Gass - Cartesian sonata and other novellas

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF , INC .

Copyright 1998 by William H. Gass

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

www.randomhouse.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gass, William H.

Cartesian sonata and other novellas / by William H. Gass. 1st ed.

p. cm.

Contents: Cartesian sonataBed and breakfastEmma enters a sentence of Elizabeth BishopsThe master of secret revenges.

eISBN: 978-0-8041-5091-0

1. Didactic fiction, American. 2. Good and evilFiction. I. Title.

PS 3557. A 845 C 37 1998

813.54dc21

97-49462

v3.1

FICTION

Omensetters Luck

In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

Willie Masters Lonesome Wife

The Tunnel

NONFICTION

Finding a Form

Fiction and the Figures of Life

On Being Blue

The World Within the Word

The Habitations of the Word

THESE NOVELLAS ARE FOR MARY

Earlier versions of Cartesian Sonata were published in pieces: The Clairvoyant (called here The Writing on the Wall), in Location 1, no. 2 (summer 1964); The Sugar Crock (called here The Clairvoyant), in Art and Literature no. 9 (1966); and I Wish You Wouldnt, in Partisan Review 42, no. 3 (1975), as well as in The Pushcart Prize (197677). Emma Enters a Sentence of Elizabeth Bishops (then in the form of a short sketch) appeared in The Iowa Review 24, no. 2 (1994), and subsequently in Hard Choices: An Iowa Review Reader (Iowa University Press, 1996). The final version came out in Conjunctions (1998), and in its final form, with photographic illustrations by Michael Eastman, in Conjunctions 30.

This is the story of Ella Bend Hess, of how she became clairvoyant and what she was able to see.

There was nothing in her childhood to suggest it. Her gift was the gift of the gods, not a natural product of her past, I am sure of that. It was a true gift: free and undeserved, as beauty is supposed to be, or the descent of the dove: inexplicable and merciless.

Marvelous is what I mean. Miraculous. Mysterious? Surely not a word so weak. Yet it has to begin with an m.

You see how little pride I have, to let you watch me fumble. I could have sent that wretched word away and written what I wanted, youd have been no wiser; but I havent got that kind of courage anymore, the courage of the liar. My will, somewhere along the way, has grown most deathly tired; now I have the scruples of a worn-out thieffierce, painful scruplesand I wish I could recover everything Ive stolen from my stories over the years; maybe then my angry blood would quiet. Of course, they do catch up, these phrases that Ive condemned, poor awkward creatures, and occupy my dreams. They remind me of a row of prisoners, rapping on their bars. They shout their names and shout their names. I laugh with all my nerves. Well prison is my only metaphor.

Is it right or honest? After allElla Bendwhere is she? Isnt she as much in all those scraps I threw away as in the scraps I saved? Threw away, mind you, when they held her name. Where else did she have her life? Id given her a long nose, I rememberno good reason why. Now her nose is middling. I made her sing a bawdy songa poor idea. And I cut the nursery scene entirely, the whole scene, you understand, where she comes in, more than half asleep, the baby bawling, frightened, pawing at the darkness, helpless as a beetle on its back. When Ella touches him she shares his skin and feels him stiffen. Just then she understands the dreadful quality of his confusion. Her mouth falls open. She strikes the air.

Ive never had the experience myself. How would it be to bump things like a spider? Anyway, there were too many principles against the passage.

I didnt give her a long nose exactly. She had a long nose. Now its gone. I decided she looked too much like a witch, and since she really was a witch, it wouldnt do to have her look precisely like one. If I werent honest youd never know; youd think her nose was middling. So it is. My god, dont blame poor authors. Think how shameful it would be to say: Ella Bend had a long nose, which I shortened to a middling one because a middling one made her look less like a witch, although a witch is what she was. You wont find many whove got the guts. They make a cheap productskimp on the goods. If you want my advicedont buy.

Passage is the right word. Passage. Every sentence is a passage. So I changed her life; changed it; not in advance but afterward, after it was over. Thats real magic for you, not the merely manual kind. What is this art but the art of appearance? I make bright falsehoods to blind the eye.

Maybe it was merciless I meant. Beauty is often a curse, and I suppose clairvoyancy could be. Now: what do I mean? You realize that time has passedanother thing the cheapskates hide. Time. Whole weeks. A lot happens. My mother dies. I am caught by a famous disease. Or nothing happens. My mother does not die. I am not caught by a famous disease. Do I still intend whatever it was I did? Ella Bend is lucky to be alive. I have a terrible pain in my head. Of course shes dead. But not yet. She doesnt die in the story. At the moment all she has is an altered nose and nervous eyes. Think if that were all you were.

Cassandras curse wasnt clairvoyancy. It was not being believed. Suppose it had been Cassandra who saw but who also disbelieved. That would have been more interesting.

I wonder if you understand about that m. The other day I idly scribbled twelve of them in the margin of a canceled page: mmmmmmmmmmmm. They doubtless affected my mind. I was writing away, the descent of the dove and all that, when I caught those ms in the corner of my eye. Thats how I came to feel some force in its direction. But, good lord, why? Could anything be more absurd? Would God create that way?

Look at them again: mmmmmmmmmmmm. Hear the hum. Isnt that the purply dove? the witches mist? Its Ella Bend in receipt of her gift. Her eyes fill.

The dove descends, says here you are, accept it and forgive. Her eyes fill.

There was nothing in her childhood to suggest it. She was pudgy. Shed worn a red coat that buttoned to her chin, scratching her neck; Sallydale highshoes, secure as a mothers love, the salesman said; thick stockings with tight elastic tops; bloomers that cut her skin; severely woven braids tied with pale fluttery bows; and wool mittens that itched when her hands began to sweat. The salesman had a case that folded out impressively. Even Ellareen had hoped hed fold it out again. He unlidded and unpleated it. It was a polished black sample tray with shiny chrome catchesa shoes-in-the-box, Ellahen had saidand everyone had laughed, Ellareen putting her hand on Ellahens colorless head, deciding right then to buy her a pair; and the box undid itself, legs sliding out, secret after secret coming until the shoes were there, even yellow ones, red, very vulgar and beautiful, making Ellareen feel like an Indian, covetous and primitive. The salesman was talking and smiling. He had fine hands and smooth black hair.