Middle C

by Gass, William H

Kleber—Kleber—never liked the fellow, though he was said to play well. So you were to—well, you should have accompanied her. Why didn’t we do that?

  The piano wouldn’t have accompanied us.

  Ah yes, of course. Did we ever get the damn thing to play?

  Clarence?

  ?

  Mort?

  ?

  What, Mr. Skizzen, is your principal area of interest, Professor Rinse asked after enduring his own silence. You realize that we are a small department and must cover the musical globe.

  Well, sir, I have many interests, modern music most of all, I suppose. While studying in Vienna I became fascinated with the work of Arnold Schoenberg, especially the pieces he composed during his transition from tonal to atonal music. I am about to publish a piece on Style and Idea.

  Professor Carfagno cleared his throat. Everyone paused to listen. This throat is going to kill me, he said, between moments during which his face turned an unaccustomed color.

  Clare, you should have that looked at. You can’t help the chorus with a throat like … Lozenges. At least lozenges.

  Frederick Delius, Joseph was in a hurry to say. I like his music, too.

  Oh yes, delicious.

  Perfectly charming.

  Though his C-minor piano concerto isn’t much, Joseph dared to add. I’ve heard some say so.

  I didn’t want you to think I was stuck in the present.

  Oh, no. All the great music, Professor Carfagno said, has already been composed.

  So then when did you leave Austria for America? Morton Rinse leaned forward as if this question had particular importance.

  My mother and I—oh, and my older sister, I have a sister, not musical—we fled to London on account of the Nazis.

  Ah, yes … the Nazis. The three interrogators nodded sympathetically.

  Terrible!

  Awful!

  Monstrous!

  Oh, yes, hideous creatures in red armbands and black uniforms.

  And your father, poor man, playing second fiddle … well, not precisely that but—

  He couldn’t leave his seat in the symphony. He sent us away to safety. Not sitting in a first seat broke his heart. I cannot imagine what losing his second seat would have done.

  I see. Devastating.

  Yes indeed. Calamitous. It would be—

  I quite understand the struggle in his soul. And then?

  I studied some with the great Raymond Scofield. But only a little. Because of the bombs—V-shaped rockets, you know.

  Terrible!

  Awful!

  What a time!

  I thought the rockets were round. Pencil-shaped and pencil-pointed. No? Thermos bottles hurtling through the sky.

  They had V-shaped fins and they growled.

  Ah …

  Then after a bit we were able to get passage to America.

  Oh yes, the government had quite a plan for rescuing you people, and relocating them. So, here in Ohio?

  Yes, sir, they relocated us all right, but not because we’re that sort, because we’re not. We were under the influence—no, inexact—there was a welfare organization—well, my father was influenced by Luther, and he opposed the Anschluss—I mean my father opposed it. My mother comes from a good Catholic family, but later she sort of veered toward Presbyterianism—

  Ah … Howard Palfrey’s eye lit with approval bordering on hallelujah. A happy veer!

  It looks like it. Anyway, we never saw or heard from my father again. After our perilous journey to England. Hiding in cellars from every sound. Living on rinds.

  How distressing!

  So sad! What a diet!

  For your father, such a loss! no doubt his seat in the string section, too.

  I like to think, when I hear recordings now, that I hear his instrument in among the rest.

  A charming idea. Though you couldn’t actually do that, could you? I suppose not. Nothing will bring them back—our lost ones—because why should they wish to leave Elysium and return to our sordid world with its secular vices and cheap popular enthusiasms?

  I think you should understand, Clarence Carfagno dared to say, that European—that is to say, Germanic—methods of instruction do not suit American students very well.

  Yes, Clare, you are so correct. Too harsh a hand when one longs for the loving touch, the understanding ear, the—were you struck?

  Wha—

  In your Viennese institution, were you flogged—those dire old days are gone—were your hands hit or were you berated for idleness in front of the class?

  Oh dear, no, oh no, never was any such force employed, though my teachers were stern and strict and expected the fullest effort in all we did. The great Gerhardt Rolfe could freeze you with a look, and sometimes described your playing with considerable scorn, but he never stooped to violence.

  His reputation has carried across the seas.

  Oh yes, his name is a magnet of respect.

  His teachings are indispensable to our profession. How many books did he write, all told?

