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Prologue
The Art of Pollyphony
Treble Cleft
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Prologue
The following are two fanciful tales based on events in my life some 40 years ago.
I was near the end of a year of graduate study in Mathematics at the University of South Carolina when, one day in the Music Building, a young woman entered my practice room. She told me that she was a singer and was in need of an accompanist. Was I interested? I was indeed, having been bitten by the bug of German Lieder earlier that year.
She told me her name was Polly Harney. She had just graduated from high school there in Columbia, and was going to study Voice at Brigham Young University in Utah that fall. Her parents ran the concession for Fort Jackson. She was a Mormon (she once offered me 'The Book of Mormon' to read, but I declined it.)
The strangely interesting thing about Polly was that she had a cleft palate. Naturally this had a profound influence on her singing - not just the pronunciation, but the very character of the vocal tone itself. Everything had a pinched quality to it.
But very soon I found out that those deficiencies did not really bother me, for the reason that the notes were the same in the art songs that she sang, and I loved playing them. (More briefly stated: Polly was my First Singer.) And so we made music together (but only literally: we did not seem to be attracted to one another) for the remainder of the summer (we even gave a small concert for her relatives and friends, where we performed the English ditty detailed in the stories below.)
The summer ended and we went our separate ways - Polly to B.Y.U. (I have taken poetic license in the tales below with her choice of schools) and I to West Virginia University. I assumed I would never see or hear from her again. Then one day the phone rang: it was Polly and she was frantic. She told me she had to write pieces for her Theory class; she had flunked her first attempt, and now needed a 'Two-Part Invention in the Bach Style' right away. I told her I'd give it a try, and soon had something decent to mail her. (I didn't ask her how she might be reconciling her actions with the B.Y.U. Honors Code!)
A couple of weeks later I heard from her again: she needed a 'Three-Part Fugue in the Bach Style.' This was a far greater challenge than the Invention, but one I thought I could meet. And I did meet it. When I called Polly to tell her it was in the mail I told her immodestly, 'I should warn you - it's pretty good!' 'That's OK,' she replied, 'I'll just throw in some parallel octaves' [i.e. deliberate errors in counterpoint.] 'Don't you dare change a single note!' I sternly rebuked her.
I heard from Polly one more time: she needed an 'Organ Chorale-Prelude in the Bach Style' - the sort of piece that I as an organist was certainly qualified to write. But I had grown tired of this game: I'd proven I could write that sort of music, and enough was enough. I didn't reply to Polly's request, and I never heard from her again. (Unfortunately I was never to find out how she explained her incredible improvement to her teacher - or the just-as-sudden decline again of her abilities!)
And that was that - until a few years later, when I recalled that the eminent composer/writer Ned Rorem had been in residence at the University of Utah the very year Polly was at B.Y.U. It was then that I conceived of the idea of the composer-detective who applies his musical knowledge to solve a mystery. When I found out that, by some wild coincidence, Ned Rorem's companion's surname was 'Holmes', I knew I had to write this tale! (A bit more poetic license: Ned Rorem and Jim Holmes were not living together until a coup1e of years after these narratives take place.)
And so I extrapolated ahead from my last contact with Polly as if I had written those additional pieces. The end of such a process was a final exam consisting of a piece to be written in class. What would we do? It seems clear that I'd have to fly out there and somehow find a way of writing her piece for her. What transpires - my meeting/conversation with the eminent composer and the answers to his final question - is found in the first tale below.
I wrote the second tale out of feelings for conservation, namely: I regretted wasting a perfectly good cleft palate in the first tale. In the process, I made Polly (I hope) an interesting character in her own right. Accordingly, the character of Ned Rorem changes as well.
The two tales are essentially the same for much of the way (though caution: there are at least two significant differences!). But at a crucial point they diverge and thereby become two different stories. I cannot say which is my favorite. However, I can tell what was the most fun to write: it was the last section of the first tale, wherein Ned Rorem describes my 23-year-old self to make his roommate jealous. Talk about narcissism!
(Note: It goes without saying (but I shall say it anyway) that the conversations below ascribed to real persons are works of fiction. In particular, Ned Rorem's last atrocious jokes are wholly my own.)
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The Art of Pollyphony
I. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is James Holmes (call me Jim if you like) - organist, church choir director. I live with the famous (quasi-famous? infamous?) composer/writer Ned Rorem. I am his - what name shall I give to our relationship?
Friend? Ho hum.
Boy Friend? Sounds like high school.
Special Friend? Sounds creepy.
Best Friend? Grade school.
Roommate? Too mundane, too much like, well, college.
Partner? Sounds too much like a business enterprise.
Significant Other? Too busy, too cute.
Consort? This has a wonderfully archaic ring to it. This would be my preference if we didn't have to give such frequent public utterance to our relationship.
Lover? A bit too narrow, direct - and blunt.
Resident Stud? This is Ned's not-so-secret preference.
Companion? A bit bland, but the one I prefer for public consumption.
Whatever the appellation, Ned and I cohabit a house here in Salt Lake City, where he is Composer-in-Residence at the University of Utah for the 1967 Winter term.
Frankly, I wondered last fall whether we'd be coming here after all. Ned made one of his wonderfully impolitic statements that help keep life with him a little more interesting and off kilter. When a reporter asked him about his new gig, Ned replied, 'Utah is such a boring state, it'll be good for my work.' That quote wound up in TIME, and Ned had to quickly backtrack so as to smooth ruffled Utahan feathers.
Well, whether or not Utah was boring before the arrival of Ned Rorem, it will certainly not be now that he has arrived! And to find proof of that, we need look no further than the table across the room here, whereon are stacked several copies of a book hot off the presses. It is 'The Paris Diary of Ned Rorem.'
It may be cold outside, but I would be surprised if this stack of books doesn't burn a hole right through that table! For therein is an account of not only his friendship with some of the greatest minds of the century (Poulenc and Cocteau, among others), but his voraciously libertine sexual mores. The fact that he has slept with over 1000 men (and, by mistake (he claims), one woman), including four TIME magazine covers (their identities remain a closely guarded secret), should serve to wake up stodgy Utah a bit!
