Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

And now — ah, yes, how lovely — the absurd but magnificent dialogue between god and the little hurdy-gurdy — the majestic chords, the great sweeps of sound, the laws and the prophets, the thunder from the mountain, and then the delicious and ridiculous and so humble bubble and squeak of the clarinets and oboes and bassoons, the birds singing in the rain — and then god again — and again the undaunted little tumbling tune — so childish—

“… Mozart died shortly after the production of ‘The Magic Flute’ in deep distress … this opera was in his mind until the final delirium … he would take his watch from under his pillow and follow the performance in imagination.… ‘Now comes the grand aria’ .…”

Her fists doubled under her chin, she leaned forward, as if with an air of saying, look, you see I am even smiling a little, I am amused by all this, you needn’t think I am afraid, or that I’m not an independent person. Nor that I won’t face you bravely.

“ The day before he died, he sang with his weak voice the opening measures of ‘Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja’ and endeavored to beat the time with his hands.… Schikaneder, ‘sensualist, parasite, spendthrift’ … built the Theater an der Wien … on the roof he put his own statue, clothed in the feather costume of Papageno. His luck was not constant; in 1812 he died in poverty. ”

The Masonic chords again, ascending, altered, but with the same deep sadness; as of trains crying to each other across a wilderness at night; the prolonged and lost nostalgia, the sound of pain abruptly introduced into a scene of festivity, of candles, of minuets, as if coming in on a wind that blew out lights;—and then again the lovely quick fugue, the elf dance, rising and rising to broader and bolder sweeps of sound, the intricate and algebraic pattern — this gesture coming in again, and then that other, the delicious bustle as of lights being relighted, servants hurrying with tapers, the music striking up, the dancers reforming—

The blue velvet cloak had slipped from her left shoulder, she sat with her two hands flat on her knees, still leaning forward, but now as if at last the music alone had become real for her, had taken her away; as if she had forgotten the things which had darkened her eyes, and given the new pallor to her cheeks. She was absorbed, she was by herself, she looked young.

“ Here the master, wishing, so to speak, to glance back and to give a final model of the old Italian and German overtures with a counterpointed theme, which had served, and still served, as preface to many operas, pleased himself by exhibiting the melodic theme that he had chosen, in all its forms, adorned with the riches of harmony and instrumentation. The result of this marvellous work of the carver is one of the most perfect instrumental compositions ever produced by human genius. ” Oh, yes indeed.

And now again god was speaking to the hurdy-gurdy — but this time a kindlier god, less remote; the god stooping from the mountain, gentler and nearer; and the hurdy-gurdy, changed and translated, but still essentially the same, speaking in a bolder and firmer voice — and then god again — as if the two voices greeted each other — and now the beginning of the end, the slow, falling rhythm of the melancholy gaiety — the last downward sweep of Koussevitzky’s arms, of the bows, the held chord, another, the upward flick of the baton, the silence — and then the applause, mounting, mounting, like a storm of rain on gusts of wind—

She had risen from her seat, was looking upward at him for confirmation; he signaled with his program, and turned to move toward the swinging door. The applause dimmed behind him as he descended the stairs and began to cross the lofty marble-paved hall to the other entrance. She emerged, and came toward him, a little self-conscious, her head tilted a little to one side, the rich copper hair gleaming, the silver buckles of her slippers alternately thrust forward, the sharp heels striking clearly on the marble. She stopped, and waited for him, holding the cloak together with her hands. He had thought she was smiling. But when he came close to her, and she made no movement to disengage her hands, he saw that her lips were pressed tight, and that in the widened and darkened pupils of her gray eyes was a curious mingling of defiance and defeat. She was as frightened as himself. He put his hand against her elbow and said—

— Let’s walk up and down here.

— Do you think this was a very tactful way—

— I’m sorry. But what else—

— Everybody in Cambridge saw it—

— Good God, Berty, surely there are more important things—

— It’s typical.

— Not at all. On these occasions one simply obeys one’s instinct, that’s all.

— Is that an excuse for bad manners, or lack of consideration?

— It seemed to me the most neutral way of managing it.

— Perhaps you’re right. But I should have thought—

They walked to the end of the hall in silence, embarrassed, past the rows of sepulchral memorial tablets, the interminable lists of dead soldiers. Antietam. The Battle of the Wilderness. Gettysburg. Bull Run. Born, and died of wounds. Killed in action. Died in a Confederate Prison. Died in Libby Prison, of a fever. Born and Died.

— Is Tom coming.

— No.

They turned, and started slowly back. From Sanders Theater came the sudden sound of renewed music, the beginning of the second number, a fanfare of bright trumpets and a thumping of drums. Muted by distance and the valves of doors.

— Tell me. Did Bill call you up.

— Yes.

— Did he tell you that he was giving me his ticket.

— Yes.

— I see. Just as I thought. He arranged it. You expected me. And you told Tom he’d better not come.

— I told Tom that I thought it would not be advisable.

— For both our sakes, I suppose!

— For all our sakes. I think the sarcasm is uncalled for.

— Sorry. I was only thinking aloud.

Lifting her hand from her cloak, she touched a quick finger to the corners of her eyes.

— I think you might have let me know before, what you were doing, or where you were—

— I wanted to be alone. Surely you understand that .

— Of course I understand it, but just the same I think you might have let me know.

For the first time she turned and looked at him, hesitating, half inhibiting her step, as if she were going to stop, or even going to touch him, as if for the first time she were meeting him. But she averted her face again.

— Andy, you don’t look well.

— Neither do you, Berty, for that matter!

— Isn’t it silly—

— What.

She made a downward gesture with her hand.

— Life. The way we make each other suffer.

— That’s the most sensible thing you ever said.

He found himself holding her elbow quite tightly, and at the same time frowning, as if to control an excess of feeling — but what sort of feeling he could not possibly have said. Not anger, not self-pity.

— There’s a lot of mail for you at the apartment.

— Yes, I thought I’d go round there now — that is, if you’re staying for the concert — and get it. And a few clean shirts. I thought I’d leave before the intermission.

— What are you going to do.

— Do you mean now — or do you mean in general.

— Well — both.

He gazed downward, at the worn and dirty marble of the floor, trodden down by the hungry generations of undergraduates, among whom had been himself, and watched the parallel thrust, preposterous, of Bertha’s slippers and his own mud-splashed shoes.

— I’m damned if I know yet, Berty — doesn’t it really depend on you .