Book: Violists, by Richard McGowan
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Richard McGowan >> Violists, by Richard McGowan
Violists, by Richard McGowan
This file should be named viols10.txt or viols10.zip
(C)1994 Richard McGowan
San Jose, California
January 22, 1994
TEXTUAL NOTE: In this edition words of French origin in the
text are spelled without their customary accent marks, due to
the limitations of the ASCII medium. It is the author's intent
that they be spelled with accents whenever possible (e.g., gateau,
tete-a-tete).
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PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
"Violists" began to germinate early in December last, as Christmas
approached. I originally intended that it be ready before the new
year, but alas, it came in behind schedule, and was not completed
until January. It is still winter in some places--the right season
for such morsels--so rather than let the work languish upon the shelf
for another year...
Somewhere out there on The Net, I hope there is a solitary reader
settled comfortably in a warm study with a nice cup of tea. Perhaps
the lights are out, and the amber glow of the terminal spreads faint
warmth through the room; overstuffed bookshelves loom behind in the
darkness. If the evening air is crisp and a soft snow is falling
outside the window, so much the better--a view of icicles would be a
magical touch.
-- Richard McGowan
San Jose, California
January 22, 1994
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VIOLISTS
by Richard McGowan
(Opus 22)
1. Gretchen in the Library
2. The Hungarian Lightbulb
3. Christmas Concert
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GRETCHEN IN THE LIBRARY
In winter the interior of the university library was hardly
warmer than the outside, and it was terribly drafty. The sole
difference between the interior and exterior, Gretchen often
remarked to herself, was that the latter received an occasional
snow. The library at least was dry. On most days in the
unfrequented areas--the closed stacks on the second and third
floors--one could see one's breath in the middle of the afternoon.
Gretchen thought it hardly the sort of climate she would have
chosen for her own books. But the cost of heating such an enormous
building--well, she decided she could hardly imagine so extravagant
a sum. On the coldest days, she often wore two petticoats. She
found the best method of staying warm, though, was to bustle as
quickly as she could. Primarily, she worked in the stacks,
extracting books for the library's patrons and reshelving books
that had returned--and keeping the shelves in good order.
Gretchen's twenty-ninth birthday had arrived--quite too
quickly--the day before, and she bustled with an excess of alacrity
to relieve her mind from the brooding that had occupied her for
several days. She had spent the evening alone, though she knew
it did her no good to seek solitude. To accept being past her
prime of life would be simpler perhaps, and productive of less
anguish, than fretting over what could not be changed. She was
nearly thirty, though--and she knew what lay in store for her a
few years hence. She had only to look at the assistant reference
librarian, Miss Sadie, to see how she herself would be in but a
few more years. The thought nearly made her shudder, and if she
allowed herself to think too deeply upon the matter, might have
brought her to tears. Thankfully, Gretchen told herself, she
could grow old among the books, where at least she had the company
of great minds--or their legacy--rather than spend a life straining
in a factory--or under the yoke of an old-fashioned man.
She had been estranged from her family for six years and
rarely given them serious thought since fleeing Connecticut.
A simple enough row it had been to start--what should she do now
that she had finished university? Of course her father recommended
marriage and settling into the domestic life--a pretty girl like
her. Him and his antiquated ideals--a pretty girl in the kitchen,
indeed! At twenty-three she had finally come to her senses and
refused to marry the young man to whom she had been betrothed,
no matter how well matched her father thought they were.
Her mother had frequently confided to Gretchen her views on
the varied pleasures--and trials--inherent in marriage, admitting
that as the years passed she found the pleasures perhaps not
worth the other hardships--the outward subjugation of her own
feelings and the constant deference she was required to display
within the confines of that marriage, as if she had no independent
mind. Gretchen had long since determined that would not be her
fate. She had come to believe that no suitable man could be
found, yet she remained unsatisfied. The only true regret she
had about casting off her family ties was that she had disappointed
her mother. It was her mother who had worked so hard, really,
to see that Gretchen had an education; her father only begrudgingly
went along for the sake of domestic tranquility when all efforts
to dissuade her had failed.