  I hadn’t been aware he’d written any. He said, you remember, the beauty of music is offended by words.

  Oh yes, words don’t quite come up to it.

  My favorite of his extraordinary maxims is: The notes of the piano ask nothing for their hire and pay nothing for their keep.

  I quite understand.

  One would rather love that.

  I could use such thoughts in my next address, which is, by the way, to the State Board of Education.

  That Rolfe was quite a guy.

  I’d love to see his CV.

  33

  After four years and two publications, the college offered Skizzen a house. That meant a home for Miriam, with a side yard that went on till it reached the outskirts of Forever or otherwise met an inviting fork in the road, one tine of which led straight to the college, whose peaks and spires could be seen from the main porch, while another went slowly west along the brow of the college hill. A professor of bacteria (the students had so named him) had retired and left town, so the big gothic shambles stood (if “stand” was the right word for what it seemed to be doing) empty except for some meager furnishings dating from before Christ or during the residence of Frederick Maine, its first owner. When students referred to a large building on the campus as “Old Main” they thought it was called that on account of its size and age and former function, but it was really named for one of the college’s earliest donors, a wealthy farmer who lived in a wraparound—which is how locals referred to any house with a nearly circumnavigating porch.

  Miriam moved them out of her ivy-covered cottage (or die Bretterbude, as she commonly called it) with remarkable alacrity, delighted that their belongings, which were beginning to elbow them out of two of its five stunted rooms, disappeared into their huge new dwelling without a sign of crowding. The house had a cavernous basement with rough dark damp stone walls and an attic that ran for a long way on empty, as dry as its counterpoint was wet, both attic and basement as bleak as uninhabited country, both inviting adventure and boasting an atmosphere of mystery. Miriam greeted her cellar with a cry of joy. I can winter over! I can winter over! And Joey believed that it was the new house with its dark battery-lit cave, its porches and wide side yard, that transformed her from an idiosyncratic and bungling amateur into a master gardener. This time, she promised, she was going to do it right. No more of that gottverlassen alyssum! No more military marches, rather beds that gracefully swelled as if they were buds themselves, a garden with the contours of the soft-lobed white-oak leaf.

  Although the house leaked like a colander, with some windows that refused every request made of them, and was disfigured by two woodshed walls warped by weather, it also had floors whose boards were warmly gleaming though unwaxed, paneling finished in fine-grained maple, a bay that puffed out like a blister, and still other windows that pictured long-necked moon-eyed ladies who had apparently grown up entwined in elaborate vines that paid the maidens no mind
they were so vigorously climbing toward a delicately tinted heaven. Lighting was hit-and-miss. Ah … but the closets were many and vast, the grand staircase spilled from the floor above like a shawl on sale in a shop, rippling between a sturdy border of rails. As for the two porches, one was the wraparound, while the second—elevated—acted like a bridge between two dormers. As cute as it once must have seemed, the span’s paint was peeling and looked scroll-cut now—a porch for a paper doll. Miriam deemed it unsafe for sitting and forbade Joey even to play I spy from the advantage of such height.

  Most of the older faculty avoided any commitment to these funeral homes, as they were discreetly maligned, so they did not envy young Skizzen’s capture; but a few felt overlooked and more deserving, since he had taught at the school for only four years and had no sizable family to house or feed. Such sourness as flavored their attitudes did not last. For most, the feeling was: Here it is and welcome to it. The house’s noisy steam radiators were so inefficient that some rooms had to be closed up for the winter. Coal costs were substantial. On a walk around Joseph noticed many torn screens where the copper had corroded. Two outside spigots that Miriam would run her hoses from had drips that would form icicles in winter, but in the summer their leaks encouraged the weeds beneath them to be especially prolific and as coarsely green as an immigrant. The few fireplaces had a tendency to smoke and were, Joey thought, inadequately fendered. An old pump still pled its case in the kitchen sink. The hinges of the cellar door needed replacing, and neither Joey nor his mother were handy. Miriam marched about the house counting its deficiencies. The porcelain in the bathroom had stained, and the sink was rimmed by rust. Still, for the Skizzens, the feeling was: All of this is free.

  Skizzen and his mother disappeared into Mr. Maine’s quirky spaces, rarely entertaining anyone. They were not in the habit of making ostentatious improvements they could then parade before a community constrained by good manners to admire them. And every passerby enjoyed Miriam’s garden, a pleasure the strollers had to regard as a gift. The house might look run-down, but the garden was glorious, and this constituted an acceptable compromise.

