Ursula K. Le Guin

by Ursula K. Le Guin

  He thought that Gaye, overcome with gratitude, was going to break down again, and though apprehensive he felt pleased with himself, wise, generous: he had made the poor fellow happy and might get something from him, too. The accompaniment to the Goethe song was still running in his head, spare, dry, sorrowful, beautiful. Then Gaye began to speak and Otto realised, slowly, but without real surprise, that it was not gratitude at all. “The Mass is what I’ve got to write, what I have in me. The songs come, sometimes a lot of them together, but I’ve never been able to write them at will, it has to be a good day. But the Mass, and a symphony I’ve been working on, they have size and weight, you see, they carry themselves along over the weeks, and I can always work on them when I have time. I know the Mass is ambitious. But I know all I want to say in it. It will be good. I’ve learned how to do what I must do, you see. I’ve begun it, I have to finish it.”

  Otto had stopped in his pacing back and forth and was watching him with an expression both of incredulity and longsuffering familiarity. “Bah!” he said. “What the devil do you come to me for? And burst into tears? And then tell me thanks very much for your suggestion but I shall continue to attempt the impossible? The arrogance, the unreasonableness—no, I can endure all that—but the stupidity, the absolute stupidity of artists, I cannot stand it any longer!”

  Abashed, submissive, Gaye sat there in his shabby suit; everything about him was shabby, pinched, overstrained and underfed, ground down and worn thin; and Otto knew he could shout at him for two hours and promise him introductions, publication, performances. He would never be heard. Gaye would only say in his inaudible stammer, “I have to write the Mass first. . . .”

  “You read German, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. After the Mass is finished, then write songs. In German. Or French if you like it, people are used to it, they won’t listen in Vienna or Paris to a lot of songs in a language like ours, or Rumanian or Danish or what have you, it’s a mere curiosity, like folksongs. We want your music heard, so write for the big countries, and remember most singers are idiots. All right?”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Egorin,” Gaye said, not submissively this time but with a curious formal dignity. He knew that Otto was yielding to his stubborn unreason as he would to that of a great, a famous artist, humoring him, getting round him, when he could as well have stepped on him like a beetle. He knew, in fact, that Otto was defeated.

  “If you’ll put the elephants aside for a very little while, for a few evenings, in order to write something which might conceivably be published, be heard, you see,” Otto was saying, still ironic, exasperated, and deferent, when the door swung open and his wife made an entrance. She swept Gaye’s little son in with her, the Swiss maid followed. The room all at once was full of men, women, children, voices, perfume, jewelry. “Otto, look what I found with Anne Elise! Did you ever see such an enchanter? Look at the eyes, the great, dark, solemn eyes! ‘His name is Vasli, he likes chocolates.’ Such an enchanter, such a little man, did you ever see such a child? How do you do, so glad. You’re Vasli’s—? yes, of course, you are, the eyes! Oh, Christ, what a ghastly hole this town is, I want to leave on the first train after the concert, Otto, I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. I can feel myself beginning to look like all those huge empty stone houses across the river, all eyes, staring, staring, staring, like skulls! Why don’t they tear them down if nobody lives in them? Never again, never again, to hell with the provinces and encouraging national art, I can’t sing in every graveyard in the country, Otto. Anne Elise, draw my bath, please. I’m simply filthy, I must be grey as buckwheat. Are you the Management from Sorg?”

  “I’ve already talked to them on the telephone,” said Otto, knowing that Gaye would be unable to answer. “Mr Gaye is a composer, he writes Masses.” He did not say “songs,” for that would catch Egorina’s attention. He was paying Gaye back a little, giving him an object lesson in practicality. Egorina, uninterested in Masses, talked on. An unceasing flood of words poured from her for twenty-four hours before each concert, and stopped only when she walked out on the stage, tall, magnificent, smiling, to sing. After she had sung she would be quiet, ruminating. She was, Otto said, the most beautiful musical instrument in the world. He had married her because it was the only way to keep her from going on the light-opera stage; stubborn, stupid, and sensitive in proportion to her talent, she dreaded failure and wanted to succeed the sure way. So Otto had married her and made her succeed the hard way, as a lieder-singer. In October she would take her first opera role, Strauss’s Arabella. That probably meant she would talk for six straight weeks beforehand. Otto could bear it. She was very beautiful, and generally good-humored, and anyway one need not listen. She did not care whether one listened so long as one was there, an audience.

