Part 1

Violists, by Richard McGowan

(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, tête-à-tête).

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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 café. Seated at a tiny marble table, they had a delightful tête-à-tête, 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.