ÒAn artist on stage is a soldier in combat. No matter how hard it is, you canÕt retreat.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 Everything has a climax, every single thing thatÕs not completely static. If it has any change or forward drive at all, thereÕs going to be a climax somewhere along the line. For a lump of coal, that climax point might be when pressure suddenly transforms it into a diamond. For a plant, the moment it flowers and can produce seed. For a creature, one might say itÕs either the Òbest day of their life,Ó or the day they did something after which there was much changeÑthat is, the day they perhaps did their purpose. ThereÕs a feeling to days like that, and though IÕm still pretty young, I know that feeling.
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature still is more likely to associate the idea of a climax with a piece of literature (or music). True, itÕs easier to see a climax there, but all literature (and most music, of course) is based on real life. A work of fiction, no matter how bizarre it is, always has some concrete real basis. And a work of fiction always has a very clear, exaggerated climax. But nonfiction, that is real real life, shows the climaxes more than mental consideration might. A paper with a thesis comes to its climax with its strongest support. An account of a conflict peaks with the turning-point decisive battle. And, of course, a biography or memoirÑa life on paperÑtakes the same climax point as the actual occurrence. It may not seem as personal or significant, it may never hold that feeling in written words, but there is undeniable excitement in a climax nevertheless.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of all the places IÕve been, Mtsensk has the smallest number of windows. ItÕs mostly darkÑto fit its demeanor, you knowÑand itÕs therefore quite easy to lose track of time and sleep late there. Redwall is perhaps a complete opposite. The stained-glass and clear crystal windows catch each ray of light as it climbs over top the horizon, and each ray in turn gets shot, bent, and dappled across the entire Great Hall. Asleep on the piano bench in the corner of the hall, I dreamed in an odd red light. I woke up and a patch of stained-glass red slanted across my nose. I think it may be nice to wake up to cheerful colors, but the red wasnÕt cheerful in that circumstance. It was ominous then, and that wasnÕt a reminder I needed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Perhaps I should say that nothing was a needed reminder. I hadnÕt actually dreamed about the confrontationÑif I had, IÕm certain I would still remember it todayÑbut thoughts from the evening returned in the morning, along with the discomfort of having slept on a small wooden bench, along with the discomfort of not having had anything to eat in quite a few hours. The latter two complaints were of much lesser concern, though. Those are average discomforts, so to speak, but the discomfort of having othersÕ lives in your paws (especially to a composer, who only ever controls notes) is enormous. ItÕs very fortunate that situations involving that anxiety and discomfort donÕt arise too incredibly often, and when they do only a select few poor souls are stuck with that feeling. In Redwall then, it was my turn.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers also mobilized for the day very early, as first indicated by the clanging of pots from the kitchen. I mostly ignored that, though the smells that eventually emitted from the same area were much easier to get lost in. That was fortunate, I suppose now (later), but at the time I scolded myself, so to speak, for not focusing myself on what I had to do. I think now that I was rather stupid to fixate so much on the issue. It may have better helped my nerves to briefly drop the topic and help set the big table in the hall or eventually help carry out the food, if the friar would let me. But I was fixating elsewhere at the time, and the idea didnÕt occur to me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê It became clear that the confrontation, so to speak, would occur in the morning, over breakfast. My guess is that the Redwallers wanted to get it overwith so Zlaya could leave. IÕll also guess Zlaya was happy with the arrangementÑthe later the so-called conference waited, the greater of a chance somebeast would go outside and notice the soldiers. IÕm certain that if IÕd had to wait longer, I would have had a full-blown nervous breakdown. As it were, I wasnÕt able to take even slight advantage of the wonderful Redwall food. My stomach buzzed and my paws fidgeted in an extreme agitation far beyond my usual level. It was actually physically difficult to get food between the twoÑif my mind had actually cared anything about food at the time. In the end, I downed a small scone and one glass of juice. Hares at the table found that amount amusingly meager, while I felt it to be far too much.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was seated across the table from Zlaya and Zloyevich, and they still pretty much ignored me. Our seats were put at a slight separation from the rest of the diners. We were at the very end, which was also occupied by RedwallÕs badger Mother. Zlaya and Zloyevich spoke exclusively to each other. The badger contributed to the general chatter of the Redwallers, occasionally tilting her ear toward the two from Mtsensk (I was never from Mtsensk, even though I was in uniform). I was left to my own private, personal sphere of worry.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Well into the meal, the badger rose and rapped the table, vibrating it to get the attention of all present. Getting their eye contact, she announced lacklusterly, ÒWe have some visitors from the Mtsensk District.Ó A paw vaguely gestured toward the three of us. Zlaya and Zloyevich rose.