At university Gretchen had imbibed the rarefied intellectual
atmosphere with increasing eagerness and found herself drawn
irresistibly up the slopes of Parnassus. She had always intended
to work after completing university--and work she did, though
she had difficulty making due with what employment she could
find. Even a superlative education, she had learned in six years,
did not buy one certain rights or reasonable wages. She hoped
that she would yet see the flowering of an age that she could
call an enlightened one. She might have been bitter had she
higher material aspirations, but she was content with little in
the way of physical comforts. Why the privilege of spending
nearly all her days in the library would have been worth almost
any sacrifice--what need had she of wages!
It was lamentable, she decided, that she should have to
forgo marital companionship if she were to retain her
individuality--for the price of her freedom was a monumental
sort of loneliness that only the severest mental discipline could
overcome. She had seen so many of her school friends smothered
in the clutches of bad marriages, worn out beneath their husbands'
heels--almost like doormats. To be truthful there were those
who seemed to prosper in the state of matrimony, but she thought
them few. Yet, she still had an abiding fear that she would grow
old alone--and soon enough become as obdurate as Miss Sadie--
a pitiable spinster with none of the finer sensibilities left to
her. Was there no man, Gretchen wondered, with whom she could
share her life and interests--a man with progressive ideas?
Not a man that she, like a tiny moon, would orbit eternally,
but one with whom she could find a state of mutual orbit. Well,
she thought, something of that nature anyway. Her knowledge of
astronomy was not up to the task of finding a better analogy,
and she resolved to remedy that as soon as she was able.
She added another volume--'something concerning the heavens' she
called it--to the list of books she thought she really must read.
Gretchen bustled, thinking these thoughts, dreading her next
birthday. She blew softly on a wisp of auburn hair that had
somehow escaped from the green ribbon with which she tied it back
that morning. Several strands had somehow got into her mouth
but her arms were too full of books--heavy tomes, all--to pull
them away with her fingers. She was on the verge of setting down
the burden and tending to her hair for a moment when, as she
turned a corner into the next row, a shadow fell across the
topmost book in her arms. She glanced up in surprise. A man
stood mere inches in front of her--and looked up to find her
bearing down upon him with a full head of steam--even as he
stepped toward her.
"Oh!" she cried, attempting to stop herself. The books slid
irretrievably from her grasp, their pages flying open with a
flutter.
The man's arms shot out. "The books!" came his cry of
astonishment as they tumbled about him. He tried to catch a few,
left and then right, but alas they fell--all but one--to the
floor with a dull clatter.
"Oh dear," Gretchen whispered, looking down. She feared
she had bent a few pages, and putting a hand to her mouth knelt
immediately to gather them all. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," she
continued in a rush as she piled books one after the other.
"My clumsiness..."
"Think nothing of it, Miss," the man replied lightly.
"It's my fault. I do hope _you_ were not harmed by _my_
clumsiness..." He knelt then, and began to place books upon
her stack, starting with the volume he had saved from falling.
The lucky book was one of the late Mr. Darwin's, and when he
glanced momentarily at the spine she blushed deeply despite
herself--for she had that day finished reading it, and was
returning it to its rightful place. She knew that he had seen
her cheeks color.
Gretchen looked around, and seeing there were no more stray
books, prepared to pick up the stack again. She stood up to
catch her breath and smooth her wool skirt, arching back her
shoulders. Looking down at the man, she finally remembered to
blow the wisp of hair from her face. He was looking up at her
and positively beaming--clean-shaven and light complected, she
noted--but the smile faded almost instantly to a faint curling
about the corners of his lips.
"Please accept my apologies," he stated, still kneeling upon
the floor. "I will have to be more careful." His hair was
dishevelled--great curly locks of jet black, and he laughed
nervously as he brushed it from his eyes. He peered at her with
eyes so black, yet so kindly, that Gretchen found herself blushing
again and put a hand to her chest. The man stopped for a moment
to adjust his shirt and coat, then stood slowly, and with the
hint of a bow, swept past her and away. Unaccountably, she felt
suddenly light-headed and sat down upon the floor by her books.
His eyes! she exclaimed to herself with an outrush of breath.
