Nocturne
(On Theme by Whistler)
“Nuages”
It
was quaint, no more than that, the emblems of leaden strangeness were
deeper and darker then richness they unfold were deeper than that.
The homophonic rhythm with piloplume paucities were transparent to
the ear, and lucent to touch, as hagiographs littered the floor. It
was evening by the immense Seine, which rippled though no sound
action place. It was languid, fluid, and even the water was green, as
it should be, because this was fresh water. Though call it fresh was
as much a euphemism as any word could be, because even the brickness
was part and parcel of the lagoon like waterfall that called this
elaborate.place.
Off
to one side of one of the few boat that turned the water, a man
looked into the deep place and saw his face. In the reflection there
were spires, aping upwards. They were, of course, deciduous trees
gracing the deeply marroon sky, with touches that could be colored
mauve and perhaps even scarlett, had with salmon. He lounged looking
down into the water, and believed that his reflection was not just a
happenstance reflection, but a copy which had its own will. He
watched its face, and where he saw himself as resolute, the
reflection was like chervil - that is to say, it was irresolute with
one half being calm, and the other half enigmatic. He watched his
double, and then looked up in to young men across from him.
“I
did not know, and still do not, what it is about this place, which
draws me still, as if to another world.” That was to be seen
talking almost to and self. He was almost reflecting his inner anger,
and phrasing it so it would capture the way and historian selected
the bonbon of words out of half the evening which they would
conspire. Only to be seen what each word to be the same: an aperitif
washed down by a dream that was like, and yet not like, champagne.
The richness of his elliptical conversation was not lost on his
companion, who was munch away The words of Nadezhda von Meck. She had
hired him to teach one of her children, on an extravaganza to points
in Russia, and everyplace in between. He could not quite place words,
but in effect she had said that this was the most beautiful - and she
meant that in the effeminine way, but with a trace of delight. At the
time he was working on L'Enfant
prodigue, which
he intended to enter in to the Prix
de Rome - and
when the highest honors for his achievement.
She
felt he had excellent chances, because most of the other students,
with one exception, were deadly dull. This was a point of agreement
that they both shared. It was not the only one, and the companion
listened to Debussy stories with rapt attention, though he had only
been with her once. But once was enough to see that Debussy was going
someplace, where as his companion merely was going to listen. But
listening was better than nothing, think of all people who were not
doing great things, nor receiving wisdom, nor listening to the
stories ( that would be Debussy to listen, von Meek's daughter
learning the strokes of his pen, von Meek listening in rapture, and
the companion - this was fourth hand - quietly cavorting to all of
the synopsis unfolding).
If
this seems ornate, that is because Claude - more appropriately
Achille-Claude - wanted it to be that way. Everything was a
reflection scattered to light that bounced off of the stray
shimmering light, until you did not know what was casting which
shadows on to what. This was intended.
“The
is a marvelous - something marvelous and unique, they were Javanese
and they were playing something wonderful, their were gongs and other
forms of clattering and clanging, which overlaid each other in sounds
that were not of the West, but partook of some music unknown to our
ears.”
“I
think I have heard them - they believe the word is gamelan.”
It
was obvious that “yes” would have been the acceptable reply,
which meant that Debussy was of course not going to say it, or
anything like it. But is face reminded him of the subsequent sounds
that echoed, as much as the bangs collapsed in motion. It was if he
was feeling this way through the music, and only then extracted
chords with a eye for how it looked. It was a parade of emotion and
motion, playing over the reeds and lilly pads which floated
effervescent over the murky spiral. Awaiting the early evening, when
the sky starts to shimmer with glistening light of passing day, a day
that is passed, but for an hour, not wholly forgotten by the ravages
of forget-me-not of time.
The
companion stared in to the heavy magnanimous face of the Debussy, if
he had been more observant, he would've recognized the furrowed brow,
heavily set but quite petite in some have forgotten way. But his
companion shimmered and shaped in between the sexuality of hetero and
Homo, neither one quite grabbing the upper hand. So he stroked his
chin, and Debussy gazed back into the river. There was something
about it that fascinated and disturbed, both and neither. And his
companion, though he did not know what it was, could sense it on to
Debussy's face. That divided face shone through again.
There
seemed no reason to look for tremors and rising wood, because Debussy
would see them first, and point them out to his companion. And his
companion would be amazed, at each little thing that Debussy skimmed
from the black geen of the water. In this way they spent their time,
until they knew that it came to the point where they had to go in,
for their was just enough light.
On
to light shadows of forest that transformed almost immediately into
dusk and an oblivious sleep that wrapped inside a group of buildings,
looking there as if they were but tomorrow. Rusty doorframes, and
cause systemic window frames, which captured the light in an eerie
crescent way. And urging them to sleep.
Debussy,
as Shaw want to send in Pygmalion - though a different action verb
accompanied it - was willing to sleep, was wanting to sleep, was
waiting to sleep - but he could not actually do it. The problem you
see, was in his left hand, which had derived a rhythm, completely
separate from what his mind was doing. It was not the noisy,
boisterous, insane, atrocious, almost cascading sound which would
peak out in his thoughs, but instead it was a noiseless rhythm,
perhaps from gamelon.
The
companion only straight have a step, and then, bolted back, with a
look of concern on his face. But Debussy waved him off, though he was
tilted forward, and for all the world looked sick. Of course, his
companion was concerned, though he knew not to show it, at least when
his face could be seen. He did not want to be the man whose face was
imposed on the musical structure, which from time to time had
happened. So his face went back and forwards, looking happy when
observed, and unhappy as Debussy retched on the ground, spackling
away the pebbles in the cause of retching. It was quite a scene, like
looking at a movie, or more properly, a cinescope. The device which
had just been invented, which all the world's composers looked at the
silent film, and imagined what could be the music that would fill in
the details.
Again
remember, Debussy wanted to stand back on himself, and try and fit
himself into the frame. And now he would imagine a picture frame. So
he saw himself both through his eyes, and stepped back a bit, and saw
himself react.
This
was not an uncommon experience with Debussy, both living in the
present, and, in turn, reacting to someone seeing a film in the
future. He imagined it, he loomed it, he washed over it.
Then
he, in the present, stood up and righted himself, as if the retching
never happened. Then he turned to his companion, and cleared his
throat.
“We
must get inside, it is almost quite dark, and you should not be out.”
What
he meant was the sky had imprinted itself on his mind, and he needed
to compose the particular way that it had.
His
companion understood that his time with Debussy was completed on that
day, and wall it was only an hour away from friends, they should
secure lodging.
And
look at the leavings over of the night, with its speckled stars,
gleaming in the vastness of space. It was only 10 years and tell the
Eiffel Tower would stand, so they looked at what might have been the
reminiscence of the past sky.