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to the badger, frozenly polite. Zloyevich sniffed, not fully satisfied with the introduction. ÒYes, IÕm the Honorable Vsevolod Zloyevich, Advisor of Relations in the Mtsensk District. WeÕve come a long way to visit you, and it wasnÕt a trip we made simply because we fancied a trip. We have a distinguished motive for making this trek, and we hope it will positively impact the both of us, Mtsensk and Redwall. But IÕm not going to talk to you about it. ItÕs too important for even me. I might add with pleasure that you have the tremendous fortune of getting to see Empress Zlaya Trudnaya of the Mtsensk District. She in person shall announce the terms of our idea.Ó Even with his flowery language and beloved propaganda drip, ZloyevichÕs voice was disturbingly even. It was not quite a monotone; it was alive to be worrisome while unenthusiastic.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to Zloyevich, assuming she needed no further introduction. ÒYes,Ó she announced, her icy voice still more dynamic in just that single word. ÒBut first, my distinguished Court Composer is going to play for us. IÕm certain you know Mitya Shostak.ÓÊ Ê Ê Ê
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers certainly did know me, and their distinguishable comments were mixed. A great many seemed absolutely ecstatic to get to hear me perform my own music. A large portion of others, however, expressed how theyÕd lost respect for me when they saw my uniform. Whatever the case, I took that as my cue to take the piano bench. I tottered over extremely nervously and seated myself next to a young volemaid who would serve as a page-turner. I remember looking back at the crowd at the table and thinking, This is probably the last time IÕll ever play for an audience of this size.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I immediately knew I needed to warm up with another piece first before embarking upon my actual purpose. Running a quick scale, I launched right into my Fanfare for Mtsensk and played all the way through it. The response afterwards was subdued; IÕm fairly certain that those who applauded did so only because that was polite. I gulped, but IÕd honestly expected such a reaction to a piece I personally reviled. Not letting any commentary come out of it, I quickly set up my manuscript and began the newer, significant piece. The RedwallersÕ pleasure at the switch was audible.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I played in an odd manner that day, not so much in sound but in mindset. Of course I was sickeningly nervousÑIÕve made that all too clearÑand I had to drive through that somehow. One might say I was distracted and very focused all at once. I wanted very much to turn around and look at the faces of all the creatures in the audienceÑI wanted to see their expressions, to see as they either understood my message or they didnÕt. But I couldnÕt look. That would have thrown me. I kept my eyes turned toward the music, though I donÕt think I needed to. In my distraction, I couldnÕt have been getting the notes from the page. They came from somewhere else, and I think I must have played more expressively than my usual style. The voleÕs smooth page turns made no interruption to my pattern. And I somehow got through the whole piece.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I suspect that if I had looked over at the table while I was playing, I would have seen Zlaya trying hard to restrain herself in her chair. As the Redwallers applauded extensively but nervously (nervous, I hope, for my message), she rose and walked toward the piano, slowly at first, calmly, but speeding up and intensifying. At about ten feet away, she lunged at me suddenly with a growl of deep rage. And she misjudged. The lid of the piano had been up to improve the sound, and she hit the bar holding it up. The bar dislodged, and in a split second the heavy lid fell and crushed ZlayaÕs right paw inside the piano. I jumped back in shock, the poor little vole ran with tears streaming down her face to her mother, and Zlaya produced such a sound of pained rage that could only be described as primordial.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya had no intention of giving up, and I think the staring eyes of the Redwallers set her into a sort of Bloodwrath. She tossed and yanked and jumped trying to free her paw, the other paw slashing at the air. If it hadnÕt been such a drastic situation, it might have been comical. But my fear wasnÕt comical, and ZlayaÕs horrible screaming wasnÕt either. Nor was her triumph over the piano a farce. In some enormous will to live and kill, Zlaya ripped her paw freeÑliterally. It had snapped at the wrist and was barely still attached to her forearmÑsurely so badly aggravated from her struggle and bleeding very profusely. I remember just how it looked despite the flailing, but IÕll spare you the details.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Then Zlaya came after me. She lunged at me with that horrible paw, that primitive scream, her teeth, fur, and eyes madly white. At first, I must confess, I was rooted to the spot, but another mostly wayward blow separated my spectacles from my face. Then I panicked. Squinting madly, I lifted the page-turnerÕs chair and put it in front of me, using it to fend Zlaya off, thrusting in pure defense. That is, until I say the blurred metallic glimmer of what could have only been a knife or dagger. The blade could have dismantled my chairÑand then myself. I swung the chair blindly with my entire strength, and I found grim fortune. There was a crack, and Zlaya slumped down holding her head with her good paw. I dropped the chair and tried to figure out if IÕd knocked her down.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya Trudnaya moved slightly, glaring with an inconceivable hate that was clear even in my nearsightedness. She seemed as if she was perhaps going to say something, but she ended up only coughing many times in a row, then silencing completely. IÕm not certain if it was blood loss, concussion, or her own insanity that killed her.
