ÒI spoke of my acquaintences in various ways throughout my life. Occasionally, I contradicted myself, and IÕm not ashamed of that. I changed my mind about those people, and thereÕs nothing shameful in that. These people simply changed, and so did I.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH
Ê Ê Ê Ê Another cliche thatÕs very true despite its overuse is Òeasier said than done.Ó If you were to make that statement a thesis, my life could prove it without really working to. Easier said to write an ÒacceptableÓ piece than to actually do it. Easier to say one can keep a concert absolutely secret than to have it happen. Very easy to say that friends will never die, and yet easy to say you want to finish yourself. Even with a simple plan, you know, to sit down at the piano and play through a piece, there can always be complications.
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I say complications in playing, IÕm not referring to the obvious unfamiliarity in sightreading, the absolutely expected occurrence of playing a few or many wrong notes. Those problems, so to speak, shouldnÕt completely halt progress, you know. If they did, there would be no fine musicians in the world. The complications I refer to are more individualized, so to speak; that is, not every musician playing even the exact same piece would have to deal with quite the same issues. In fact, IÕve heard others play my quartet much better than I did personally (disregarding that I played it on the piano and they in the correct medium). One might say thatÕs oddÑI wrote the piece, I understand it better, and therefore I should play it best. As it were, their reason for my perfection, so to speak, was actually the bane on my performance. Yes, I wrote it, and I understand it all too well. Each phrase, measure, note, rest has deep significance that stirs up dark, hopeless feelings within me each time I hear them. I come to tears when I hear that piece, and so I did when I played it. And thatÕs why I can never finish it, you know. IÕve sat down and tried again and again, but IÕm not capable of playing completely through the quartet nonstop. My emotions break me apart, and the piece also. While I may play sections the most from heart, the complete work holds a greater impact, and so a quartet playing it in whole is better than I. They hear the music and maybe understand parts, but it has no power to incapacitate them like it does to me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I sat down for my first attempt immediately upon completion of the quartet, I didnÕt figure IÕd have such interruptions, so to speak. If IÕd actually been able to compose the piece through free-reigning tears, taking breaks only when forced by day, I should have had no problems actually playing. But that postulate didnÕt finish the proof there; I was wrong. Perhaps more atmosphere and circumstance were what affected me than content. Perhaps thatÕs what I recall when I hear the piece now. ZlayaÕs great hall was dim and silent, only silvered windowlight from above casting illumination over the piano. I laid the score out in front of me, but I think I would have relied more on my memory anyway had there been sufficient light. Sitting down and staring at the keys, my mind raced with the reminder: This is your last piece, Mitya Shostak. Your last piece. Make it good. So theyÕll remember. Mitya Shostak, your last piece.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I started playing very softly, barely brushing the keys, barely letting out a sound. Hesitantly, though, I did crescendo to the dynamic IÕd written, making it cry out at its actual magnitude. At first I only paused briefly before each section, inhaling deeply and with a shudder. Approaching the second movement, I was given a rude reminder, so to speak, of my purpose. War, wounds, crying, death. Last piece. I mouthed the words, already damp eyecorners drizzling tears again. Approaching the solo in the middle of the second movement, I kept playing, but said it aloud: ÒThis is my last piece.Ó And the third movement, the dance, the shots, I paused and spoke it again, ÒLast piece!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê And so it went, the pauses becoming longer and more frequent, my paws less willing to hold to planned motions across the keys. I was getting myself vengeance, I was granting myself a relief to let that all out, and yet I was torturing myself. My tears rolled forth as freely as water after a floodwallÕs just been broken down. And between or in the middle of it all, I repeated like some insane mantra: ÒThis is my last piece! This is my last piece!!!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I donÕt recall exactly how far I got into the piece. It doesnÕt really matter now, but IÕd like to wish and believe that I just maybe got all the way through it that once. It can be certain, though, that I was making a great deal of noise with all my playing, shouting, and sobbing. My initial goal, youÕll recall, was to attract the attention of the guards. Well, I succeeded at that handily, in addition to bringing forth a few higher profiles, so to speak. As the guards stormed with a confused fury into the hall, Vsevolod Zloyevich approached at his own metered pace, expressionless as usual but posing the simple, sinister question, ÒIf thatÕs your last, where are the ones for me?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my state of helplessness I was still angry inside, angry he cared so much about something clearly so useless while I was still quite uncaring about the fate of my very life at the time. I before then and now wouldnÕt stand up to someone with such powerÑcall me a coward if you will. But I stopped playing, looked right at him, and repeated my phrase. ÒThis is my last piece!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê What happened after that could have very well come straight out of a work of fiction. Zloyevich clearly wasnÕt pleased by my hysterical, unthought response, so he moved toward me with a purposeful sinister glint in his eyes. The guards that quite literally surrounded the piano in a ring followed the inward closure, trapping me as a central focus pinned to the piano bench, so to speak. I think I would have swiftly gotten what IÕd bargained for then if, not unlike some secret-identity superhero, Marshal Raikh broke into the circle, glaring at Zloyevich and the guards. She too, I was certain then, was going to kill me in the end, you know, but her higher authority halted Zloyevich for then, a fact for which I wasnÕt completely grateful at the time.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think Raikh and Zloyevich exchanged a few words, but I donÕt recall them and they also donÕt matter. The end result was, though, that the guards retired, Raikh gripped my wrist in one paw and my music in the other, and she ordered, ÒCome on, Mitya.Ó I followed with a stumble; she led me, of all places, to the old study.
