Stone Lake: part 44

A Star Tribune serialized novel by Richard Horberg

Chapter 14 continues

The story so far: Allen struggles through an agonizing string quartet concert.

During the intermission, the young girl, looking perfectly cool, brought in coffee and cookies, offering cups and saucers to the guests. Heavy with perspiration, Allen pulled himself together. Some of the guests were standing up and moving around. Allen turned to nod at Evelyn Wilson, who remained seated, then, reluctantly joined George Schuelke.

"Cookies bought only in Bemidji," Schuelke said.

"Really?"

"Hot as hell in here, isn't it."

He realized too late that he had nothing to say to them. "Lutefisk," he said.

"Yah, lutefisk." The woodcutter had a fresh haircut, somewhat too short.

"I hear you found a job in the lumberyard."

"A very good job," the woman said.

She had lovely eyes and a fine nose. Both of them appeared to be younger than he had thought at their first meeting.

"As good as the concerts in Minneapolis?" he asked.

She smiled. "Except for the boor in the audience."

The final piece was agony. He felt as if he were sitting inside a teapot full of boiling water. His head ached, his shoes felt too small for his feet, his throat dried up. The music rose, the music fell, at one moment triumphant, the next apologetic. He dozed off again and, waking, thought that the music was actually steam escaping from the radiator. It was heavy. It was solemn. It was soporific.

And then — could it be true? — it was over. Allen was not sure whether he was asleep or awake. Dazed, he sat in his chair for a moment while the others were on their feet, moving forward to express their approval and gratitude.

He waited for a moment before joining them. He straightened his tie, ran his handkerchief over his face, swallowed painfully.

He was still in a stupor. "Oh, no. The music was beautiful. It was lovely. I closed my eyes so I could appreciate it more."

She teased him. "I'll invite you back again."

"Please do."

He walked home without a thought in his head and went to bed dazed.

A basketball game would have been infinitely better.

His students had read or talked about, among others, "Ethan Frome," "Rip Van Winkle," Benjamin Franklin (who, he told them, had loved Paris more than Philadelphia), Emily Dickinson and Nathaniel Hawthorne (both of whom, he said, appeared to prefer home to any other place).

He also told them about Henry James, who was not in their anthology. "In the Henry James novels," he said, "the major conflict often involves the difference between Americans and Europeans. He found Americans to be unsophisticated but good, Europeans sophisticated but evil. Americans have morals, Europeans manners."

He wrote the titles of a few of James' novels on the board and talked about some of the characters — Christopher Newman, Isabel Archer, Lambert Strether.

"It's difficult to know where James' sympathies lie," he said. "He was an American but spent the better part of his life in England. He admired the forthright character of the Americans at the same time that he admired the rich culture of the Europeans. Can one have both? Can one be both sophisticated and innocent? If not, which is better?"

JoAnne Winner, sitting in the first row now, skewed an eye at him. "Are you going to tell us?"

"Do we get extra credit for reading one of those novels?" she asked.

"You could. But I don't think you'd find a copy of any of them in town."

Little Jimmy Kvist laughed. "That says a lot."

***

Sometimes — he didn't know whether this was wise or not — he broached the provincialism vs. sophistication theme in his two senior classes. One day they read and discussed Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess."

He asked Royal Knudson to explain what happens in the poem.

"This guy asked a painter to paint a picture of his wife," Royal said, "and hung it on the landing of the staircase in his house. One day a visitor came by and saw the painting on the wall and liked it. So the other guy, the owner of the house, told him the story of the woman in the painting."

"His wife?"

"I think so."

"Why did the visitor come to visit the duke?"

Jenny Strong raised her hand. "He came to arrange a marriage between the duke and some other girl. A new duchess. I think the visitor works for the father of the girl the duke wants to marry, maybe his lawyer or something like that, and probably wants him to sign some papers. They talk about a dowry."

"Why do you say 'girl' instead of 'woman'?"

Leo March interrupted. "Because the duke likes girls."

Everybody laughed.

"And what's a dowry, Leo?"

Everybody laughed again.

Allen explained that the painting does not actually hang on the wall. "It's a fresco," he said, "a painting done in wet plaster. It has to be done rapidly, before the plaster dries. That means the sitting takes only one day. 'Fra Pandolf's hands worked busily a day,' he quoted, 'and there she stands.' So what kind of story does the duke tell about her?"