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 Everything has a climax, every single thing thatÕs not completely static. If it has any change or forward drive at all, thereÕs going to be a climax somewhere along the line. For a lump of coal, that climax point might be when pressure suddenly transforms it into a diamond. For a plant, the moment it flowers and can produce seed. For a creature, one might say itÕs either the Òbest day of their life,Ó or the day they did something after which there was much changeÑthat is, the day they perhaps did their purpose. ThereÕs a feeling to days like that, and though IÕm still pretty young, I know that feeling.
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature still is more likely to associate the idea of a climax with a piece of literature (or music). True, itÕs easier to see a climax there, but all literature (and most music, of course) is based on real life. A work of fiction, no matter how bizarre it is, always has some concrete real basis. And a work of fiction always has a very clear, exaggerated climax. But nonfiction, that is real real life, shows the climaxes more than mental consideration might. A paper with a thesis comes to its climax with its strongest support. An account of a conflict peaks with the turning-point decisive battle. And, of course, a biography or memoirÑa life on paperÑtakes the same climax point as the actual occurrence. It may not seem as personal or significant, it may never hold that feeling in written words, but there is undeniable excitement in a climax nevertheless.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of all the places IÕve been, Mtsensk has the smallest number of windows. ItÕs mostly darkÑto fit its demeanor, you knowÑand itÕs therefore quite easy to lose track of time and sleep late there. Redwall is perhaps a complete opposite. The stained-glass and clear crystal windows catch each ray of light as it climbs over top the horizon, and each ray in turn gets shot, bent, and dappled across the entire Great Hall. Asleep on the piano bench in the corner of the hall, I dreamed in an odd red light. I woke up and a patch of stained-glass red slanted across my nose. I think it may be nice to wake up to cheerful colors, but the red wasnÕt cheerful in that circumstance. It was ominous then, and that wasnÕt a reminder I needed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Perhaps I should say that nothing was a needed reminder. I hadnÕt actually dreamed about the confrontationÑif I had, IÕm certain I would still remember it todayÑbut thoughts from the evening returned in the morning, along with the discomfort of having slept on a small wooden bench, along with the discomfort of not having had anything to eat in quite a few hours. The latter two complaints were of much lesser concern, though. Those are average discomforts, so to speak, but the discomfort of having othersÕ lives in your paws (especially to a composer, who only ever controls notes) is enormous. ItÕs very fortunate that situations involving that anxiety and discomfort donÕt arise too incredibly often, and when they do only a select few poor souls are stuck with that feeling. In Redwall then, it was my turn.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers also mobilized for the day very early, as first indicated by the clanging of pots from the kitchen. I mostly ignored that, though the smells that eventually emitted from the same area were much easier to get lost in. That was fortunate, I suppose now (later), but at the time I scolded myself, so to speak, for not focusing myself on what I had to do. I think now that I was rather stupid to fixate so much on the issue. It may have better helped my nerves to briefly drop the topic and help set the big table in the hall or eventually help carry out the food, if the friar would let me. But I was fixating elsewhere at the time, and the idea didnÕt occur to me.
Ê Ê Ê Ê It became clear that the confrontation, so to speak, would occur in the morning, over breakfast. My guess is that the Redwallers wanted to get it overwith so Zlaya could leave. IÕll also guess Zlaya was happy with the arrangementÑthe later the so-called conference waited, the greater of a chance somebeast would go outside and notice the soldiers. IÕm certain that if IÕd had to wait longer, I would have had a full-blown nervous breakdown. As it were, I wasnÕt able to take even slight advantage of the wonderful Redwall food. My stomach buzzed and my paws fidgeted in an extreme agitation far beyond my usual level. It was actually physically difficult to get food between the twoÑif my mind had actually cared anything about food at the time. In the end, I downed a small scone and one glass of juice. Hares at the table found that amount amusingly meager, while I felt it to be far too much.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was seated across the table from Zlaya and Zloyevich, and they still pretty much ignored me. Our seats were put at a slight separation from the rest of the diners. We were at the very end, which was also occupied by RedwallÕs badger Mother. Zlaya and Zloyevich spoke exclusively to each other. The badger contributed to the general chatter of the Redwallers, occasionally tilting her ear toward the two from Mtsensk (I was never from Mtsensk, even though I was in uniform). I was left to my own private, personal sphere of worry.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Well into the meal, the badger rose and rapped the table, vibrating it to get the attention of all present. Getting their eye contact, she announced lacklusterly, ÒWe have some visitors from the Mtsensk District.Ó A paw vaguely gestured toward the three of us. Zlaya and Zloyevich rose.