Ê Ê Ê Ê We sat down at the desk at which I did most of my composition, Raikh opposite me. Her face was straight, though in a much different way than ZloyevichÕs always was; I was still hysterical inside, racked outwardly with resultant tremors. Neither of us spoke for quite some time, actually enough time for me to somewhat restrain myself, you know, to calm down physically anyway. It was an awkward silence, more awkward than even my usual agitated nervousness. I surprised myself, you know, as I was the one to finally break the eerie still, stating with a waver, ÒWell, thatÕs it, you know, thatÕs it. YouÕre going to kill me now, arenÕt you?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh maintained the silence a little while longer, almost as if my words had been part of it. When she finally made her input, though, it was businesslike yet calm, the real breakthrough into the air and my understanding. ÒI agree with the System, I like what it means,Ó she began, Òideally. ZlayaÕs interpretation is wrong.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I thought that a rather odd opening statement, especially when the matter in my mind was still whether or not I died then. But I didnÕt bring it upÑnobody wants to hear thoughts like that, and IÕm sorry to you readers for it. Definitely not wanting to hear another lecture about the System from a high-ranking Mtsensk official, yet unconsciously agreeing about ZlayaÕs interpretation of things in general, I settled nevertheless to let Raikh pour her story out to me. ItÕs curious that so many creatures complained out their emotions to my pathetic ears, but it happened and I could only listen.
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒIf the System was operated ideally, it would work well and everybeast would be happy, everybeast would be equal. ThatÕs what I saw it would be when it first started. IÕm much older than you, Mitya, this was probably before you were born or when you were very, very young. Nyevyerniy Ydyeal, the first leader, promised an ideal system, and thatÕs why I signed up to fight for him. We gained an area to start from; I got promoted to where I stand for my service. But after that initial conquering, Zlaya managed to get Ydyeal killed off somehow and took over from him, then went above the whole System. I can see how perhaps a ruler would have to be slightly above to maintain control, but not as far as Zlaya went. Under Ydyeal, weÕd intimidated many creatures into conforming, I confess, but Zlaya kept up the intimidation. She turned it into outright oppressionÑyou know that better than mostÑand thatÕs not fit for the benefit of the District. If sheÕd not been so relentless, creatures might have seen the beauty of the Ideal System and gone with it, but Zlaya didnÕt let them see that and wouldnÕt be capable of upholding that. SheÕs a control freak, and the System doesnÕt call for that. SheÕs no equal benefit.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh paused there, looking me over, startling me with a look right in the eyes as I tried to take in her words in addition to that stare. I still said nothing, still trembled. I would have cut her off had I tried to speak.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh continued: ÒIdeally, the standard of living would be equal, and the people, not one creature, would pick whatÕs beneficial. And I know that the arts would count as beneficial. Music never actually hurt anybody. Beasts get hurt for listening to and for writing music, but the actual notes never hurt a soul. Dislike is a completely different matter. And I donÕt even dislike it. When it was possible, IÕd go to concerts of music by creatures like Zunov, Rimskor, Travin, Sorgsky, and Ofiev, among others. If IÕd ever learned to play an instrumentÑand I wish I hadÑI would have learned to play their music as well. Before they were all banned, of course. IÕve been much less tolerant since then, IÕve been less able to handle other injustices. Everybeast needs an escape; Zlaya took away mine and yours.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh examined me again, looked into my confused eyes again. ÒI love your music, too, Mitya Shostak. YouÕre a genius, pure and simple. ThatÕs why IÕve been helping you."