She felt that in an instant they had devoured her; had known all
about her. She could not recall ever having seen such lively
and intelligent eyes--so deep and black they seemed like windows
opening onto a starlit sky. And his hand! when he placed the
last book upon the stack--the nails so trim. His hands were
almost feminine, and finely wrought. Gretchen gradually composed
herself, then picked up her books and continued about her work.
* * *
Several times thereafter in the course of a fortnight Gretchen
saw the same young man about the library, and they developed an
acquaintance that began and ended with nodding pleasantly and
wishing each other "good day". She thought him quite the most
interesting patron she had seen in the library for... she knew
not how long--perhaps never in the two years she had been there.
He was flamboyant, certainly, Gretchen decided, but he had not
that rakishness or arrogance that so often accompanies one who
is as smart a dresser as he seemed. Her thoughts chanced to
light upon him sometimes, and within the fortnight, she decided
he must be attached to the university. Perhaps a professor--well
certainly not a full professor, he was far too young and had not
grown into that masculine stuffiness that comes with long
tenure--and his physique was trim. No, she decided, he was
probably a fresh young assistant to an elder professor.
"Gretchen, dear." Miss Sadie's voice crackled behind her
in a very strange manner and Gretchen looked around. "I do fear
I'm catching some contagion, dear," Miss Sadie continued in a
whisper, "can you possibly mind the desk until closing?"
Gretchen hesitated for a moment. She had worked long enough
in the library to feel at ease, and with classes already in recess
for the Christmas holidays, there were few patrons. "Of course,
Miss Sadie," she answered. "I do hope you're feeling better
tomorrow."
"If not, I shan't be in," Miss Sadie replied in a very weak
tone. "I'll--I'll try to send word."
"I'll see to everything, Miss Sadie--just take care of
yourself." She paused. "And I'll inform Mr. Johnson--it's no
trouble at all." With a smile and a pitying wag of her head,
she added, "Take good care of yourself."
Miss Sadie thanked her, and took her leave. Gretchen was
alone, at last, if only for an evening, as temporary queen of
the reference desk. Well, it was about time she was asked to do
something besides fetch books, she thought airily, and took a
seat at Miss Sadie's desk. Miss Sadie was not very neat for a
librarian, she thought, wiping a finger across the desk, so she
began to tidy a few things up. She put down a fresh blotter and
arranged the papers in a more orderly manner, then opened a drawer
in search of a cloth. Really, Miss Sadie is the epitome of
disorganization, she muttered, seeing the jumble. It's a wonder
that a woman like her can retain such a position.
Bing-bing! Gretchen looked up suddenly when the bell upon
the front counter sounded. Standing there with his hand poised
above the bell was the young man.
"May I be of assistance?" Gretchen asked, in her most
librarian-like tone.
The young man smiled. "I sincerely hope you can. I wonder
if you might be able to help me find this book?" He held out a
small slip of paper between two fingers. "It doesn't appear to
be in the open stacks."
Gretchen glided to the desk and took the slip of paper from
him. A glance at the number was sufficient. "You're correct,"
she told him, handing the paper back. "It's in one of the special
collections."
"I wonder, then, Miss..." He paused, drawing out the word
into a silence, until Gretchen felt obliged to fill the audible gap.
"Haviland," she offered in a whisper.
"Miss Haviland. Could you help me locate it?" He smiled
with the slightly curling lips he always wore. Not condescending,
she decided--perhaps amused, or even flirtatious.
Gretchen stood flustered for a moment. Patrons were not
allowed into the special collections--they were under lock and
key. Should she leave the reference desk unattended while she
fetched it for him? In the interim, what if another patron had
pressing business? A preposterous quandary, Gretchen then told
herself. "Of course, Professor," she replied crisply. "Let me
bring the key."
The young man laughed then, with a toss of his head so that
his black curls flopped into his eyes. He suddenly sighed, with
an exaggerated look of defeat, brushing back his hair. "Do I
appear so like a professor, Miss Haviland? How did you know?"
It was Gretchen's turn to be amused, and she smiled as she
went to Miss Sadie's desk drawer to bring the key. "You have
not the air of a student, Professor..." she drew out the word
in a manner imitative of his previous query, until he had to
break into a wondrous smile.
"Bridwell!" he exclaimed, and rapped four fingernails once
upon the desk. "Employed only this year--in the English
department."