  The two papers that Joseph Skizzen believed were responsible for obtaining them the house, and retaining him his job, had been written at the kitchen table of the cottage, despite the strain of a dim light, during evenings of the first three years of his tenure. Joseph felt that it was essential for his future that he define himself as an au courant guy, someone hard-edged and up-to-date, as well as a bit menacing. If he had correctly gauged the level of scholarship at the school, the publication of even a few papers would put him high on the list of productive people, and if he had read the intellectual thermometer properly, his choice of specialty—Arnold Schoenberg—should be effectively frightening. Such intimidation might keep people at a distance, and output of any kind should give him a secure income.

  Since Joey’s career depended upon the ignorance of others, and their natural reluctance to make that condition public knowledge, he had to select material that would be sufficiently musical to establish his expertise, yet not so technical as to exceed his limited understanding: in short, something historical or biographical, something on the edge of the subject the way a fringe completes a shawl while at the same time remaining a lot of useless yarn. He was taking a big risk, he knew, but he chose a topic for his first essay that would immediately advertise him as a person in the “know.” Its title would intrigue, confuse, and frighten simultaneously: “Max Blonda’s Von Heute auf Morgen.”

  What is scary about today having a tomorrow, Miriam wanted to know, after he had boasted about his choice. And who is Max Blonda?

  Exactly. Who is she?

  She?

  Yes, dear, it is an assumed name. Arnold Schoenberg’s second wife wrote the libretto for his light Viennese opera, Von Heute—

  She was a Blonda? what sort of name is that? did she bleach?

  I have no idea.

  Well, why “Blonda” then?

  I have no idea.

  Ach, so you are writing, why?

  To find out. Oh yes, and to get ahead.

  After some months, the essay, which had ripened like a fruitcake soaked in the sherry of its own neglect, had an even more angular title. It had become “Max Blonda’s Saxophone.” The editors of the little music magazine he had in mind wouldn’t overlook this one when it arrived in their weekly slush pile. Finally, however, needing a prominent name up front, he went with “Schoenberg’s Saxophone.” That would shake them up.

  Like everything else, from table silver to lines of nobility, the instruments of the orchestra constitute a kind of country club and possess a rigorous social hierarchy. So before you can be consigned to a life next to the wooden clappers in the percussion group, you have to be accepted by each of the orchestra’s sections. Many instruments, including the piano, which appears as a soloist from time to time, aren’t fully permissible precisely because they can stand so easily alone or, like the harp, are too limited in their range or peculiar in their quality to be called upon often. Alas for the piano’s social ambitions, it was fatally bourgeois, and unattractive ladies played it. There are a few noisemakers that belong entirely to the folk, to their jokes and hokum, such as the tin whistle, banjo, and kazoo; others, like the xylophone or bottle organ, appear to have been created mainly to show off the player’s dexterity and might have been invented by a juggler; while many are just too weak to make their voice heard—the Jew’s harp and wax-paper comb, even the recorder or lips’ whistle—puny as dwarfs among giants; or those that have been harmed by their close association with one sort of music and consequently called for only when their sort is about to be performed, such as the guitar and castanets; or there are those whose tones are coarse, vulgar, untrue, or mechanical like the electric organ and amplified guitar, as well as the accursed accordion that has too many fatal shortcomings to list. Some simply were born on the wrong side of the clef like the saxophone and trombone, associated first with military and marching bands and ultimately with jazz combos, cigarette smoke, and syrupy dance kings. Gadget instruments occasionally had music written that included them just for the hell of it. Foghorns, whistles, sirens, typewriters, telephone bells, and the glass harmonica were sometimes placed in an experimental composition for amusement, shock, or surprise. The saxophone, sounding like a hound baying at the moon, its notes too full of air for refinement, was a particularly bad joke. To prove that Arnold Schoenberg was one of the boys and could write operetta with the best of them—no doubt also seeking vainly for a popular success—he included this instrument in one of his few efforts at levity, Von Heute auf Morgen.

