Orsinian tales

"I'm not made so."

"Then you're not made to write music."

"You thought differently when you were reading my Sanctus."

"Du lieber Herr Gott!" Otto exploded. He was a great patriot, but his mother and his upbringing had been Vie

"Yes, I know that."

"But you're not quite sure anyone would undertake to feed the brats and keep the women. Probably they wouldn't. Doch, doch – you're too gentle, too gentle, Gaye." Otto strode up and down the room on his bandy legs, snorting and grimacing. "When I finish the Mass may I send it to you?" "Yes. Yes, of course. I shall be pleased to see it. When will it be? Ten years from now? 'Gaye, who the devil's Gaye, where did I meet him – this is good – a young fellow, he shows promise – ' And you'll be forty, getting tired, ready for a little arthritis or nervous disorder yourself. Certainly send me your Mass! . . . You have great talent, Gaye, you have great courage, but you're too gentle, you must not try to write a big work like this Mass. You can't serve two masters. Write songs, short pieces, something you can think of while you work at this Godforsaken steel plant and write down at night when the rest of the family's out of the way for five minutes. Write them on anything, unpaid bills, whatever, and send them to me, don't think you have to pay two and a half kroner a sheet for this fine paper, you can't afford fine paper – when they're printed is time to think of that. Send me songs, not ten years from now but a month from now, and if they're as good as this Goethe song I'll give you a section on my wife's program in Krasnoy in December. Write little songs, not impossible Masses. Hugo Wolf, you know – Hugo Wolf wrote only songs, eh?"

He thought that Gaye, overcome with gratitude, was going to break down again, and though apprehensive he felt pleased with himself, wise, generous: he had made the poor fellow happy and might get something from him, too. The accompaniment to the Goethe song was still ru

Otto had stopped in his pacing back and forth and was watching him with an expression both of incredulity and longsuffering familiarity. "Bah!" he said. "What the devil do you come to me for? And burst into tears? And then tell me thanks very much for your suggestion but I shall continue to attempt the impossible? The arrogance, the unreasonableness – no, I can endure all that – but the stupidity, the absolute stupidity of artists, I ca

Abashed, submissive, Gaye sat there in his shabby suit; everything about him was shabby, pinched, overstrained and underfed, ground down and worn thin; and Otto knew he could shout at him for two hours and promise him introductions, publication, performances. He would never be heard. Gaye would only say in his inaudible stammer, "I have to write the Mass first. . . ."

"You read German, eh?"

"Yes."

"All right. After the mass is finished, then write songs. In German. Or French if you like it, people are used to it, they won't listen in Vie

"You're very kind, Mr. Egorin," Gaye said, not submissively this time but with a curious formal dignity. He knew that Otto was yielding to his stubborn unreason as he would to that of a great, a famous artist, humoring him, getting round him, when he could as well have stepped on him like a beetle. He knew, in fact, that Otto was defeated.

"If you'll put the elephants aside for a very little while, for a few evenings, in order to write something which might conceivably be published, be heard, you see," Otto was saying, still ironic, exasperated, and deferent, when the door swung open and his wife made an entrance. She swept Gaye's little son in with her, the Swiss maid followed. The room all at once was full of men, women, children, voices, perfume, jewelry. "Otto, look what I found with A

"I've already talked to them on the telephone," said Otto, knowing that Gaye would be unable to answer. "Mr Gaye is a composer, he writes Masses." He did not say "songs," for that would catch Egorina's attention. He was paying Gaye back a little, giving him an object lesson in practicality. Egorina, uninterested in Masses, talked on. An unceasing flood of words poured from her for twenty-four hours before each concert, and stopped only when she walked out on the stage, tall, magnificent, smiling, to sing. After she had sung she would be quiet, ruminating. She was, Otto said, the most beautiful musical instrument in the world. He had married her because it was the only way to keep her from going on the light-opera stage; stubborn, stupid, and sensitive in proportion to her talent, she dreaded failure and wanted to succeed the sure way. So Otto had married her and made her succeed the hard way, as a lieder-singer. In October she would take her first opera role, Strauss's Arabella. That probably meant she would talk for six straight weeks beforehand. Otto could bear it. She was very beautiful, and generally good-humored, and anyway one need not listen. She did not care whether one listened so long as one was there, an audience.

She talked on, the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom, the telephone rang, she began to talk on the telephone. Gaye had not said a word. The child stood beside him, grave as ever; Egorina had forgotten all about Vasli after making her entrance with him, and had been swearing like a sergeant.

Gaye stood up. Relieved, Otto took him to the door, gave him two passes to Egorina's recital tomorrow night, shrugged off his thanks – "We're not sold out, you know! This is a dead town for music." Behind them Egorina's voice flooded magnificently on, her laugh broke out like the jet of a great fountain. "Jesus! what do I care what that little Jew says?" she sang out, and again the great, golden laugh. "Gaye," said Otto Egorin, "you know, there's one other thing. This is not a good world for music, either. This world now, in 1938. You're not the only man who wonders, what's the good? who needs music, who wants it? Who indeed, when Europe is crawling with armies like a corpse with maggots, when Russia uses symphonies to glorify the latest boiler-factory in the Urals, when the function of music has been all summed up in Putzi playing the piano to soothe the Leader's nerves. By the time your Mass is finished, you know, all the churches may be blown into little pieces, and your men's chorus will be wearing uniforms and also being blown into little pieces. If not, send it to me, I shall be interested. But I'm not hopeful. I am on the losing side, with you. So is she, my Egorina there, believe it or not. She will never believe it. … But music is no good, no use, Gaye. Not any more. Write your songs, write your Mass, it does no harm. I shall go on arranging concerts, it does no harm. But it won't save us. . . ."