"Professor Bridwell," she continued, imparting a certain
air of coquetry to her words, "your dress is frankly too
punctilious for a student; and if I might be so tactless,
you seem... more evolved, shall we say."
Having drawn out the key, she beckoned him to follow.
They ascended the back staircase--likewise taboo for patrons.
All the while Gretchen thought how to exonerate herself should
she be caught by one of her superiors while leading a patron--
alone--into the inner sanctum. She decided the best approach
would be to plead ignorance--"Oh," she could say, "I had no idea
that professors were considered ordinary patrons." Would that
be sufficient excuse?
The book was easy to find, and Gretchen put herself to no
particular difficulty--but nevertheless, Professor Bridwell's
thanks were profuse. He consulted the book--which could not
leave the library--for an hour or more. On departing he returned
the book to the counter. He inclined his head, with the
now-familiar flop of his curly hair, and said, "I do hope to have
the pleasure again, Miss Haviland."
Gretchen watched from Miss Sadie's desk as he departed
through the foyer and down the steps leading out. She closed her
eyes for a moment and sat quietly after he had left--simply savoring
the moment. A faint scent lingered behind him: a distinctive
cologne that left quite a favorable impression on her.
* * *
Gretchen attended a short afternoon concert on campus.
It was the last student recital of the season, and she had heard
tell of the program: the afternoon was to open with mazurkas by
Chopin and a selection of those divine "Transcendental Etudes"
by Liszt--she could not stay away. Chopin was an aperitif,
followed by a few mildly diverting piano works by students.
Then, she sat breathless and transported--utterly transported,
halfway to tears upon a bed of clouds--through the etudes of
Liszt. In particular she had never heard the "Harmonies du Soir"
more beautifully rendered.
After an intermission, which she spent simply sitting quietly,
pondering the exquisite delicacies of Liszt's piano writing, the
second part of the concert opened with Vivaldi's "The Four
Seasons", performed by an intimate ensemble rather than with the
full complement of strings. The performers were students, to be
sure, but she found it delightful nonetheless. When the "Autumn"
season opened, she even felt a sudden chill in the air--the
performance was so wonderfully effective--and she pulled her
shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She chanced then to
look across the audience, and thought that several rows down, in
front of her, she saw Professor Bridwell. She had no idea he
liked concerts; in fact, she realized that she knew nothing
whatever about him. She was positive it was the professor--even
from the back, there was no mistaking his curly hair. At once
she realized that he rather resembled portraits of Hector Berlioz.
He sat upright, almost leaning forward in a posture that seemed
ready to rise in an instant. She fancied that could she but see
his handsome face, his eyes would be closed, as he was carried
away by the music, blown upon Vivaldi's autumn wind. Why she
was looking at the audience rather than at the orchestra she
really did not know--she forced her gaze away from the professor's
back and tried to concentrate again upon the music. But her
effort was unsuccessful.
When the concert was ended, Gretchen fairly ran to the exit,
and stood there at the door, looking back across the auditorium.
Yes, it was he, she saw finally. He was coming up the aisle and
she glimpsed his face among the swarm of bodies. He appeared to
be alone; he spoke to nobody. She stepped out of the way and
kept looking across the audience, as if seeking someone else.
He soon arrived, and when he walked past, she turned and looked
at him, as if suddenly noticing him for the first time.
His smile was as delightful as always. "Good evening,
Miss Haviland," he said, with a tone of warmth.
"Good evening, Professor." Gretchen thought that he slowed
for a second or two, but she felt acutely embarrassed to be
observing him too closely, and looked away toward the crowd again.
He continued walking.
When the professor had passed, Gretchen let out her breath
slowly. Into the thick of the crowd she plunged, and went out
through the lobby. Evening had come on and it was dark outside.
Vast hordes were dispersing across the plaza, pouring from the
auditorium. As she stepped into the bitterly chill air and
started down the stairs, a voice hailed her from behind.
"Are you alone, then, Miss Haviland?"
Gretchen whirled around at the sound of the professor's
voice, in time to see him laugh briefly. He was standing just
outside the doors, facing outward, his greatcoat pulled tightly
around himself.
