiny pictures of Turgenev, Nekrasov, and Fet. These and other small pictures hung alongside extremely large pictures of Count Leo Tolstoy.

  In the plaza, a sinister musician played a wood trumpet while two children watched.

  We considered the 640,086 pages (Jubilee Edition) of the author’s published work. Some people wanted him to go away, but other people were glad we had him. “He has been a lifelong source of inspiration to me,” one said.

  I haven’t made up my mind. Standing here in the “Summer in the Country” Room, several hazes passed over my eyes. Still, I think I will march on to “A Landlord’s Morning.” Perhaps something vivifying will happen to me there.

  At the disaster (arrow indicates Tolstoy)

  Museum plaza with monumental head (Closed Mondays)

  The Policemen’s Ball

  HORACE, A policeman, was making Rock Cornish Game Hens for a special supper. The Game Hens are frozen solid, Horace thought. He was wearing his blue uniform pants.

  Inside the Game Hens were the giblets in a plastic bag. Using his needlenose pliers Horace extracted the frozen giblets from the interior of the birds. Tonight is the night of the Policemen’s Ball, Horace thought. We will dance the night away. But first, these Game Hens must go into a three-hundred-and-fifty-degree oven.

  Horace shined his black dress shoes. Would Margot “put out” tonight? On this night of nights? Well, if she didn’t—Horace regarded the necks of the birds which had been torn asunder by the pliers. No, he reflected, that is not a proper thought. Because I am a member of the force. I must try to keep my hatred under control. I must try to be an example for the rest of the people. Because if they can’t trust us . . . the blue men . . .

  In the dark, outside the Policemen’s Ball, the horrors waited for Horace and Margot.

  Margot was alone. Her roommates were in Provincetown for the weekend. She put pearl-colored lacquer on her nails to match the pearl of her new-bought gown. Police colonels and generals will be there, she thought. The Pendragon of Police himself. Whirling past the dais, I will glance upward. The pearl of my eyes meeting the steel gray of high rank.

  Margot got into a cab and went over to Horace’s place. The cabdriver was thinking: A nice-looking piece. I could love her.

  Horace removed the birds from the oven. He slipped little gold frills, which had been included in the package, over the ends of the drumsticks. Then he uncorked the wine, thinking: This is a town without pity, this town. For those whose voices lack the crack of authority. Luckily the uniform . . . Why won’t she surrender her person? Does she think she can resist the force? The force of the force?

  “These birds are delicious.”

  Driving Horace and Margot smoothly to the Armory, the new cabdriver thought about basketball.

  Why do they always applaud the man who makes the shot?

  Why don’t they a
pplaud the ball?

  It is the ball that actually goes into the net.

  The man doesn’t go into the net.

  Never have I seen a man going into the net.

  Twenty thousand policemen of all grades attended the annual fete. The scene was Camelot, with gay colors and burgees. The interior of the Armory had been roofed with lavish tenting. Police colonels and generals looked down on the dark uniforms, white gloves, silvery ball gowns.

  “Tonight?”

  “Horace, not now. This scene is so brilliant. I want to remember it.”

  Horace thought: It? Not me?

  The Pendragon spoke. “I ask you to be reasonable with the citizens. They pay our salaries after all. I know that they are difficult sometimes, obtuse sometimes, even criminal sometimes, as we often run across in our line of work. But I ask you despite all to be reasonable. I know it is hard. I know it is not easy. I know that for instance when you see a big car, a ’70 Biscayne hardtop, cutting around a corner at a pretty fair clip, with three in the front and three in the back, and they are all mixed up, ages and sexes and colors, your natural impulse is to— I know your first thought is, All those people! Together! And your second thought is, Force! But I must ask you in the name of force itself to be restrained. For force, that great principle, is most honored in the breach and the observance. And that is where you men are, in the breach. You are fine men, the finest. You are Americans. So for the sake of America, be careful. Be reasonable. Be slow. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. And now I would like to introduce Vercingetorix, leader of the firemen, who brings us a few words of congratulation from that fine body of men.”

  Waves of applause for the Pendragon filled the tented area.

  “He is a handsome older man,” Margot said.

  “He was born in a Western state and advanced to his present position through raw merit,” Horace told her.

  The government of Czechoslovakia sent observers to the Policemen’s Ball. “Our police are not enough happy,” Colonel-General Čepicky explained. “We seek ways to improve them. This is a way. It may not be the best way of all possible ways, but . . . Also I like to drink the official whiskey! It makes me gay!”

  A bartender thought: Who is that yellow-haired girl in the pearl costume? She is stacked.

  The mood of the Ball changed. The dancing was more serious now. Margot’s eyes sparkled from the jorums of champagne she had drunk. She felt Horace’s delicately Game Hen-flavored breath on her cheek. I will give him what he wants, she decided. Tonight. His heroism deserves it. He stands between us and them. He represents what is best in the society: decency, order, safety, strength, sirens, smoke. No, he does not represent smoke. Firemen represent smoke. Great billowing oily black clouds. That Vercingetorix has a noble look. With whom is Vercingetorix dancing, at present?

