• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1926 0

’t intentions mean anything? So what if the harmony and joy were all counterfeit? The conductor came out for a bow, smiled at the booing man, and very soon the applause died away. I left the hall, feeling responsible. Arriving at the paper, I wrote a review of crushing dullness that reeked of bad faith. God damn Hindemith! Here he was, claiming to have seen God’s workings, and they sounded like the workings of a steam engine or a trolley car. A fake symphony, with optimism the composer did not feel! I decided (but did not write) that Harmony of the World was just possibly the largest, most misconceived fiasco in modern music’s history. It was a symphony that historically could not be written by a man who was constitutionally not equipped to write it. In my review, I kept a civil pen: I said that the performance lacked “luster,” “a certain necessary glow.”

“I’m worried about the recital tomorrow.”

“Aw, don’t worry. Here, kiss me. Right here.”

“Aren’t you listening? I’m worried.”

“I’m singing. You’re just accompanying me. Nobody’s going to notice you. Move over a little, would you? Yeah, there. That pillow was forcing my head against the wall.”

“Why aren’t you worried?”

“Why should I be worried? I don’t want to worry. I want to make love. Isn’t that better than worrying?”

“Not if I’m worried.”

“People won’t notice you. By the way, have you paid attention to the fact that when I kiss you on the stomach, you get goose bumps?”

“Yes. I think you’re taking this pretty lightly. I mean, it’s almost unprofessional.”

“That’s because I’m an amateur. A one hundred percent amateur. Always and totally. Even at this. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my moments. Mmmmmm. That’s better.”

“I thought it would maybe help. But listen. I’m still worried.”

“Uhhhh. Oh, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Oh, I get it.”

“What?”

“I get it. You aren’t worried about yourself. You’re worried about me.”

Forty people attended her recital, which was sponsored by the city university’s music school, in which Karen was a sometime student. Somehow we made our way through the program, but when we came to the Chanler settings, I suddenly wanted Karen to sing them perfectly. I wanted an angel to descend and to take away the Gypsy’s curse. But she sang as she always had—off pitch—and when she came to “Ann Poverty,” I found myself in that odd region between rage and pity.

Stranger, here lies

Ann Poverty;

Such was her name

And such was she.

May Jesu pity

Poverty.

But I was losing my capacity for pity.

In the green room, her forty friends came back to congratulate her. I met them. They were all very nice. She smiled and laughed: there would be a party in an hour. Would I go? I declined. When we were alone, I said I was going back to my place.

“Why?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you come to my party? You’re my lover after all. That is the word.”

“Yes. But I don’t want to go with you.”

“Why?”

“Because of tonight’s concert, that’s why.”

“What about it?”

“It wasn’t very good, was it? I mean, it just wasn’t.”

“I thought it was all right. A few slips. It was pretty much what I was capable of. All those people said they liked it.”

“Those people don’t matter!” I said, my eyes watering with anger. “Only the music matters. Only the music is betrayed; they aren’t. They don’t know about pitch, most of them. I mean, Jesus, they aren’t genuine musicians, so how would they know? Do you really think what we did tonight was good? It wasn’t! It was a travesty! We ruined those songs! How can you stand to do that?”

“I don’t ruin them. I sing them adequately. I project feeling. People get pleasure from them. That’s enough.”

“It’s awful,” I said, feeling the ecstatic liftoff into rage. “You’re so close to being good, but you aren’t good. Who cares what those ignoramuses think? They don’t know what notes you’re supposed to hit. It’s that goddamn slippery pitch of yours. You’re killing those songs. You just drop them like watermelons on the stage! It makes me sick! I couldn’t have gone on for another day listening to you and your warbling! I’d die first.”

She looked