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH
Ê Ê Ê Ê Another cliche thatÕs very true despite its overuse is Òeasier said than done.Ó If you were to make that statement a thesis, my life could prove it without really working to. Easier said to write an ÒacceptableÓ piece than to actually do it. Easier to say one can keep a concert absolutely secret than to have it happen. Very easy to say that friends will never die, and yet easy to say you want to finish yourself. Even with a simple plan, you know, to sit down at the piano and play through a piece, there can always be complications.
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I say complications in playing, IÕm not referring to the obvious unfamiliarity in sightreading, the absolutely expected occurrence of playing a few or many wrong notes. Those problems, so to speak, shouldnÕt completely halt progress, you know. If they did, there would be no fine musicians in the world. The complications I refer to are more individualized, so to speak; that is, not every musician playing even the exact same piece would have to deal with quite the same issues. In fact, IÕve heard others play my quartet much better than I did personally (disregarding that I played it on the piano and they in the correct medium). One might say thatÕs oddÑI wrote the piece, I understand it better, and therefore I should play it best. As it were, their reason for my perfection, so to speak, was actually the bane on my performance. Yes, I wrote it, and I understand it all too well. Each phrase, measure, note, rest has deep significance that stirs up dark, hopeless feelings within me each time I hear them. I come to tears when I hear that piece, and so I did when I played it. And thatÕs why I can never finish it, you know. IÕve sat down and tried again and again, but IÕm not capable of playing completely through the quartet nonstop. My emotions break me apart, and the piece also. While I may play sections the most from heart, the complete work holds a greater impact, and so a quartet playing it in whole is better than I. They hear the music and maybe understand parts, but it has no power to incapacitate them like it does to me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I sat down for my first attempt immediately upon completion of the quartet, I didnÕt figure IÕd have such interruptions, so to speak. If IÕd actually been able to compose the piece through free-reigning tears, taking breaks only when forced by day, I should have had no problems actually playing. But that postulate didnÕt finish the proof there; I was wrong. Perhaps more atmosphere and circumstance were what affected me than content. Perhaps thatÕs what I recall when I hear the piece now. ZlayaÕs great hall was dim and silent, only silvered windowlight from above casting illumination over the piano. I laid the score out in front of me, but I think I would have relied more on my memory anyway had there been sufficient light. Sitting down and staring at the keys, my mind raced with the reminder: This is your last piece, Mitya Shostak. Your last piece. Make it good. So theyÕll remember. Mitya Shostak, your last piece.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I started playing very softly, barely brushing the keys, barely letting out a sound. Hesitantly, though, I did crescendo to the dynamic IÕd written, making it cry out at its actual magnitude. At first I only paused briefly before each section, inhaling deeply and with a shudder. Approaching the second movement, I was given a rude reminder, so to speak, of my purpose. War, wounds, crying, death. Last piece. I mouthed the words, already damp eyecorners drizzling tears again. Approaching the solo in the middle of the second movement, I kept playing, but said it aloud: ÒThis is my last piece.Ó And the third movement, the dance, the shots, I paused and spoke it again, ÒLast piece!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê And so it went, the pauses becoming longer and more frequent, my paws less willing to hold to planned motions across the keys. I was getting myself vengeance, I was granting myself a relief to let that all out, and yet I was torturing myself. My tears rolled forth as freely as water after a floodwallÕs just been broken down. And between or in the middle of it all, I repeated like some insane mantra: ÒThis is my last piece! This is my last piece!!!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I donÕt recall exactly how far I got into the piece. It doesnÕt really matter now, but IÕd like to wish and believe that I just maybe got all the way through it that once. It can be certain, though, that I was making a great deal of noise with all my playing, shouting, and sobbing. My initial goal, youÕll recall, was to attract the attention of the guards. Well, I succeeded at that handily, in addition to bringing forth a few higher profiles, so to speak. As the guards stormed with a confused fury into the hall, Vsevolod Zloyevich approached at his own metered pace, expressionless as usual but posing the simple, sinister question, ÒIf thatÕs your last, where are the ones for me?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my state of helplessness I was still angry inside, angry he cared so much about something clearly so useless while I was still quite uncaring about the fate of my very life at the time. I before then and now wouldnÕt stand up to someone with such powerÑcall me a coward if you will. But I stopped playing, looked right at him, and repeated my phrase. ÒThis is my last piece!Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê What happened after that could have very well come straight out of a work of fiction. Zloyevich clearly wasnÕt pleased by my hysterical, unthought response, so he moved toward me with a purposeful sinister glint in his eyes. The guards that quite literally surrounded the piano in a ring followed the inward closure, trapping me as a central focus pinned to the piano bench, so to speak. I think I would have swiftly gotten what IÕd bargained for then if, not unlike some secret-identity superhero, Marshal Raikh broke into the circle, glaring at Zloyevich and the guards. She too, I was certain then, was going to kill me in the end, you know, but her higher authority halted Zloyevich for then, a fact for which I wasnÕt completely grateful at the time.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think Raikh and Zloyevich exchanged a few words, but I donÕt recall them and they also donÕt matter. The end result was, though, that the guards retired, Raikh gripped my wrist in one paw and my music in the other, and she ordered, ÒCome on, Mitya.Ó I followed with a stumble; she led me, of all places, to the old study.