  The horrors waited outside patiently. Even policemen, the horrors thought. We get even policemen, in the end.

  In Horace’s apartment, a gold frill was placed on a pearl toe.

  The horrors had moved outside Horace’s apartment. Not even policemen and their ladies are safe, the horrors thought. No one is safe. Safety does not exist. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

  The Glass Mountain

  I was trying to climb the glass mountain.

  The glass mountain stands at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Eighth Avenue.

  I had attained the lower slope.

  People were looking up at me.

  I was new in the neighborhood.

  Nevertheless I had acquaintances.

  had strapped climbing irons to my feet and each hand grasped a sturdy plumber’s friend.

  I was 200 feet up.

  The wind was bitter.

  My acquaintances had gathered at the bottom of the mountain to offer encouragement.

  “Shithead.”

  “Asshole.”

  Everyone in the city knows about the glass mountain.

  People who live here tell stories about it.

  It is pointed out to visitors.

  Touching the side of the mountain, one feels coolness.

  Peering into the mountain, one sees sparkling blue-white depths.

  The mountain towers over that part of Eighth Avenue like some splendid, immense office building.

  The top of the mountain vanishes into the clouds, or on cloudless days, into the sun.

  I unstuck the righthand plumber’s friend leaving the lefthand one in place.

  Then I stretched out and reattached the righthand one a little higher up, after which I inched my legs into new positions.

  The gain was minimal, not an arm’s length.

  My acquaintances continued to comment.

  “Dumb motherfucker.”

  I was new in the neighborhood.

  In the streets were many people with disturbed eyes.

  Look for yourself.

  In the streets were hundreds of young people shooting up in doorways, behind parked cars.

  Older people walked dogs.

  The sidewalks were full of dogshit in brilliant colors: ocher, umber, Mars yellow, sienna, viridian, ivory black, rose madder.

  And someone had been apprehended cutting down trees, a row of elms broken-backed among the VWs and Valiants.

  Done with a power saw, beyond a doubt.

  I was new in the neighborhood yet I had accumulated acquaintances.

  My acquaintances passed a brown bottle from hand to hand.

  “Better than a kick in the crotch.”

  “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”

  “Better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.”

  “Better than a thump on the back with a stone.”

  “Won’t he make a splash when he falls, now?”

  “I hope to be here to see it. Dip my handkerchief in the blood.”

  “Fart-faced fool.”

  I unstuck the lefthand plumber’s friend leaving the righthand one in place.

  And reached out.

  To climb the glass mountain, one first requires a good reason.

  No one has ever climbed the mountain on behalf of science, or in search of celebrity, or because the mountain was a challenge.

  Those are not good reasons.

  But good reasons exist.

  At the top of the mountain there is a castle of pure gold, and in a room in the castle tower sits . . .

  My acquaintances were shouting at me.

  “Ten bucks you bust your ass in the next four minutes!”

  . . . a beautiful enchanted symbol.

  I unstuck the righthand plumber’s friend leaving the lefthand one in place.

  And reached out.

  It was cold there at 206 feet and when I looked down I was not encouraged.

  A heap of corpses both of horses and riders ringed the bottom of the mountain, many dying men groaning there.

  “A weakening of the libidinous interest in reality has recently come to a close.” (Anton Ehrenzweig)

  A few questions thronged into my mind.

  Does one climb a glass mountain, at considerable personal discomfort, simply to disenchant a symbol?

  Do today’s stronger egos still need symbols?

  I decided that the answer to these questions was “yes.”

  Otherwise what was I doing there, 206 feet above the power-sawed elms, whose white meat I could see from my height?

  The best way to fail to climb the mountain is to be a knight in full armor—one whose horse’s hoofs strike fiery sparks from the sides of the mountain.

  The following-named knights had failed to climb the mountain and were groaning in the heap: Sir Giles Guilford, Sir Henry Lovell, Sir Albert Denny, Sir Nicholas
Vaux, Sir Patrick Grifford, Sir Gisbourne Gower, Sir Thomas Grey, Sir Peter Coleville, Sir John Blunt, Sir Richard Vernon, Sir Walter Willoughby, Sir Stephen Spear, Sir Roger Faulconbridge, Sir Clarence Vaughan, Sir Hubert Ratcliffe, Sir James Tyrrel, Sir Walter Herbert, Sir Robert Brakenbury, Sir Lionel Beaufort, and many others.

  My acquaintances moved among the fallen knights.

  My acquaintances moved among the fallen knights, collecting rings, wallets, pocket watches, ladies’ favors.

  “Calm reigns in the country, thanks to the confident wisdom of everyone.” (M. Pompidou)

  The golden castle is guarded by a lean-headed eagle with blazing rubies for eyes.

  I unstuck the lefthand plumber’s friend, wondering if—

  My acquaintances were prising out the gold teeth of not-yet-dead knights.