Ned ingenuously dismisses all of this as 'so much useless hoopla.' For one thing, now that he is living with me he is monadrous. Then, too, he never tires of reminding anyone who will listen that he is 'a composer who happens to write, rather than a writer who happens to compose.' Facts concerning public taste, however, tell a different story: an overwhelming majority of Ned Rorem aficionados are adherents to his pungent prose (including his cogent music criticism) and know no musical compositions by him. Ned is not unaware of this essential irony concerning his metier. But he continues to compose, saying darkly, 'The frustration of being nonexistent keeps me awake.'
II. It was a snowy evening in early February, as I recall it. Ned and I were having a quiet working evening at home (he was looking over his recently completed opera 'Miss Julie' for possible performance by the University Opera Department.) There was the sound of the door knocker. I jumped up to answer it.
A snow-covered man stood on our doorstep. 'Is this the domicile of Ned Rorem?' I replied that it was.
'I am Joseph Smith, Professor of Theory in the Music Department. May I come in?'
He was invited in, divested of his snowy garments, and given a choice seat by the`fire. Then Ned asked what he could do for him.
'Well, I'm afraid it's a matter of some delicacy...' began the Professor.
'...which is usually a matter of the utmost indelicacy!' quipped Rorem.
'...as well as some mystery,' continued Mr. Smith.
'I like a good mystery - please proceed,' I interjected.
'Well, I have a question for you,' he said to Ned. 'Do you know a music student named Polly Harney?'
Rorem said that he didn't. 'What might this have to do with me?'
'Well, Polly Harney is a student in my Music Theory class. And I have pretty strong reason to believe that she handed in a composition that wasn't her own. And, as I am confident that no one else on the faculty would have done this for her, and as you are new here...'
There was an awkward pause. Then Ned said, his voice with a bit of an edge:
'You think I may have done it?'
'Well, I don't really know you and...'
'You think I would allow a student to affix her name to one of my compositions?' Ned, incredulous, was becoming angry.
'Well, I didn't know...'-
'One thing you certainly don't know is me, sir!'
I knew Rorem's famous temper. So I hastened to intervene.
'Maybe we should see the piece that Ned Rorem claims he didn't write.'
The professor opened his leather satchel and removed two pieces, which he laid out on the table. One said 'Partita,' the other ' Two-Part Invention.' I noticed each had been given a grade: the first 'F', the second 'A-'.
'You can see the enormous difference between the two efforts', the Professor said.
I looked and saw. 'The first is virtually illiterate.' Indeed, it looked like someone had used musical notes as a decoration rather than to write a piece. The second was neatly written out and looked to be a bona fide piece. Rorem picked it up.
'So this is what I am supposed to have written?' He burst into incredulous laughter: 'Why this is archaic - I wrote pieces like this when I was ten!'
The Professor: 'Well of course, it is meant to be in the style of Bach.'
As the situation had clearly become absurd, Ned had calmed down and even saw some humor in it. 'I'd like to hear my piece in the style of Bach. Jim - would you oblige us?'
We went to the piano and I played through the piece. It was a sturdy two-part piece - perhaps too aggressive for an Invention, but a decent piece nonetheless. 'Do you notice anything?' asked the Professor.
Being the more academic of the two of us, I answered: 'Well, for one thing there are no errors in counterpoint - it's perfect in that respect.'
'Exactly!' replied the Professor. 'That is what made me really suspicious.'
'Did you tell her so?'
'Well, yes - discretely. When I asked if she could play the Invention, she replied, 'I'm a composer, not a pianist!' (Ned: 'That's chutzpah!') When I pressed her some more she burst into tears and wailed that I didn't appreciate how much she'd improved ('More chutzpah!') At that point I backed off. There is an Honor Code in our department, and hopefully her conscience will kick in one of these days.'
At this point Rorem noticed the grades. 'What are these?'
The professor explained. Rorem asked him what his criteria were for grading. I wanted to warn the professor about Ned's aversion to grades but he spoke too quickly.
'Well', began the professor, 'If a piece shows the student doesn't understand the rudiments of music, they receive an 'F'. As Polly did in the first piece.'
'Why not just dip them in boiling oil?' said Ned.
The professor stared at him. 'A simple 'F' is usually enough.' Then he continued, 'If they know music, but their piece doesn't address the assignment, they get a 'D'.'
'Off with their heads!' roared Rorem. The professor shrugged. 'Perhaps all this is boring you.'
'No, no, not in the least. As a matter of fact, I find it highly entertaining! Pray continue - I'll behave.'
The Professor, a somewhat humorless man, continued: 'Demonstrated knowledge of the assignment gets the student anything from a 'B+' to a 'C-', depending on the quality of the understanding.'
'And an 'A'?' I asked with genuine curiosity.
The Professor smiled. I could actually see his chest puff out with pride. 'Ah yes, an 'A',' he exclaimed. 'That is a grade reserved for those whose work shows they have absorbed not merely the style but the substance of Bach as well.' When neither of us said anything, he added: 'They become Bach, in essence!' His face beamed with self-satisfaction.
Finally Ned said, 'You mean you give them your highest award when they disappear?'
The Professor was a bit taken aback at this: 'What do you mean?' he asked.
'Well, you said the student assumes the identity of Bach in his piece. This means his own identity as a composer is submerged.'
Ned was a composer who held his profession very dear.
'My dear Ned, it's only a Theory assignment!' I said.
'Theory today, Practice tomorrow!'
I thought I'd better deflect this before our visiting Professor was really insulted by Ned. 'Who is this student who has shown such improvement in her work?'
'Polly Harney is a voice major in the School of Music. There seems to be nothing remarkable about her, except for the rather extra-ordinary fact that she has a cleft palate.'
Rorem's ears perked up at this. 'What's that you said?'
'Yes, a cleft palate. I personally think it's a brave thing to pursue a singing career despite her handicap...'
'...or because of it,' interposed Rorem. 'Sometimes they set out to prove they can do something despite the handicap. If she had been born with a club foot her chosen career no doubt would have been the ballet.'