Gretchen went to stand on the step below. "Actually, yes,"
she replied, looking up. "I am alone. I came by myself on a whim."
"It's quite chilly this evening," he said, stepping down
once. They started down the stairs beside each other. "Would
you fancy a cup of coffee, by chance, before making your way home?"
Gretchen smiled. He certainly had a forward manner; but
she found it refreshing, and--after all, she had really been
seeking him, had she not? "Why, that sounds like a delightful
diversion, Professor. I believe I shall."
With that, they set off together across the plaza. Gretchen
started immediately upon a likely topic of conversation: the
concert they had just attended. It was instantly evident that
Professor Bridwell had found the Liszt etudes as breathtaking as
she had. And during the Vivaldi, as well, he agreed that he had
felt a sudden chill at precisely the same time as she.
"The ensemble did well," she concluded. "I suppose that is
the way Vivaldi would have heard the work too--none of these
large, modern orchestras quite out of proportion to the delicacy
of the music."
"The modern orchestra," stated the professor, "is well enough
suited for modern works, but really, the intimacy required for
performing earlier works--as Vivaldi for instance--is really lost
in the great crowd of strings."
"Agreed."
Presently they came to the campus gates and found their way
to a small cafe. Seated at a tiny marble table, they had a
delightful tete-a-tete, and found much to agree upon regarding both
the performance, and the subject of music in general. Though he
had not quite her madness for Liszt, he agreed with Gretchen's
assessment of the "Transcendental Etudes"--divinely inspired,
and, like much of Liszt's work, nearly beyond the reach of mortals.
Gretchen was on her second coffee and feeling rather giddy.
She could hardly hold her cup steady, and she finally set it down
with a laugh.
"Do you play an instrument, Professor?" she asked, pushing
her cup away with one hand.
"Well, I would not so much call it playing the instrument,"
he answered, "as playing _at_ the instrument."
"I see," she laughed. "Rather the way I play _at_ the
viola--though I daresay you speak of Liszt's writing as if you
have some experience with it."
The professor seemed rather at a loss for an instant.
He glanced away over Gretchen's shoulder, but recalled himself
quickly and lifted his cup to his lips, meeting her eyes again.
"I do admit I have _tried_." He set his cup down while reaching
into his vest pocket, as if searching for something. "But really,"
he continued, "I haven't the technique. How about yourself, Miss
Haviland? I take it you do rather well yourself, upon the viola."
Gretchen blushed, realizing that she must have sounded
boastful just then. The professor seemed not to have taken it
in stride--she realized that this must have accounted for
his momentary loss for words. "Well," she said then, settling
herself forward upon her chair. "At one time--when I was quite
young, you understand--I fancied I would perform upon the
instrument. But..."
"Ah." Professor Bridwell smiled. "Then, other interests
swept you away, no doubt. But still you play?" He had pulled
a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket, and he turned it
over in his fingers.
"Oh, indeed." Gretchen sighed deeply. "I suppose, with
all modesty set aside, I was adequate on the instrument--but
adequacy in a performer is hardly to be tolerated..." Before he
could reply, she rushed onward, feeling her face flush.
"I certainly do not practice with any regularity of late!"
Professor Bridwell laughed. "I daresay--at our time of
life--leisure hours seem so unobtainable..." He looked at his
cigarette case, polishing it with a thumb. Seeming to think
better of smoking just then, however, he returned the case to
his vest pocket.
Gretchen's smile was thin. She inclined her head,
acknowledging the truth of what he said--they were indeed probably
of an age. Certainly, she thought he could be no more than
thirty-three or thereabouts. "Then, too, music, while an engaging
diversion, and the source of much happiness, is better shared,
wouldn't you say Professor?" He nodded slightly, and Gretchen
clarified her statement. "That is to say--practicing is all very
well, but...the joy of music is in sharing it with one's
friends--musical soirees and evenings in the parlor with a roaring
fire. Old friends gathered around the piano--and champagne!--"
Professor Bridwell warmed to her words, and rubbed his hands
together as if before the very fire she had mentioned. "You have
hit it precisely," he replied with enthusiasm. "Why--it's no
wonder that living, as I do, alone in a house that I fear is far
too large for..."