Read Online Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wallace Stegner
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
Tink himself might have applauded: “Eine feste Burg,” “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring,” “Down by the Salley Gardens.” Martin Luther, Johann Sebastian Bach, William Butler Yeats. That was a civilized bunch of people. All of them, barring the Ehrlichs, could carry a tune. And behold, Sid turned out to be a glee club tenor, Sally Morgan was a real contralto, a rich inherited voice, Larry Morgan could at least sing barbershop, and Dave Stone was a genius on the piano. We rolled our eyes and held long reverberating chords.
“Why, how well you did that!” cried Aunt Emily, and clapped her hands. “You’re practically professional!” We were all applauding ourselves. On the piano bench Dave nodded gravely and beat his hands together. We were full of self-congratulation and the discovery of a shared pleasure. And there sat the impossible Ehrlichs, smiling and smiling, with their useless book open and their mouths shut, hating what they envied.
After a while Charity saw their discomfort, and sent a look across the room to Sid, who stood up and wondered if anyone was getting dry. Several of us answered his call, and as we stood with glasses in our hands, prepared for more choral song or whatever Charity’s agenda had in mind, Sid picked up a volume of Housman’s poems from a table, opened it, and said in his light, pleasant, hurried voice, “Listen. I’d like your opinion on something. Listen.”
“Shhhhh!”
Charity said. “Sid has a question for you poetry critics.”
We hushed. Sid stood by the piano, cleared his throat, waited for full quiet, and read, taking it seriously. I didn’t know it then, but this was one of his roles—starting an intellectual hare.
EASTER HYMN
If, in that Syrian garden, ages slain
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.
But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
We stood or sat, waiting. “What’s the question?” Dave Stone asked.
“Does it satisfy you? Is it good Housman?”
“Satisfy how? It’s good Housman, sure. It’s a good poem. It should be read aloud every morning in Madrid and Barcelona.”
“Larry, does it satisfy you?”
“Sure. I believe in all that unquenched hate. I guess I didn’t know Housman was tempted by Christianity, though.”
“Exactly!” Sid cried. “Exactly! Doesn’t that strike an odd note, for him—that plea for salvation? That’s not the old stoic. That’s not the fellow who said ‘Play the man, stand up and end you / When your sickness is your soul.’ It makes me wonder if he really wrote this. He didn’t publish it, it’s one his brother found among his papers. You know what I think? I think Lawrence Housman got the stanzas mixed. I think he printed the stanzas in the wrong order. Wouldn’t it be more Housman if they were reversed? If it ended ‘Sleep well and see no morning, son of man’? ”
As a diversion, it was successful. We were all pretty high, we were all the kind of people for whom reading poetry aloud—lily parties, we used to call them—is neither odd nor sissy. A brisk argument ensued. We went to other volumes of Housman for corroborations, and volumes of Housman led us to other poets. Before long we were ransacking the packed bookshelves so we could read some favorite. That was how, within a few minutes, Sally and I, but mainly Sally, managed to give the Ehrlichs the coup de grâce.
Looking through the shelves to nail down some point or other, I found an
Odyssey
in Greek. I was astonished. Why should Sid, who I was sure didn’t know Greek, own Homer in the original? An affectation, like Ehrlich’s pipe? A feel for
“Why, how well you did that!” cried Aunt Emily, and clapped her hands. “You’re practically professional!” We were all applauding ourselves. On the piano bench Dave nodded gravely and beat his hands together. We were full of self-congratulation and the discovery of a shared pleasure. And there sat the impossible Ehrlichs, smiling and smiling, with their useless book open and their mouths shut, hating what they envied.
After a while Charity saw their discomfort, and sent a look across the room to Sid, who stood up and wondered if anyone was getting dry. Several of us answered his call, and as we stood with glasses in our hands, prepared for more choral song or whatever Charity’s agenda had in mind, Sid picked up a volume of Housman’s poems from a table, opened it, and said in his light, pleasant, hurried voice, “Listen. I’d like your opinion on something. Listen.”
“Shhhhh!”
Charity said. “Sid has a question for you poetry critics.”
We hushed. Sid stood by the piano, cleared his throat, waited for full quiet, and read, taking it seriously. I didn’t know it then, but this was one of his roles—starting an intellectual hare.
EASTER HYMN
If, in that Syrian garden, ages slain
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.
But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
We stood or sat, waiting. “What’s the question?” Dave Stone asked.
“Does it satisfy you? Is it good Housman?”
“Satisfy how? It’s good Housman, sure. It’s a good poem. It should be read aloud every morning in Madrid and Barcelona.”
“Larry, does it satisfy you?”
“Sure. I believe in all that unquenched hate. I guess I didn’t know Housman was tempted by Christianity, though.”
“Exactly!” Sid cried. “Exactly! Doesn’t that strike an odd note, for him—that plea for salvation? That’s not the old stoic. That’s not the fellow who said ‘Play the man, stand up and end you / When your sickness is your soul.’ It makes me wonder if he really wrote this. He didn’t publish it, it’s one his brother found among his papers. You know what I think? I think Lawrence Housman got the stanzas mixed. I think he printed the stanzas in the wrong order. Wouldn’t it be more Housman if they were reversed? If it ended ‘Sleep well and see no morning, son of man’? ”
As a diversion, it was successful. We were all pretty high, we were all the kind of people for whom reading poetry aloud—lily parties, we used to call them—is neither odd nor sissy. A brisk argument ensued. We went to other volumes of Housman for corroborations, and volumes of Housman led us to other poets. Before long we were ransacking the packed bookshelves so we could read some favorite. That was how, within a few minutes, Sally and I, but mainly Sally, managed to give the Ehrlichs the coup de grâce.
Looking through the shelves to nail down some point or other, I found an
Odyssey
in Greek. I was astonished. Why should Sid, who I was sure didn’t know Greek, own Homer in the original? An affectation, like Ehrlich’s pipe? A feel for
Similar Books