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to the badger, frozenly polite. Zloyevich sniffed, not fully satisfied with the introduction. ÒYes, IÕm the Honorable Vsevolod Zloyevich, Advisor of Relations in the Mtsensk District. WeÕve come a long way to visit you, and it wasnÕt a trip we made simply because we fancied a trip. We have a distinguished motive for making this trek, and we hope it will positively impact the both of us, Mtsensk and Redwall. But IÕm not going to talk to you about it. ItÕs too important for even me. I might add with pleasure that you have the tremendous fortune of getting to see Empress Zlaya Trudnaya of the Mtsensk District. She in person shall announce the terms of our idea.Ó Even with his flowery language and beloved propaganda drip, ZloyevichÕs voice was disturbingly even. It was not quite a monotone; it was alive to be worrisome while unenthusiastic.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to Zloyevich, assuming she needed no further introduction. ÒYes,Ó she announced, her icy voice still more dynamic in just that single word. ÒBut first, my distinguished Court Composer is going to play for us. IÕm certain you know Mitya Shostak.ÓÊ Ê Ê Ê
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers certainly did know me, and their distinguishable comments were mixed. A great many seemed absolutely ecstatic to get to hear me perform my own music. A large portion of others, however, expressed how theyÕd lost respect for me when they saw my uniform. Whatever the case, I took that as my cue to take the piano bench. I tottered over extremely nervously and seated myself next to a young volemaid who would serve as a page-turner. I remember looking back at the crowd at the table and thinking, This is probably the last time IÕll ever play for an audience of this size.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I immediately knew I needed to warm up with another piece first before embarking upon my actual purpose. Running a quick scale, I launched right into my Fanfare for Mtsensk and played all the way through it. The response afterwards was subdued; IÕm fairly certain that those who applauded did so only because that was polite. I gulped, but IÕd honestly expected such a reaction to a piece I personally reviled. Not letting any commentary come out of it, I quickly set up my manuscript and began the newer, significant piece. The RedwallersÕ pleasure at the switch was audible.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I played in an odd manner that day, not so much in sound but in mindset. Of course I was sickeningly nervousÑIÕve made that all too clearÑand I had to drive through that somehow. One might say I was distracted and very focused all at once. I wanted very much to turn around and look at the faces of all the creatures in the audienceÑI wanted to see their expressions, to see as they either understood my message or they didnÕt. But I couldnÕt look. That would have thrown me. I kept my eyes turned toward the music, though I donÕt think I needed to. In my distraction, I couldnÕt have been getting the notes from the page. They came from somewhere else, and I think I must have played more expressively than my usual style. The voleÕs smooth page turns made no interruption to my pattern. And I somehow got through the whole piece.
Ê Ê Ê Ê I suspect that if I had looked over at the table while I was playing, I would have seen Zlaya trying hard to restrain herself in her chair. As the Redwallers applauded extensively but nervously (nervous, I hope, for my message), she rose and walked toward the piano, slowly at first, calmly, but speeding up and intensifying. At about ten feet away, she lunged at me suddenly with a growl of deep rage. And she misjudged. The lid of the piano had been up to improve the sound, and she hit the bar holding it up. The bar dislodged, and in a split second the heavy lid fell and crushed ZlayaÕs right paw inside the piano. I jumped back in shock, the poor little vole ran with tears streaming down her face to her mother, and Zlaya produced such a sound of pained rage that could only be described as primordial.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya had no intention of giving up, and I think the staring eyes of the Redwallers set her into a sort of Bloodwrath. She tossed and yanked and jumped trying to free her paw, the other paw slashing at the air. If it hadnÕt been such a drastic situation, it might have been comical. But my fear wasnÕt comical, and ZlayaÕs horrible screaming wasnÕt either. Nor was her triumph over the piano a farce. In some enormous will to live and kill, Zlaya ripped her paw freeÑliterally. It had snapped at the wrist and was barely still attached to her forearmÑsurely so badly aggravated from her struggle and bleeding very profusely. I remember just how it looked despite the flailing, but IÕll spare you the details.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Then Zlaya came after me. She lunged at me with that horrible paw, that primitive scream, her teeth, fur, and eyes madly white. At first, I must confess, I was rooted to the spot, but another mostly wayward blow separated my spectacles from my face. Then I panicked. Squinting madly, I lifted the page-turnerÕs chair and put it in front of me, using it to fend Zlaya off, thrusting in pure defense. That is, until I say the blurred metallic glimmer of what could have only been a knife or dagger. The blade could have dismantled my chairÑand then myself. I swung the chair blindly with my entire strength, and I found grim fortune. There was a crack, and Zlaya slumped down holding her head with her good paw. I dropped the chair and tried to figure out if IÕd knocked her down.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya Trudnaya moved slightly, glaring with an inconceivable hate that was clear even in my nearsightedness. She seemed as if she was perhaps going to say something, but she ended up only coughing many times in a row, then silencing completely. IÕm not certain if it was blood loss, concussion, or her own insanity that killed her.