  His new wife wrote the libretto, but Krenek’s, Weill’s, and Hindemith’s successes spurred him on. The saxophone may have jazzed the tunes, but a twelve-tone row created the main alignment, contrapuntal variations were the order of its march, and canons memorialized its end—the heaviest light opera ever penned. In books about Schoenberg, Von Heute auf Morgen was lucky to get a line, which made it perfect for Skizzen’s purposes.

  Schoenberg was incapable of the middle-C mind. He was unable to sustain mediocrity. Skizzen thought he probably never understood the bland, the ordinary, the neutral, because it is as difficult to strike as oil. To be the man at the party whom no one remembers is easy for the guest who can shrink into the woodwork without trying, he is so inherently shy; but to be a person who disappears because he is so like everybody else as not to count; who is neither the least lively nor the most; neither the designated driver nor the drunk; neither the most drably dressed nor the most flamboyant; who is as unidentifiable as a glass someone has emptied two drinks ago and left upon the tray like keys mislaid on purpose and subsequently lost: to pretend to be such a one when one is not such a one is to undertake the circling of the square.

  During his preparations, the paradox inherent in his plan became increasingly obvious and embarrassing. Joseph Skizzen had chosen this subject and this theme in order that its author, who
would have to be Professor Joseph Skizzen, would be noticed. It was desirable for the professor to be impressive so that the real Skizzen—Joey—who really didn’t care much for either Schoenberg the man (a tyrant) or Schoenberg the musician (a romantic at war with romanticism)—who, when the maestro’s atonal music washed over him, felt as if his head were being held in a toilet Polly who found these serenades and songs beyond him Wolly quite over his head, his hair, his head of hair like a sudden shower Doodle who recoiled as the land does in front of distant mountains Polly-Wolly for whom Liszt’s Transcendental Études were about as adventuresome as Skizzen could bring himself to be Doodle as he could bring himself Polly-Wolly-Doodle yes, so the real Skizzen might fade like a figure a flower in the wallpaper a wall of paper flowers a pattern whom familiarity ignores, paint obscures, or the sun fades Polly-Wolly-Doodle all the day.

  Both Joey and Joseph dreaded the tenure struggle; however, Whittlebauer pretended to be a part of the academic publish-or-perish world, so they had to make believe they were citizens of it, too. Alban Berg Polly Anton von Webern Wolly with the twelve tones they had to work with Doodle the twelve disciples that Schoenberg (Skizzen, too) had to seem to teach Polly-Wolly-Doodle even to prefer, Joseph had now to embrace as well. All the day. What was the farm and family music Joey was able to play good for alongside this cacophony, this opulent mystery of mathematical music? Jolly Polly secrets he could no longer confess to his conscience Wolly those Arnold S. couldn’t confess to either: Doodle that he hated the system he built Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle hated anything named Stravinsky all the day because Igor (a Russian and representative of everything lax, borrowed, and overlush) Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle had triumphed by giving in to the past Polly openly Wolly as if it all were a kind of party instead of a struggle Doodle whilst he was fed up with Wagner and Zion, Brahms and Dvorak, Jolly Polly Wolly sweets his tongue begged him to swallow Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle calories his mind told him to avoid Polly-Jolly Jolly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle he was a Joey and a Joseph, too, Polly Wolly Doodle all the day for Joey had begun to expect Jolly-Polly Polly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle all the day as he placed obstacles in the path of the paper’s preparation Polly Wolly Doodle in order to make any thought’s smooth and orderly development impossible Doodle Wolly that Joseph was proud of his choice of Schoenberg as a subject Doodle Wolly Polly because he had an arrogance of his own Polly Doodle Wolly a tendency to make difficulties if there weren’t any Pilly-Dilly-Dollie disliked what was proper and loved to overstep bounds Pilly-Dillie-Doodle-Dollie knew words Joey professed to have no knowledge of Pilly-Dillie Doodle-Dollie Woolly-Wolly was angry Doodle-Dillie Doodle-Doodle-Doo not always without cause Doodle-Oodle at the idiots who were the largest element of the population Doolie-Doodle Doodle-Doody Doolie-Dilly really wished he could play Bartók instead of Joey’s favorite for the moment Dollie-Doo-Dollie Doo-Dilly-Doo, which was “Bohunkus,” and began: There was a farmer had two sons, / And these two sons were brothers; / Bohunkus was the name of one, / Josephus was the other’s … polly … wolly … doodle … all-the-dooly-dilly-day.