William Gass - Middle C

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.