  She talked on, the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom, the telephone rang, she began to talk on the telephone. Gaye had not said a word. The child stood beside him, grave as ever; Egorina had forgotten all about Vasli after making her entrance with him, and had been swearing like a sergeant.

  Gaye stood up. Relieved, Otto took him to the door, gave him two passes to Egorina’s recital tomorrow night, shrugged off his thanks—“We’re not sold out, you know! This is a dead town for music.” Behind them Egorina’s voice flooded magnificently on, her laugh broke out like the jet of a great fountain. “Jesus! what do I care what that little Jew says?” she sang out, and again the great, golden laugh. “Gaye,” said Otto Egorin, “you know, there’s one other thing. This is not a good world for music, either. This world now, in 1938. You’re not the only man who wonders, what’s the good? who needs music, who wants it? Who indeed, when Europe is crawling with armies like a corpse with maggots, when Russia uses symphonies to glorify the latest boiler-factory in the Urals, when the function of music has been all summed up in Putzi playing the piano to soothe the Leader’s nerves. By the time your Mass is finished, you know, all the churches may be blown into little pieces, and your men’s chorus will be wearing uniforms and also being blown into little pieces. If not, send it to me, I shall be interested. But I’m not hopeful. I am on the losing side, with you. So is she, my Egorina there, believe it or not. She will never believe it. . . . But music is no good, no use, Gaye. Not any more. Write your songs, write your Mass, it does no harm. I shall go on arranging concerts, it does no harm. But it won’t save us. . . .”

  Ladislas Gaye and his son walked from the hotel to the old bridge over the Ras; their home was in the Old City, the bleak jumbled quarter on the north side of the river. What Foranoy had in the way of wealth and modernity lay south of the river in the New City. It was a warm bright day, late spring; they stopped on the bridge to look at the arches reflecting in the dark water, each with its reflection forming a perfect circle. A barge came through loaded with wadded crates and Vasli, held up by his father so he could see over the stone railing, spat down on one of the crates. “Shame on you,” Ladislas Gaye said without heat. He was happy. He did not care if he had blubbered like a baby in front of Otto Egorin, the great impresario. He did not care if he was tired and this was one of his wife’s bad days and he was already late. He did not care about anything at all, except the child’s small, firm hand in his, and the way the wind out here on the bridge, between city and city, carried away all sound and left one bathed in warm, silent sunlight, and the fact that Otto Egorin knew what he was: a musician. So far, in this one recognition by one man, he was strong and he was free. It went no further than that, his strength and freedom, but it was enough. The trumpet-tune of his Sanctus sang in his head.

  “Papa, why did the big lady have things in her ears and ask if I liked chocolate? Do people not like chocolate?”

  “They were jewels, Vasli. I don’t know.” The trumpet sang on. If only he and the little fellow could stay here awhile, in the sunlight and silence, between city and city, between moment and moment . . . They went on, into the Old City, past the wharves, past the abandon
ed houses built of stone, up the hill, into the courtyard of their tenement. Vasli broke loose, disappeared into a crowd of children brawling, screaming, swarming in the court. Ladislas Gaye called after him, gave it up, climbed the dark stairs and went down a dark hall on the third floor, let himself in the dark kitchen, the first room of their three-room flat. His wife was peeling potatoes at the kitchen table. She wore a dirty white wrapper, dirty pink chenille mules on her bare feet. “It’s six o’clock, Ladis,” she said without looking round at him.

  “I was in the New City.”

  “Why’d you drag the child so far? Where is he? Where are Tonia and Givana? I called and called them, I’m sure they’re not in the court. Why’d you go so far with the child?”

