William Gass - Middle C

Schoenberg was incapable of the middle-C mind. He was unable to sustain mediocrity. Skizzen thought he probably never understood the bland, the ordinary, the neutral, because it is as difficult to strike as oil. To be the man at the party whom no one remembers is easy for the guest who can shrink into the woodwork without trying, he is so inherently shy; but to be a person who disappears because he is so like everybody else as not to count; who is neither the least lively nor the most; neither the designated driver nor the drunk; neither the most drably dressed nor the most flamboyant; who is as unidentifiable as a glass someone has emptied two drinks ago and left upon the tray like keys mislaid on purpose and subsequently lost: to pretend to be such a one when one is not such a one is to undertake the circling of the square.

During his preparations, the paradox inherent in his plan became increasingly obvious and embarrassing. Joseph Skizzen had chosen this subject and this theme in order that its author, who would have to be Professor Joseph Skizzen, would be noticed. It was desirable for the professor to be impressive so that the real Skizzen — Joey — who really didn’t care much for either Schoenberg the man (a tyrant) or Schoenberg the musician (a romantic at war with romanticism) — who, when the maestro’s atonal music washed over him, felt as if his head were being held in a toilet Polly who found these serenades and songs beyond him Wolly quite over his head, his hair, his head of hair like a sudden shower Doodle who recoiled as the land does in front of distant mountains Polly-Wolly for whom Liszt’s Transcendental Études were about as adventuresome as Skizzen could bring himself to be Doodle as he could bring himself Polly-Wolly-Doodle yes, so the real Skizzen might fade like a figure a flower in the wallpaper a wall of paper flowers a pattern whom familiarity ignores, paint obscures, or the sun fades Polly-Wolly-Doodle all the day.

Both Joey and Joseph dreaded the tenure struggle; however, Whittlebauer pretended to be a part of the academic publish-or-perish world, so they had to make believe they were citizens of it, too. Alban Berg Polly Anton von Webern Wolly with the twelve tones they had to work with Doodle the twelve disciples that Schoenberg (Skizzen, too) had to seem to teach Polly-Wolly-Doodle even to prefer, Joseph had now to embrace as well. All the day. What was the farm and family music Joey was able to play good for alongside this cacophony, this opulent mystery of mathematical music? Jolly Polly secrets he could no longer confess to his conscience Wolly those Arnold S. couldn’t confess to either: Doodle that he hated the system he built Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle hated anything named Stravinsky all the day because Igor (a Russian and representative of everything lax, borrowed, and overlush) Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle had triumphed by giving in to the past Polly openly Wolly as if it all were a kind of party instead of a struggle Doodle whilst he was fed up with Wagner and Zion, Brahms and Dvorak, Jolly Polly Wolly sweets his tongue begged him to swallow Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle calories his mind told him to avoid Polly-Jolly Jolly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle he was a Joey and a Joseph, too, Polly Wolly Doodle all the day for Joey had begun to expect Jolly-Polly Polly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle all the day as he placed obstacles in the path of the paper’s preparation Polly Wolly Doodle in order to make any thought’s smooth and orderly development impossible Doodle Wolly that Joseph was proud of his choice of Schoenberg as a subject Doodle Wolly Polly because he had an arrogance of his own Polly Doodle Wolly a tendency to make difficulties if there weren’t any Pilly-Dilly-Dollie disliked what was proper and loved to overstep bounds Pilly-Dillie-Doodle-Dollie knew words Joey professed to have no knowledge of Pilly-Dillie Doodle-Dollie Woolly-Wolly was angry Doodle-Dillie Doodle-Doodle-Doo not always without cause Doodle-Oodle at the idiots who were the largest element of the population Doolie-Doodle Doodle-Doody Doolie-Dilly really wished he could play Bartók instead of Joey’s favorite for the moment Dollie-Doo-Dollie Doo-Dilly-Doo, which was “Bohunkus,” and began: There was a farmer had two sons, / And these two sons were brothers; / Bohunkus was the name of one, / Josephus was the other’s … polly … wolly … doodle … all-the-dooly-dilly-day.

Joey had no more Miss Moss to call upon, which he regretted now particularly, because he would have liked to discuss with her the weakness that had undermined him as he approached the end of his essay, since it had seemed to him a weakness without any other symptoms, one that fit the nature of a magic spell suddenly cast upon him the way a shadow falls upon the ground, with nary a squeal or an ouch, so that Joey became, to echo that popular phrase, gray and unsubstantial, unable to move at will, no longer his formerly vigorous self, not even with the depth of a reflection. Fortunately it was Easter Week (to President Palfrey) or Spring Break (to the students), consequently Joey missed no classes, as he otherwise would have, because he could barely sit up, let alone stand, refused food, and stared into space as if even his seeing was asleep. The problem was, as the patient was reluctantly compelled to admit, although only to himself, and only for a moment in the final morning of the pall upon him, that both Joseph and Joey were equally ill.

Miriam at first thought he was just being metaphorical, tired of it all, fed up, the way one is tired of filling out forms or shucking oysters, but shortly she came round to agree with his pale face, weak groans, red ears; then she grew worried, forced broths and compresses upon him though he had no fever, had no flush, no stuffy wheezy runny nose, had no rash or bump or swollen node or pimple (only lobes so red they seemed listening for a train) while finding a pain was like chasing the bug itself vainly through his body. Wet paper held its old ink better.

What is called good fortune had done this to him. Every social rung he placed the simple shoe of his climbing person on put him in greater danger; every pittance he gathered meant more of gather was expected. For his mother’s sake he mustn’t be a failure; for his father’s sake he mustn’t be a success. His image in her eyes, though she scolded him as if he were still very young or soon would be older than she, had to be sustained; Joey was the most valued plant in her garden, if it wasn’t the beech tree. His image in his father’s eyes, though those eyes were his eyes now, of a boy whose exodus from Austria had saved him from damnation, had to be maintained — mustered as for war — if the past was to matter. But what was his merit, where were his credits, during his illness, to either of them — so meagerly distilled, so dimly disgraced?

During his studies, Joseph had run across reproductions of Schoenberg’s paintings: there the great composer’s soul was, as it couldn’t be shown in music, naked as if flayed: furious, frightened, intense, unforgiving. If he honored you by doing your portrait, at the end, there he was, staring out of your eyes, glaring with every wild strand of hair, each vertical line like an asylum bar, each curl a coil, and Schoenberg himself behind the painted face just far enough not to notice his sitter’s terror and chagrin but certainly hoping for it. Even in his wife’s portrait, where she is surrounded by a swirling halo of hat or hair, his temperament reddens the lips of her almost soft mouth. But the painting that followed Skizzen from chair to bed like a guilty conscience was called The Red Gaze , because it was that formerly obscured face, with its bullet-eyed look, brought out into the open, as if the pulp of a fruit had taken the place of the rind.