Rorem seems to have been a bit much for the Professor, for soon after this our visitor made some excuse to depart. Ned asked whether we could keep Miss Harney's manuscripts for a day or two - a request which surprised the Professor.
After he left, Rorem railed, for the umpteenth time, against German music. 'It is all key relations and fugues and all the rest, which makes it analyzable (accent on the first two syllables.) That's why theory teachers love it!' Of course I took umbrage at this, defending the music I myself loved. I began talking about the great Bach organ Toccata in F, wherein a wonderful balance of keys is set up; and at the very last moment there is the daring lurch into the neapolitan. I became so wrought up that I began to cry! Ned laughed and scoffed: 'Another victim of German music!'
Soon enough he was calm again. He looked at the two scores of Polly. 'The ink already tells us a lot about this so-called composer,' he said. It appeared that the two pieces had been written, or copied, with a Bic pen. 'That says it all about Miss Harney!' he remarked drily. Ned had taken music copying lessons from the master of them all, the composer Virgil Thompson. Of course he wrote in India ink.
'Look at the second piece again, Jim,' Rorem continued. 'Notice how carefully it is copied - too carefully, I'd say. See how each notehead is filled in and is grotesquely large, as if a child had written it. And the stems: some of them are at significant angles from the vertical, though the carefulness would predict they would all be straight up. You see? It's the case of a person copying everything exactly as they see it, because they do not know what is important and what isn't.'
He was about to put down the score when he spied something in the corner. 'Whoops - what's this? A pink stain, and a few traces of powdered sugar? It appears that someone was eating a jelly doughnut while copying this piece! I think we might find that our self-indulgent singer is a bit overweight!'
Ned put the score back on the table. 'This case is not totally devoid of interest, Holmes, but we have exhausted all we can from it at this point. Maybe Professor Smith is dropping the ball on this, but I am inclined to keep working on it. No doubt there will be further developments, for our Polly has now experienced success. And, once tasted, success can be irresistible!'
III. A few weeks later Ned returned home waving some music manuscripts in the air. 'I happened to run into Professor Smith on campus and I asked him how Polly was doing. He was kind enough to lend us her next two masterpieces to peruse for a day or two.' One was called 'Three-Part Fugue in the Bach Style', while the other was 'Chorale-Prelude in the Bach Style.' 'Bach, Bach, Bach!' complained Ned. 'Was nothing written after 1750?!' He knew I knew that Bach died in 1750.
He layed out the first manuscript - the Fugue - for us to look at. 'Do you notice anything, Jim?'
'Well, she seems to have used a Bic pen again.'
'If by 'she' you mean Polly, she didn't copy this piece. The Bic is just used to make us think that she had.'
I admitted that Ned's conclusion escaped me. 'How do you know?'
'Look at the note heads. Do you see how at first they are full and rounded? That's the copyist imitating Polly's previous piece. But of course this process can't go on - it's too laborious and time-consuming. Look at the later ones: they get smaller and smaller; some are hardly more than dots, but you can tell what the notes are from where the stems hit the lines. That's the sign of a real musician who knows what's important and what isn't. (Strictly viewed as a copying job, of course, it's no great shakes!')
'So Polly didn't even have to copy her piece?'
'No - they decided to eliminate the middle woman,' Ned laughed.
Then he said he'd like to play through the piece. Ned Rorem was an accomplished pianist who sight-read well. But he was also a frankophile. Most players would give careful attention to entrances of the subject (which was 'borrowed' from Beethoven's Eroika, as the composer noted wryly in the score.) But Ned played this Bach-like fugue as he would a piece by Rameau, with exaggerated rubati and a feeling for texture rather than individual voices. It was a maddening performance which nearly drove me crazy – and the most interesting of a fugue I'd ever heard.
Meanwhile I was concentrating on the Fugue as a work of art: there were subtleties there to be appreciated by connoisseurs of such things, including a false entrance in the dominant at the recapitulation. Whoever wrote this knew what they were doing.
Suddenly he stopped playing and exclaimed, 'Aha! The tell-tale tenth!'
I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about.
'This is a three-voice fugue,' he exclaimed, 'It follows that at any given moment, one of the hands is dealing with two voices at once. For the most part that's no problem - the two lines are in thirds or sixths. But at one point the two outer voices diverge from the middle one just enough so that, for one beat, they are each an interval of a tenth away from it.'
'Well, and so what?' I was still mystified.
'Most men can reach the interval of a tenth; most women cannot. Ergo, this piece was most likely written by a man.'
I must admit that I would have overlooked this conclusion.
The minor-key Fugue ended with a gloriously radiant tierce de picardy. We then gave our attention to the Chorale-Prelude for organ. Smith had given them the tune 'Wachet Auf' to use: this was the subject of Bach's most famous chorale-prelude; but of course the students were expected to write their own. One glance was enough to show me that Polly's was a lively and spirited setting, very different from the Bach, but nearly as interesting. The pedal parts in particular were worthy of note, jumping about in thirds and seconds, making it, I imagined, fun to play. 'This is very good,' I exclaimed. 'It almost certainly was written by an organist.'
'That is important information,' said Ned. 'There are not a lot of organists around.'
For some reason I turned the organ score over. 'Hello, what sorts of hieroglyphics have we here?' exclaimed Ned. Apparently the composer had been working on a problem and had forgotten to erase it. There were two elongated S's, followed by expressions in x and y. My liberal arts education had prepared me for this: 'I believe this is called a double-integral,' I explained. 'It makes its appearance in advanced calculus.'
Rorem rubbed his hands together. 'This has been a most productive session, hasn't it Jim. We now know that we are looking for a man who is a mathematician, organist, and composer. Now all we need are the 'Who' and the 'Why'.'
IV. Rorem and I were having a relaxed Sunday brunch toward the end of the semester when he suddenly remarked to me, 'Oh by the way, Jim, I'm toying with the idea of going to a vocal recital this afternoon. Would you care to join me?' I asked who the singer was. Ned had made a point of meeting all the members of the voice faculty as soon as we arrived. Some had performed a few of his many songs with him as accompanist.
'It's our contrapuntal genius Polly Harney.'
I was shocked at this. 'My dear Ned! We already know the girl is a fraud - and has a genuine cleft palate to boot!'