  “I went to—”

  “My back aches worse than ever, it’s the heat, why is summer so hot here?”

  “Let me do that.”

  “No, I’ll finish. I wish you’d clean those gas vents in the oven, Ladis, I must have asked you fifty times. Now I can’t get it lighted at all, it’s filthy dirty, and I can’t go scraping at it with my back like it is.”

  “All right. Let me change my shirt.”

  “Listen here, Ladis—Ladis! Is Vasli down there in the court in his good clothes? Go down and get him right away, how do you think we can afford to get his good clothes cleaned every time he puts them on? Ladis? Go down and get him! Can you never think of these things? He’s probably filthy dirty already, playing with those big roughnecks around the well!”

  “I’m going, give me time, will you!”

  In September the east wind of autumn rose, blowing past the empty stone houses and down the bright troubled river, blowing scant litter about the city streets, blowing fine dust into people’s eyes and throats as they went home from work. Ladislas Gaye passed a street-orator, a little girl crying loudly as she ran down the steep street, a newspaper kiosk where the headlines said “Mr Neville Chamberlain in Munich,” a big stalled automobile around which a crowd had gathered, a group of young fellows watching a fistfight, a couple of women talking earnestly to each other across the street, one standing on the curb and the other hanging half out of a tenement window, wearing a blue-and-scarlet satin wrapper; he saw and heard it all, and saw and heard nothing. He was very tired. He got home. His young daughters were playing in the court, in the well of shadow four stories deep. He saw them in the swarm of girls shrilling around an areaway, but did not stop. He went up the dark stairs, down the hall, into the kitchen. His wife had been stronger lately, as the weather began to cool, but now she was in a vile temper and ready to weep; little Vasli had been caught with older boys torturing a cat, pouring kerosene over it, they planned to set it afire. “He’s no good, he’s a little beast, how could a child want to do a horrible thing like that?” Vasli was locked in the middle room, screaming with rage. Ladislas Gaye sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. He felt sick. His wife went on about the child, the other children in the court. “That Mrs Rasse, sticking her head in here without even knocking and saying did I know what my little Vasli was up to, as if her brats were something to be proud of, with their dirty faces and pink eyes like a lot of rabbits. Are you going to do anything about it, Ladis, are you just going to sit there? Do you think I can handle him? Is that the kind of son you want?”

  “What can I do about it? Are we going to have anything to eat tonight? I’ve got a piano lesson at eight, you know. For God’s sake let me sit down a minute, let me have some peace.”

  “Peace! You want peace, what do you care if the child turns into a brute like all the others here! All right, what do I care either if that’s what you want.” She slapped about the kitchen in her pink mules, getting supper.

  “Little children are cruel,” he said. “They don’t know what it means. They find out.”

  She shrugged. Vasli was sobbing now behind the door; he knew his father was home. Presently Ladislas Gaye went into that room, sat with the child in the half-dark. In the third room, where the grandmother lay in bed, dance music blared from the radio; Ladislas had bought it secondhand for her, it was her sole amusement and she never talked now of anything but what she heard on the radio. Vasli clung to his father, not crying any more, worn out. “You mustn’t do anything like that with the other boys, Vasli,” the father murmured at last. “The poor beast is weaker than you, it can’t help itself.”

  The child was silent. All cruelty, all misery, all darkness present and to come hung around them in the dark room. Trombones blared a waltz in the next room. He clung to his father, silent.

  In the thick blaring of the trombones, thick as sweet cough-sirup, Gaye heard for a moment the deep clear thunder of his Sanctus like thunder between the stars, over the edge of the universe—one moment of it, as if the roof of the building had been taken off and he looked up into the complete, enduring darkness, one moment only. The announcer talked, a smooth excited gabble. When Gaye went back to the kitchen he said to his wife, over the shrill voices of the two girls, “The English Prime Minister is in Munich with Hitler.” She did not answer, only set the food down in front of him, soup and potatoes. She was still overwrought and angry. “Eat and don’t talk, you, shameless!” she snapped at Vasli, who had forgotten it all and was squabbling with his sisters.