Ê Ê Ê Ê We sat down at the desk at which I did most of my composition, Raikh opposite me. Her face was straight, though in a much different way than ZloyevichÕs always was; I was still hysterical inside, racked outwardly with resultant tremors. Neither of us spoke for quite some time, actually enough time for me to somewhat restrain myself, you know, to calm down physically anyway. It was an awkward silence, more awkward than even my usual agitated nervousness. I surprised myself, you know, as I was the one to finally break the eerie still, stating with a waver, ÒWell, thatÕs it, you know, thatÕs it. YouÕre going to kill me now, arenÕt you?Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh maintained the silence a little while longer, almost as if my words had been part of it. When she finally made her input, though, it was businesslike yet calm, the real breakthrough into the air and my understanding. ÒI agree with the System, I like what it means,Ó she began, Òideally. ZlayaÕs interpretation is wrong.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê I thought that a rather odd opening statement, especially when the matter in my mind was still whether or not I died then. But I didnÕt bring it upÑnobody wants to hear thoughts like that, and IÕm sorry to you readers for it. Definitely not wanting to hear another lecture about the System from a high-ranking Mtsensk official, yet unconsciously agreeing about ZlayaÕs interpretation of things in general, I settled nevertheless to let Raikh pour her story out to me. ItÕs curious that so many creatures complained out their emotions to my pathetic ears, but it happened and I could only listen.
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒIf the System was operated ideally, it would work well and everybeast would be happy, everybeast would be equal. ThatÕs what I saw it would be when it first started. IÕm much older than you, Mitya, this was probably before you were born or when you were very, very young. Nyevyerniy Ydyeal, the first leader, promised an ideal system, and thatÕs why I signed up to fight for him. We gained an area to start from; I got promoted to where I stand for my service. But after that initial conquering, Zlaya managed to get Ydyeal killed off somehow and took over from him, then went above the whole System. I can see how perhaps a ruler would have to be slightly above to maintain control, but not as far as Zlaya went. Under Ydyeal, weÕd intimidated many creatures into conforming, I confess, but Zlaya kept up the intimidation. She turned it into outright oppressionÑyou know that better than mostÑand thatÕs not fit for the benefit of the District. If sheÕd not been so relentless, creatures might have seen the beauty of the Ideal System and gone with it, but Zlaya didnÕt let them see that and wouldnÕt be capable of upholding that. SheÕs a control freak, and the System doesnÕt call for that. SheÕs no equal benefit.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh paused there, looking me over, startling me with a look right in the eyes as I tried to take in her words in addition to that stare. I still said nothing, still trembled. I would have cut her off had I tried to speak.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh continued: ÒIdeally, the standard of living would be equal, and the people, not one creature, would pick whatÕs beneficial. And I know that the arts would count as beneficial. Music never actually hurt anybody. Beasts get hurt for listening to and for writing music, but the actual notes never hurt a soul. Dislike is a completely different matter. And I donÕt even dislike it. When it was possible, IÕd go to concerts of music by creatures like Zunov, Rimskor, Travin, Sorgsky, and Ofiev, among others. If IÕd ever learned to play an instrumentÑand I wish I hadÑI would have learned to play their music as well. Before they were all banned, of course. IÕve been much less tolerant since then, IÕve been less able to handle other injustices. Everybeast needs an escape; Zlaya took away mine and yours.Ó
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh examined me again, looked into my confused eyes again. ÒI love your music, too, Mitya Shostak. YouÕre a genius, pure and simple. ThatÕs why IÕve been helping you."