'Yes, yes, of course. But you know me - I'm always on the lookout for new singers who possess IT.'
I knew immediately what he meant by 'IT'. It was that ring in the tone that a singer either has or doesn't. Researchers have found that, when this ring is present, it is due to a cluster of overtones at around 2800 cps. Ned would often say that the presence of IT (or '2800' as he sometimes termed it) excused all other vocal problems by a singer: 'All those other problems are correctable', he would say. 'But without IT the singer's situation is hopeless.'
Ned added, 'Actually, there are a few items of information that I need from our friend, and part of it has to do with her singing.'
I shrugged my shoulders and didn't say any more. It seemed pretty clear that Ned was pursuing the problem of who wrote Polly's pieces.
Three hours later we were sitting on folding chairs in a fairly modest room which Polly had reserved for her recital. 'Use a small enough hall, and you can fill it every time!' Ned remarked drily.
The program was typical for a student recital: it consisted of four groups of pieces, each group being dedicated to a particular language. The order here was as it almost always is: Italian, French, German, and finally (the dessert?) English. Ned used to say, 'The idea is to show how versatile one is as a singer. But, sadly, too often it winds up showing how limited one is.'
I noticed there was no intermission to allow us an escape in mid-concert.
The singer and her accompanist duly appeared. Polly was a slim (so much for Rorem's thesis that she was overweight!), not-unattractive young lady. I felt a pang of guilt: perhaps I had prejudged her unfairly. Then she opened her mouth.
Polly sang on pitch, but with a little-girl voice. It did not appear that her teachers had been successful in getting her to support a tone. Her cleft palate distorted about equally every language she tried to sing in. I need hardly add that she did not have IT.
After the first piece Ned whispered to me: 'Rosebud!' I assumed that he meant that her voice was just forming. But that didn't seem sardonic enough for Ned. The concert was half over before I realized that his reference was probably to Charles Foster Kane, whose second wife was a 'Singer' (in quotes.)
We stuck it out to the bitter end. One of the pieces in English was the ditty whose refrain was:
'Man, Man, Man
Is for a Woman made,
And a Woman for a Man.'
There were various illustrative verses, such as:
'As the Scabbard for the Blade.
As for Nights the Serenade,' (etc.)
When she returned to the refrain, Ned leaned over and whispered, 'That ain't the way I heard it!' Then he pinched my knee and laughed softly.
As soon as the last feeble notes had sounded, I was wont to make for the exit. But Ned was wanting to speak with the singer. I was mystified: 'My dear boy, what could she possibly say that you might want to hear?' But he just said, 'Oh, there are a few items of interest which she may be able to help me with.'
I noticed that they talked animatedly for several minutes.
Sometimes I don't understand at all this man I live with!
On the walk home I asked him point-blank why he wasted his time with such a nonentity.
'On the contrary, my dear Holmes, I have not wasted my time at all. For one thing, I have solved our little mystery as to the 'Who'.'
I was astounded. 'You know who wrote her music for her?'
'Absolutely - right down to the name and where he lives.'
'How did you find it out? Wasn't she suspicious?' I was genuinely curious.
'No one is if you do it correctly. Ingratiate yourself with a person, have them think you are drawing them into a conspiracy with you, and you will have them every time. The idea is to make them think you are giving them a lot of information, whereas in truth it's all flowing the other way.
'All I did was to introduce myself and then ask whether we have a friend in common. I simply said 'mathematics', 'organist' and 'composer', and all the information I needed tumbled into my lap. It's a man, as we surmised; his name is Ted May and he is a Mathematics graduate student, who also happens to study the organ, at West Virginia University.'
I was impressed, and I told Rorem so. 'Case closed?'
'Not entirely', replied Ned. 'There is one last strand to this problem - I call it the riddle of the 'Why' - that I don't have the answer to. Perhaps you can enlighten me, Jim: why would this young man write those pieces for that young woman?'
'Aren't the usual reasons Love or Money?' I asked.
'Perhaps. But I found out from Polly that her parents are cooks on a military base, hence people of modest means. So I think we can rule out Money. As for Love, I hinted in a humorous way that she might be having a romantic relationship with this May-fellow. But that she vehemently and convincingly denied. So Jim: there must be other reasons we haven't thought of. And I don't think we'll have the answer to the 'Why' until Mr. May and I meet in person.'
I asked when that might happen. 'I suspect during Exam Week. So we won't have to wait too long.'
V. It was after supper a couple of weeks later when Ned remarked, 'By the way, James, I had coffee with quite an engaging fellow this morning.'
My ears pricked up, not least because he used my formal name - something he most often does when he wants to tease me.
'Oh?' I replied, trying to sound as casual as I could.
'Yes, he was quite entertaining: we chattered on quite gaily about any number of topics, including composition, the organ repertoire, and a lot more.'
I could feel myself in the beginning pangs of jealousy. After all, how could I be sure that Ned was completely through with his dissolute past? But I tried to maintain the casual facade. 'He's an organist?' I asked with a bit of trepidation.
'Yes, but he's still in school.'
'Oh?'
'Oh yes, he's quite young.'
'Young?!' I nearly choked on the word.
'Yes. He's very slim and trim of limb too...
'...trim...'
...and he has the most charmingly raffish mustache!'
'My dear Ned! Enough!'
Rorem laughed. 'I'm sorry, Jimmy! But I always thought jealousy was reserved for us older men!'
'Apparently there's plenty left over for us younger ones!'
'Well', said Ned, 'You can relax in the case of this fellow. He is the missing link in this business of Polly's compositions - that Ted May I told you about before.'
I immediately began to relax.
'As I had guessed, May had flown out here to help Polly with her Final Exam. I knew that Polly would have to get the fugue theme to her amanuensis as soon after the exam began as possible. So I waited down by the practice rooms.'
'Didn't they get suspicious seeing you there?'
'I disguised myself as someone impatient to leave: raincoat over my arm, briefcase - and obsessively looking at my watch. Such a person is beyond suspicion.