  As Gaye walked down the hill, across the bridge over the Ras in late dusk, a tune he had written was in his head. It was the last of seven poems he had set, all in a burst, in August; he kept wondering if that was enough to copy out and send to Otto Egorin in Krasnoy. But the last verse of the poem bothered him now, the one that meant, “It is Thou in thy mercy that breakest down over our heads all we build, that we may see the sky: and so I do not complain.” He had muffed that last line; it should go thus—Gaye sang it to himself, sang the whole verse over, heard the accompaniment. There it was, that was it. Pray God his pupil would be late so that he could work it out on the piano at the Schola before the lesson. But it was he who was late. When the lesson was over his head was full of Cle­menti exercises and though the melody was set now he could not get the accompaniment clear; as he had heard it on the bridge it had been purer, more certain. He tried the verse, the whole song, over and over, but the janitor was through cleaning and wanted to close the building. He started home. The wind was strong and cold now, the sky empty, the river black as oil under the arches of the bridge. He stopped there on the bridge a while, but could not hear the music he had heard.

  Back at home he sat down at the kitchen table with the manuscript of the song, but with the weaker version before his eyes and no piano at hand he lost even the mood of the accompaniment he wanted; it was all out of reach. He knew he was too tired to work but nonetheless tried, doggedly, angrily, to hear and to write down. He sat half an hour motionless, never moving his hand. At the other end of the table his wife was mending Tonia’s dress, listening to some program of talk on the grandmother’s radio. He put his hands over his ears. She said something about music, but he did not listen. The total impossibility of writing was a choking weight in him, like a big chunk of rock in his chest. Nothing would ever change, he thought, and in the next moment he felt a relaxation within him, lightness, openness, and certainty, utter certainty. He thought it was his own song, then, raising his head, understood that he was actually hearing this tune. He did not have to write it. It had been written long ago, no one need suffer for it any more. Lehmann was singing it,

  Du holde Kunst, ich danke dir.

  He sat still a long time. Music will not save us, Otto Egorin had said. Not you, or me, or her, the big golden-voiced woman who had no children and wanted none; not Lehmann who sang the song; not Schubert who had written it and was a hundred years dead. What good is music? None, Gaye thought, and that is the point. To the world and its states and armies and factories and Leaders, music says, “You are irrelevant”; and, arrogant and gentle as a god, to the suffering man it says only, “Listen.” For being saved is not the point. Music saves nothing. Merciful, uncaring, i
t denies and breaks down all the shelters, the houses men build for themselves, that they may see the sky.

  Gaye put away the scribbled, ruled sheets of paper, the little volume of poetry, the pen and ink. He stretched and yawned. “Good night,” he said in his soft voice, and went off to bed.

  1938

  The House

  THE SUNLIGHT of any October lay yellow across her way, and hundreds of dry, golden afternoons rustled under her steps. Only their great age kept the sycamores from being importunate. For blocks she was pursued by the familiarity of shadows, bricks, and balconies. Fountains spoke to her as if she had not been away at all. Eight years she had been gone, and this stupid city had never noticed her absence; its sunlight and the sound of its many waters hung about her like the walls of her own house, her home. Confused and offended, she passed the house at 18 Reyn Street without a glance at its door or garden wall, though something, not her eyes, saw that door and gate were locked. After that, the city began to let her be. Within a block or two it did not know her. The fountains talked to someone else. Now she was differently confused, recognising none of these crossings, not one doorstep or window of the shops and houses. She had to ask her way ignominiously of street-signs and house-numbers, and when she found the place she sought, a tenement with several entrances, she had to enter and inquire at open doors. Rumpled beds, family quarrels and partly buttoned dressing-gowns sent her up to a fourth-floor room, where her knock was answered only by a pencilled card tacked on the door. F.L. PANIN, it said. She looked in. A dormer room, jammed with the hefty sofas and tables of a dismantled house; a stranger’s room, sunny, stuffy, defenseless.