Charles Newman - In Partial Disgrace

The Professor was flushed, stammering. “And what is down the road, Councilor — the next lesson?”

“It will be a long journey, Professor, and it is still possible that in the future, spoiled and incurious, she will become everything we hate. The next steps, in order, one on each visit, will be the Col Pugno (With the Fist), the Ruhevoll (Serenity), the Mordent Coraggio (Caustic Courage), the Trotta Sentimento (Heartfelt Trot), and finally, with luck, the Adagio Religioso .”

“This last,” the Professor snorted dismissively, “is either schmonzes (nonsense) or schrecklich (frightening).”

“Life is not a ‘Society for Obvious or Underlying Jewish Themes,’ my dearest friend. But my oath to you is that you will experience it by honorable means, if possible. If not, not.”

At this point Topsy wrapped her front legs firmly about Father’s knee and began to deliriously hump away upon his be-putteed leg. Father glanced down knowingly, and for the first time I can recall in a training session, fairly shouted, “Phui!”

She slipped to the ground in the idol-like attitude of the sphinx, paws extended, head elevated, thighs pressed close to her body, her bestial eyes narrowing to mere slits.

“Now there’s a command for you!” the Professor beamed. “Forget the damn music— that’s the one I want to master.”

Father had looked away. “Ah, friend, it takes a great many phui s to make a religion or a work or art.”

The Professor and Topsy had turned toward the river. The wind had picked up, swirling the grass into viridian pockets. Gray Siberian crows, blown in from the steppe, settled about them unconcerned. A crane walked up and passed them by, looking at them over its shoulder like an old gentleman going to the mailbox.

“Relax. Never an angry gesture. Not so constricted. . Nicht eilen (do not hurry), not so close to the body. . Bedächtig (deliberately) not too quickly, give her time, feierlich langsam doch nicht schleppen . . Come out of your bag. If you are tense to begin with, you’ll have nothing left. Stay within yourself. That’s better. . Now, narrante !”

The chapel promontory was suddenly cupped with gusts of wind. Squirrels raced hysterically about its mullions as skylarks fell twittering aimlessly in descent, ceasing their song only a few inches from the ground. Inside, Waterlily was warming up, but she was no longer singing to herself, as she often did. This was a performance.

Ma- la -mi- doe -doe

Ma- la -fi- ta -do

Waterlily, to her credit, was apparently trying to wrench the Art Song from its culmination of bad history and bad poetry, those recitals solemnly progressing through four centuries and five languages, a trial for all concerned. She was also experimenting with a form of voix mixte , at once guttural and falsetto, combining both head and chest registers, so that each vowel had two rates of vibration. It gave quite a special and eerie effect, suitable for the songs which feature children dying in your arms, but seemed a bit overwrought when glowing sunsets, woeful monks, singing larks, overgrown churchyards, or maidens fishing from a bridge were invoked, and all in all it was best that only I could hear her. Sufficiently resonated, she began that afternoon’s recital with a strange Cannonian water rhapsody, as if she were standing alone in the bend of the all-time resonant piano which was Semper Vero.

Over the tops of the westerly wood

Friendly beckons the reddish gleam,

Beneath the branches of the easterly wood

The sweet-flag murmurs in the reddish gleam

Until upon loftier, radiant wings

Myself shall flee this changing time.

Eagles were now floating downriver from the upcountry, routing the owls from turrets of the chapel, then walking back and forth on the roof, preening their skulls, their wings folded behind their backs. These heraldic birds — austere, aloof, ill-tempered gentlemen — had little intelligence and no plasticity, their flat heads all inexorable lever, all beak, all pupil. The Astingi abominated the eagle above all things, not only because they carried away their lambs, billykids, and even small foals, but because every empire had adopted them as their symbol of authority. They were the antithesis of the Astingi warrior aesthetic — a beast of prey, aristocracy turned pointless and cruel — which is why every Astingi entourage was brought up in the rear by an eagle trudging on a chain, fed on grub worms and corn gruel, and why Astingi flutes are made from the largest bone of the wing.

The two men breasted the ridge and gazed across the river at the two women sitting, almost classical figures in the light mist. The Penelope III was concealed from them by the angle of the cliff.

“Look,” the Professor said, “their breasts are shaking.”

“Laughing at us, no doubt,” Father replied. “Women are more attuned to reality. That’s why they get hysterical.”

The Professor scowled. Topsy was gazing up at him, blinking nervously like her mistress. “Such beseeching!” he groaned.

“You must put up with this and more,” Father intoned. “We may be witnessing the poorest performance ever given by a dog. Everything depends upon the master’s glance.”

“But she’s so narcissistic.”

“No one can stand unconditional love for long, good friend. Bounce it back to her. Accept her damage. The suffering cannot end prematurely. Your only command to her is this: use your strength. Molto sentimento d’affeto . One must be tender even with the women one has lost.”

The Professor turned back from the river. The cord had tightened inadvertently.

“Pull on her that way, and the only thing you’d be able to predict is where she won’t be.”

“You contradict my every move!”

“Don’t you see, my friend? It’s like playing an instrument. Get the midrange right, and everything else will follow. Più tosto presto spiccato . We walk as between two rivers.”

“Very well, Topsy.” The Professor swallowed his gruffness. “Let us ply the bloody golden mean,” and she waddled through the grass approvingly.

“And stop seeing events as if they were always in a drama,” Felix barked.

The frigate was now directly beneath them, its oars tearing at the water like an uncoordinated centipede. Sailors scurried in the rigging and swore amongst the stacked scenery. But on the main hatch, strewn with pebbles and potted palms, a hodgepodge of a play was being rehearsed to no one’s apparent notice. The Astingi vowels floated up:

“ Si spus-am ochiului meu trist: Imbrâtiseazâ !”

And then the translation, in perfect Oxbridge cadences:

“And then who knows whether it is better to be or not to be? But everyone knows that what does not exist feels no pain, while pains in life are many, pleasures few, to be?”

“Good Lord,” the Professor expostulated. “Even the dogs in Cannonia bark in a foreign tongue.” And from the kennel, only broken-winded yelps.

The Princess had lost herself in thought. Mother genuinely tried to deflect her from this course.

“What are they doing up there?” the Princess queried nervously.

The men were facing each other, apparently doing a kind of calisthenics, though upon closer inspection, it was rather a kind of grave conducting of a silent orchestra.

“My husband has devoted himself to the learning of grace, which he has no instinct for. First, conducting lessons from Gundel, the great closet maestro of Monstifita, then flamenco lessons, Greco-Roman wrestling, and ballet at forty-five. Can you imagine?”