'Polly entered a practice room and then left again rather hurriedly. So I knocked on the door of that room and entered, thus catching my mathematical organist about to begin work on Polly's fugue. I was flattered in that he recognized me (from my book jacket of course!)
'So we left Polly a note of farewell and regret, and went to have coffee together. There I asked him the key question: Why? Why do this series of immense favors for that person? And, more to my interest, why write pieces in another composer's style?'
'Was it for sex?' I asked.
'No. He said he didn't particularly like or respect Polly, and so he had no desire for her sexually.'
'A Romantic?' I suggested.
'Exactly,' said Rorem.
'So why did he do it?'
'He had two reasons - one heady, the other pathetic.
'The heady one can be summed up thus: I did it because I could do it. He did it because he appreciated the irony of the thing: that he, who had never had a Theory class, was producing successful pieces for someone who was taking such a class. And yes, Holmes, we are also talking about some envy and jealousy on the part of the Outsider: a Math student-who-wished-he-were-a-Music student.
'But I pressed him (you know me Jim!) on why he would waste his time on such a silly serial enterprise, when he could be writing his own music. And do you know what he said?'
I had no idea, and I shook my head so.
'He replied that he couldn't write his own music, that derivative music was all he could produce. He described himself as 'a sort of musical cameleon' - one who can adapt his style to fit whatever is prevailing. He said he was very good at hearing what makes a composer unique - what is called his voice - and imitating it; but he had no voice of his own.
'Ned, that's rather sad, isn't it.'
'No, it's pathetic; my situation is sad. My dear Holmes, look at me: I may have a voice of my own in my multitude of pieces, but if no one bothers or cares, what can I do? As people keep pointing out to me, I haven't written anything - engaging is the word they use - like 'West Side Story' or the 'Hermit Songs'. Well, tough. The point is to compose and keep composing the best one knows how. As for our Mr. May, I advised him to study his mathematics!'
'And Polly...?'
'...is going to have to explain to the Professor of Theory why she couldn't write a single note on the Final Exam.'
'I almost feel sorry for her!'
'Well, Jim, perhaps the Psychological Defense is best: she can say she wrote those other pieces while in a fugue-state and now remembers nothing.'
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Treble Cleft
I. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is James Holmes (call me Jim if you like) - organist, church choir director. I live with the famous (quasi-famous? infamous?) composer/writer Ned Rorem. I am his - what name shall I give to our relationship?
Friend? Ho hum.
Boy Friend? Sounds like high school.
Special Friend? Sounds creepy.
Best Friend? Grade school.
Roommate? Too mundane, too much like, well, college.
Partner? Sounds too much like a business enterprise.
Significant Other? Too busy, too cute.
Consort? This has a wonderfully archaic ring to it. This would be my preference if we didn't have to give such frequent public utterance to our relationship.
Lover? A bit too narrow, direct - and blunt.
Resident Stud? This is Ned's not-so-secret preference.
Companion? A bit bland, but the one I prefer for public consumption.
Whatever the appellation, Ned and I cohabit a house here in Salt Lake City, where he is Composer-in-Residence at the University of Utah for the 1967 Winter term.
Frankly, I wondered last fall whether we'd be coming here after all. Ned made one of his wonderfully impolitic statements that help keep life with him a little more interesting and off kilter. When a reporter asked him about his new gig, Ned replied, 'Utah is such a boring state, it'll be good for my work.' That quote wound up in TIME, and Ned had to quickly backtrack so as to smooth ruffled Utahan feathers.
Well, whether or not Utah was boring before the arrival of Ned Rorem, it will certainly not be now that he has arrived! And to find proof of that, we need look no further than the table across the room here, whereon are stacked several copies of a book hot off the presses. It is 'The Paris Diary of Ned Rorem.'
It may be cold outside, but I would be surprised if this stack of books doesn't burn a hole right through that table! For therein is an account of not only his friendship with some of the greatest minds of the century (Poulenc and Cocteau, among others), but his voraciously libertine sexual mores. The fact that he has slept with over 1000 men (and, by mistake (he claims), one woman), including four TIME magazine covers (their identities remain a closely guarded secret), should serve to wake up stodgy Utah a bit!
Ned ingenuously dismisses all of this as 'so much useless hoopla.' For one thing, now that he is living with me he is monadrous. Then, too, he never tires of reminding anyone who will listen that he is 'a composer who happens to write, rather than a writer who happens to compose.' Facts concerning public taste, however, tell a different story: an overwhelming majority of Ned Rorem aficionados are adherents to his pungent prose (including his cogent music criticism) and know no musical compositions by him. Ned is not unaware of this essential irony concerning his metier. But he continues to compose, saying darkly, 'The frustration of being nonexistent keeps me awake.'
II. It was a snowy evening in early February, as I recall it. Ned and I were having a quiet working evening at home (he was looking over his recently completed opera 'Miss Julie' for possible performance by the University Opera Department.) There was the sound of the door knocker. I jumped up to answer it.
A snow-covered man stood on our doorstep. 'Is this the domicile of Ned Rorem?' I replied that it was.
'I am Joseph Smith, Professor of Theory in the Music Department. May I come in?'
He was invited in, divested of his snowy garments, and given a choice seat by the fire. Then Ned asked what he could do for him.
'Well, I'm afraid it's a matter of some delicacy...' began the Professor.
'...which is usually a matter of the utmost indelicacy!' quipped Rorem.
'...as well as some mystery,' continued Mr. Smith.
'I like a good mystery - please proceed,' I interjected.
'Well, I have a question for you,' he said to Ned. 'Do you know a music student named Polly Harney?'
Rorem said that he didn't. 'What might this have to do with me?'
'Well, Polly Harney is a student in my Music Theory class. And I have pretty strong reason to believe that she handed in a composition that wasn't her own. And, as I am confident that no one else on the faculty would have done this for her, and as you are new here...'
There was an awkward pause. Then Ned said, his voice with a bit of an edge:
'You think I may have done it?'
'Well, I don't really know you and...'
'You think I would allow a student to affix her name to one of my compositions?' Ned, incredulous, was becoming angry.
'Well, I didn't know...'
'One thing you certainly don't know is me, sir!'
I knew Rorem's famous temper. So I hastened to intervene.
'Maybe we should see the piece that Ned Rorem claims he didn't write.'
The professor opened his leather satchel and removed two pieces, which he layed out on the table. One said 'Partita,' the other 'Two-Part Invention.' I noticed each had been given a grade: the first 'D', the second 'A-'.
'You can see the enormous difference between the two efforts', the Professor said. 'The first is a pleasant enough piece, but it has nothing to do with the assignment. The second, by contrast, engages the assignment in a compelling way.'
Rorem picked up the second piece.
'Is this what I am supposed to have written?' He burst into incredulous laughter: 'Why this is archaic - I wrote pieces like this when I was ten!'
The Professor: 'Well of course, it is meant to be in the style of Bach.'
As the situation had clearly become absurd, Ned had calmed down and even saw some humor in it. 'I'd like to hear my piece in the style of Bach. Professor - would you oblige us?'
We went to the piano and our guest played through the piece. It was a sturdy two-part piece - perhaps too aggressive for an Invention, but a decent piece nonetheless. 'Do you notice anything?' asked the Professor.
Being the more academic of the two of us, I answered: 'Well, for one thing there are no errors in counterpoint - it's perfect in that respect.'
'Exactly!' replied the Professor. 'That is what made me really suspicious.'
'Did you tell her so?'
'Well, yes - discretely. When I told her I thought she'd had a great improvement, she smiled and asked, 'Is that not what you wanted?! (Ned: 'That's chutzpah!') When I sought to press her a bit and asked whether she thought she had improved a little bit too much, she asked, 'I don't know - how much is too much?' (Ned: 'More chutzpah!') It was maddening - she answered all my questions with her own questions! I finally gave up and decided to trust her conscience - we have an Honor Code in the Music Department.'
At this point Rorem noticed the grades. 'What are these?'
The professor explained. Rorem asked him what his criteria were for grading. I wanted to warn the professor about Ned's aversion to grades but he spoke too quickly.
'Well', began the professor, 'If a piece shows the student doesn't understand the rudiments of music, they receive an 'F'.'
'Why not just dip them in boiling oil?' said Ned.
The professor stared at him. 'A simple 'F' is usually enough.' Then he continued, 'If they know music, but their piece doesn't address the assignment, they get a 'D' - as Polly did in the first piece.'
'Off with their heads!' roared Rorem. The professor shrugged. 'Perhaps all this is boring you.'
'No, no, not in the least. As a matter of fact, I find it highly entertaining! Pray continue - I'll behave.'
The Professor, a somewhat humorless man, continued: 'Demonstrated knowledge of the assignment gets the student anything from a 'B+' to a 'C-', depending on the quality of the understanding.'
'And an 'A'?' I asked with genuine curiosity.
The Professor smiled. I could actually see his chest puff out with pride. 'Ah yes, an 'A',' he exclaimed. 'That is a grade reserved for those whose work shows they have absorbed not merely the style but the substance of Bach as well.' When neither of us said anything, he added: 'They become Bach, in essence!' His face beamed with self-satisfaction.
Finally Ned said, 'You mean you give them your highest award when they disappear?'
The Professor was a bit taken aback at this: 'What do you mean?' he asked.
'Well, you said the student assumes the identity of Bach in his piece. This means his own identity as a composer is submerged.'
Ned was a composer who held his profession very dear.
'My dear Ned, it's only a Theory assignment!' I said.
'Theory today, Practice tomorrow!'
I thought I'd better deflect this before our visiting Professor was really insulted by Ned. 'Who is this student who has shown such improvement in her work?'
'Polly Harney is a graduate student in Voice in the School of Music. The most remarkable thing about her seems to be the rather extra-ordinary fact that she has a cleft palate.'
Rorem's ears perked up at this. 'What's that you said?'
'Yes, a cleft palate. I personally think it's a brave thing to pursue a singing career despite her handicap...'
'...or because of it,' interposed Rorem. 'Some try to prove – unsuccessfully, of course – that they can rise above their infirmity. If she had been born with a club foot, her chosen career no doubt would have been the ballet.'
Rorem seems to have been a bit much for the Professor, for soon after this our visitor made some excuse to depart. Ned asked whether we could keep Miss Harney's manuscripts for a day or two - a request which surprised the Professor.
After he left, Rorem railed, for the umpteenth time, against German music. 'It is all key relations and fugues and all the rest, which makes it analyzable (accent on the first two syllables.) That's why theory teachers love it!' Of course I took umbrage at this, defending the music I myself loved. I began effusing about the great Bach organ Toccata in F, wherein a wonderful balance of keys is set up; and at the very last moment there is the daring lurch into the neapolitan. I became so wrought up that I began to cry! Ned laughed and scoffed: 'Another victim of German music!'
Soon enough he was calm again. He looked at the two scores of Polly. 'The ink already tells us a lot about this so-called composer,' he said. It appeared that the two pieces had been written, or copied, with a Bic pen. 'That says it all about Miss Harney!' he remarked drily. Ned had taken music copying lessons from the master of them all, the composer Virgil Thompson. Of course he wrote in India ink on translucent vellum paper.
'Look at the second piece again, Jim,' Rorem continued. 'Notice how carefully it is copied - too carefully, I'd say. See how each note head is filled in and is grotesquely large, as if a child had written it. And the stems: some of them are at significant angles from the vertical, though the carefulness would predict they would all be straight up. You see? It's the case of a person copying everything exactly as they see it, because they do not know what is important and what isn't.'
He was about to put down the score when he spied something in the corner. 'Whoops - what's this? A pink stain, and a few traces of powdered sugar? It appears that someone was eating a jelly doughnut while copying this piece! I think we might find that our self-indulgent singer is a bit overweight!'
Ned put the score back on the table. 'This case is not totally devoid of interest, Holmes, but we have exhausted all we can from it at this point.' (Ned would call me 'Holmes' when he was in one of his didactic moods.) 'Maybe Professor Smith is dropping the ball on this, but I am inclined to keep working on it. No doubt there will be further developments, for our Polly has now experienced success. And, once tasted, success can be irresistible!'
III. A few weeks later Ned returned home waving some music manuscripts in the air. 'I happened to run into Professor Smith on campus and I asked him how Polly was doing. He was kind enough to lend us her next two masterpieces to peruse for a day or two.' One was called 'Three-Part Fugue in the Bach Style', while the other was 'Chorale-Prelude in the Bach Style.' 'Bach, Bach, Bach!' complained Ned. 'Was nothing written after 1750?!' He knew I knew that Bach died in 1750.
He layed out the first manuscript - the Fugue - for us to look at. 'Do you notice anything, Jim?'
'Well, she seems to have used a Bic pen again.'
'If by 'she' you mean Polly, she didn't copy this piece. The Bic is just used to make us think that she had.'
I admitted that Ned's conclusion escaped me. 'How do you know?'
'Look at the note heads. Do you see how at first they are full and rounded? That's the copyist imitating Polly's previous piece. But of course this process can't go on - it's too laborious and time-consuming. Look at the later ones: they get smaller and smaller; some are hardly more than dots, but you can tell what the notes are from where the stems hit the lines. That's the sign of a real musician who knows what's important and what isn't. (Strictly viewed as a copying job, of course, it's no great shakes!')
'So Polly didn't even have to copy her piece?'
'No - they decided to eliminate the middle woman,' Ned laughed.
Then he said he'd like to play through the piece. Ned Rorem was an accomplished pianist who sight-read well. But he was also a frankophile. Most players would give careful attention to entrances of the subject (which was 'borrowed' from Beethoven's Eroika, as the composer noted wryly in the score.) But Ned played this Bach-like fugue as he would a piece by Rameau, with exaggerated rubati and a feeling for texture rather than individual voices. It was a maddening performance which nearly drove me crazy – and the most interesting of a fugue I'd ever heard.
Meanwhile I was concentrating on the Fugue as a work of art: there were subtleties there to be appreciated by connoisseurs of such things, including a false entrance in the dominant at the recapitulation. Whoever wrote this knew what they were doing.
Suddenly Ned stopped playing and exclaimed, 'Aha! The tell-tale tenth!'
I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about.
'This is a three-voice fugue,' he exclaimed, 'It follows that at any given moment, one of the hands is dealing with two voices at once. For the most part that's no problem - the two lines are in thirds or sixths. But at one point the two outer voices diverge from the middle one just enough so that, for one beat, they are each an interval of a tenth away from it.'
'Well, and so what?' I was still mystified.
'Most men can reach the interval of a tenth; most women cannot. Ergo, this piece was most likely written by a man.'
I must admit that I would have overlooked this conclusion.
The minor-key Fugue ended with a gloriously radiant tierce de picardy. We then gave our attention to the Chorale-Prelude for organ. Smith had given them the tune 'Wachet Auf' to use: this was the subject of Bach's most famous chorale-prelude; but of course the students were expected to write their own. One glance was enough to show me that Polly's was a lively and spirited setting, very different from the Bach, but nearly as interesting. The pedal parts in particular were worthy of note, jumping about in thirds and seconds, making it, I imagined, fun to play. 'This is very good,' I exclaimed. 'It almost certainly was written by an organist.'
'That is important information,' said Ned. 'There are not a lot of organists around.'
For some reason I turned the organ score over. 'Hello, what sorts of hieroglyphics have we here?' exclaimed Ned. Apparently the composer had been working on a problem and had forgotten to erase it. There were two elongated S's, followed by expressions in x and y. My liberal arts education had prepared me for this: 'I believe this is called a double-integral,' I explained. 'It makes its appearance in advanced calculus.'
Rorem rubbed his hands together. 'This has been a most productive session, hasn't it Jim. We now know that we are looking for a man who is a mathematician, organist, and composer. Now all we need are the 'Who' and the 'Why': Who would write these things for Polly, and why they would do such a silly thing!'
IV. Rorem and I were having a relaxed Sunday brunch toward the end of the semester when he suddenly remarked to me, 'Oh by the way, Jim, I'm toying with the idea of going to a vocal recital this afternoon. Would you care to join me?' I asked who the singer was. Ned had made a point of meeting all the members of the voice faculty as soon as we arrived. Some had performed a few of his many songs with him as accompanist.
'It's our contrapuntal genius Polly Harney.'
I was shocked at this. 'My dear Ned! We already know the girl is a fraud - and has a genuine cleft palate to boot!'
'Yes, yes, of course. But you know me - I'm always on the lookout for new singers who possess IT.'
I knew immediately what he meant by 'IT'. It was that ring in the tone that a singer either has or doesn't. Researchers have found that, when this ring is present, it is due to a cluster of overtones at around 2800 cps. Ned would often say that the presence of IT (or '2800' as he sometimes termed it) excused all other vocal problems by a singer: 'All those other problems are correctable', he would say. 'But without IT the singer's situation is hopeless.'
Ned continued, 'Seriously, Jim, of course the concert will be a nightmare. But there are a few items of information that I need from our friend Polly. Specifically, I think I can get her to tell me the 'Who' of our search.'
I asked how he could do this without making her suspicious.
'No one is if you do it correctly. Ingratiate yourself with a person, have them think you are drawing them into a conspiracy with you, and you will have them every time. All I'll do is introduce myself and then ask whether we have a friend in common. I'll simply say 'mathematics', 'organist' and 'composer', and all the information I need will tumble into my lap.'
Ned said that the recital was in the Concert Hall. 'Isn't that rather large for a recital?' I asked.
'Especially for a student, There will be a scattering of friends and that will be it. She should learn the Law of Reasonable Expectations: use a small enough hall, and you can fill it every time!'
But when we got there, the hall was so full that we had to take seats near the back. It was a large and enthusiastic audience. I noticed that some had brought signs - something I've never seen in a student recital. I saw that a few read OUR TREBLE CLEFT!'
'What does this mean?' I asked Ned.
'I don't know. I hope these people haven't come to mock the girl - that would be in poor taste indeed!'
The program was typical for a student recital: it consisted of four groups of pieces, each group being dedicated to a particular language. The order here was as it almost always is: Italian, French, German, and finally (the dessert?) English. Ned used to say, 'The idea is to show how versatile one is as a singer. But, sadly, too often it winds up showing how limited one is.'
I noticed there was no intermission to allow us an escape in mid-concert.
The singer and her accompanist duly appeared. Polly was a slim, attractive young lady. The crowd broke into loud, even raucous cheers. Many were standing. There were chants of 'Polly! Polly!' and even a few whistles. Polly smiled, bowed, and even waved. I had never seen anything like this before. It was what is called an Event.
The audience finally became quiet. The pianist played the introduction to the first song. And then Polly began to sing.
It was one of the most exquisite voices I had ever heard. Her's was not a big voice, but it was one of such crystalline clarity that it easily reached where we were sitting. Most miraculous of all, the cleft palate seemed to inform the voice with an other-worldly quality that made each language a delight to hear. Her voice seemed best suited to songs of sustained lyricism and deeper feelings rather than grand gestures and loud climaxes.
In other words, it was ideal for the songs of Ned Rorem.
After the first song I tapped Ned's arm. In response he quietly said one word: 'Yes'.
She had a natural stage presence, a graciousness which was aided by the fact that she had committed all her pieces to memory. In fact, she had taken care with every turn of phrase, every nuance. I was beginning to understand why she didn't have the time to write her Theory pieces!
Her affectionate aficianados gave her applause after each piece, though it is customary at concerts to refrain until the end of a group.
One of the pieces in English was the ditty whose refrain was:
'Man, Man, Man
Is for a Woman made,
And a Woman for a Man.'
There were various illustrative verses, such as:
'As the Scabbard for the Blade.
As for Nights the Serenade,' (etc.)
When she returned to the refrain, Ned leaned over and whispered, 'That ain't the way I heard it!' Then he pinched my knee and laughed softly.
The program duly ended, and there was long sustained applause, whistles, and yelps. She presented an encore, to more applause. Finally we found ourselves standing in a long line to greet the artist. When I asked Ned what he thought of Polly's performance, he replied, 'She's superb!'
When at length we reached her, Polly recognized Ned Rorem immediately, though they'd never met: she had read the 'Paris Diary.' 'You've had an interesting life, sir!' she declared mischievously. When he introduced me to her as 'my Companion James Holmes,' she winked at me and laughed. 'I've been meaning to get in touch with you, hoping we could read through some of your songs,' she said to Ned.
Ned told her how much he'd like to do that, and meant it. He had been so taken with her that he nearly forgot the reason we had come. So now he asked, with affected casualness, whether they did not know someone in common, saying the words 'mathematician', 'organist', and 'composer.' Polly said, 'Oh, you mean Ted? He's in West Virginia now.' She regarded Ned for a moment and then said with chagrin, 'Oh dear, I suppose you know everything.' Then with some concern in her voice: 'Are you going to turn me in?'
Ned assured her that he wasn't. For, indeed, who could do that to such a delightful person? 'It is really none of my business,' he told her. (I found this to be amusing considering how much of his business he had already made it!)
On the walk home Ned laughed at the memory of his planned deception gone awry. 'I couldn't get that by her - she saw right through me. Imagine that, Jim, an intelligent singer - like Phyllis Curtain and Donald Graham!' (I knew Ned was planning a Town Hall recital with those two singers the following year.)
'In fact, she fooled me at every turn. I thought she would be overweight but she wasn't. I thought the recital would be atrocious, but it was anything but. You know, Jim, Polly may be my Irene Adler!' He knew that I would understand this reference to the woman who, in the very first Sherlock Holmes story, outwits the famous detective.
'Then why the shenanigans in the music theory class?'
'Apparently she was totally misplaced in the class, which is an advanced seminar for Musicology doctoral students. By the time the authorities realized a mistake had been made, it was too late for her to drop. She says she's doing well in everything else.'
There was a pause and then he said:
'And I thought Utah would be boring!'
V. I had forgotten all about Polly until the semester was over and Ned and I were preparing to depart from Utah. It was, I recall, a soft-sunny early summer morning. We were having our breakfast out on the patio (it was cooler than usual that day) when I asked Ned about her.
'Oh, she took her exam, in a manner of speaking.'
'Do you know how she did?'
'Oh, fairly well, I think.'
'So that fellow from West Virginia came out to help her?'
'No, he didn't,' replied Ned.
'Why not?' I persisted.
'She couldn't afford his plane fare.'
Ned was being very tight-lipped today – unlike his usual loquacious self.
'So what did she do? Surely she didn't write it herself!'
'No,' said Ned. And then I saw him blush deeply, something he virtually never did. (Usually it was Ned's exploits that had the rest of us blushing!)
I was at a loss for a moment. And then it hit me. 'You??'
He nodded. 'Mea culpa, Jim.'
'But – how could you, with your sense of honor about your music and all?'
'Actually, that made it easy: since I was writing a piece in the so-called Bach style, strictly speaking it didn't impinge on my music at all. I simply pretended I was back at Curtis and played the part of the chameleon.'
How did you – I mean she – do on it?
Ned laughed. 'It got a 'B-,' Jim, showing that I utterly failed to conjure up the ghost of Bach!'
I asked whether he had managed to solve the 'Why' of our mystery? He shrugged: 'Didn't you see her? She is irresistible - even I succumbed! What more do we need to know?'
I had to ask: 'Are you in love with her?'
Ned laughed. 'Sorry, Jimmy, wrong gender! But I would like to write her a song cycle.'
'As we saw, she is obviously irresistible to a large number of people.'
'Yes,' continued Ned, 'But I have heard that the idolatry, through no fault of her own, is taking a morbid, pathological turn. It seems that Polly has become such a phenomenon in the Vocal Studies Department here that some students are actually talking about having their own palates surgically clefted.'
'Why that's horrible!' I exclaimed.
'It's akin to those hysterias that tend to sweep through societies of people, exemplified by the tulip craze in seventeenth century Holland.'
'But can't they see that this would only make them worse?'
'No,' said Ned. 'They mistake the affliction for the gift, the immense talent.'
He paused. Then he added:
'If something like that were to happen, it would make for a situation which is distinctly unpalatable!'
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