Gus

Summer.

A lone white cloud danced lightly through the glaring sky, wafter lonesomely overhead, and then tripped onward out of sight.  Underneath, the farmer paused in his work to gaze out over his wide regimented field of corn, then offer a worried glance at the cloudless ceiling overhead.

The motorist mopped his brow as he car sped along the burning highway.  His eyes squinted to penetrate the blinding glare hiding a sign ahead: “2 miles to Hartonville, Pop. 35000.”  With a scowl he presssed down on the accelerator.

The unbroken fields of corn ended only with the sudden appearance of the rows of houses, and as abruptly as the country terminated, the town began.  “Yeah, just like all the rest,” sighed the traveler as he surveyed the scene through his window.

The houses were low slung, simple, with roomy yards between.  How many hundreds of towns had he passed with exactly the same low slung, simple, dull homes.  Here an uncut lawn broke the even pattern that filed by his window; there an old woman sitting quietly, fainning a magazine before her; there a grinning baby toddling on the grass while an elderly black sitter stares listlessly at the passing cars.

The traveler’s car slowed as it entered the more crowded downtown district.  “Damn shame to stick a highway through a busy town,” muttered the traveler.  It was a busier town than he had expected.  An eight-story building over there – “Hartonville Municipal Building” said the ponderous engraving.  And there’s Sears, Woolworths, the local dress shop — “The same travelogue again and again.”

The car rolled to a stop at an overhanging traffic light.  A glance to the right showed an old lman, his pipe almost lost in a massive white beard, resting against the wall of “Pop’s Drugs and Candies.”  Across the street his eyes idled on a large open lot where a group of kids were heatedly and noisily fighting out a game of football.  The lone figure of a boy slowly crossed the field on the opposite side, carrying something from his hand that looked like a violin case.  A squirrel clambered down the trunk of a large oak and darted across the street.

“Yeah, the same picture from Brownsville to Jersey,” sighed the motorist.  The light flickered green and the car roared off.

Chapter 1

“G’afternoon, Mrs. Russels.  Afternoon, Mrs. Wortheim”

“Why, good afternoon, Gus,” said Mrs. Russels beaming at him.

“Uh, Guhrafnoo,” mubled Mrs. Wortheim, as if she were swallowing her gun and trying to adjust her packages at the same time.

“You know, Gertrude,”said Mrs. Russels after they ahd walked farther, “that boy always looks so happey it makes me feel fine every time I see him.”

“Hmmmph,” returned Mrs. Wortheim, “my boy Frank doesn’t care for him one bit.  Says he’s high-toned.  None of the boys will hang around with him.”

“No, he’s not like the other boys,” replied Mrs. Russels.  “He’s different; I believe he’s really a genius.  Have you ever heard him play?”

“Bah, I’m satisfied seeing my Frank grow up a normal healthy boy with plenty of friends and all, instead of thinking he’s a genius and growing up high-hat and queer-like.”

Mrs. Russels changed the subject.

Gus felt good today, mighty good.  It had been a long time since Mr. Harst had been so free in his approval.  And to Gus the words of Mr. Harst were the words of a worshipped deity.  “Gus, I’m afraid that someday not too distant you are going to surpass all I can do for you.”  The words echoed over and over in Gus’s mind.

Walking a little faster, he shifted his violin case to his left arm as he noticed the gang playing football on the other side of the lot. He always felt uneasy carrying his violin around them.  They couldn’t understand so they made fun of him.  Maybe if they could play an instrument they’d feel different.  Someone, it looked like Rusty Walkers, had just caught a pass and they were going crazy out there.  The gang.  Often Gus caught himself wishing he could talk about “our gang” like the other fellows; instead of always “the gang.”  Softly he repeated aloud the words, “Our gang – my gang,” and broke into a smile.

yeaaaaaaa reaaaaa more bravo Zirn more more bravo exquisite hoooo clapped the hands csccreamed the heads slammed the doors stamped the feet howled the wind stampeded the crowd Zirn Zirn Zirn hey Ned what’s the racked for who that’s for August Zirn August Zirn August Zirn you know that’s Gus of our old gang of our old gang our gang our gang our gang he’s visiting here to introduce his new concerto his new concerto of mountains and forests yeah it’s our gang now our gang our gang hooray for Gus the greatest of our gang thank yu fellows I apreciate this thank you Ned thank you Chris Harry Rusty Jeff no bitterness they realized now bravo Zirn it’s a universe the stars it’s the infinite the suns the constellations floating floating floating more Zirn yeaaaaaaa from our gang

Gus stopped long enough to give a cheery, “Howdy, Uncle Adam,” to the bearded old fellow leaning against the wall of Pop’s Drugs.  As the weather-beaten one-armed wooden Indian, engraved with the names and love affairs of every youth in Hartonville, distinguished the door of Wattgers Cigar Store around the corner, so had sood  Uncle Adam leaning against that same spot on the wall of Pop’s Drugs as far back as Gus could remember.  As to how Uncle Adam got his name, nobody knew.  Certainly he was nobodys uncle — if he had a relative in the world no one would believe it; and as for the latter part of his name it was rarely questioned, for as far as Hartonville was concerned, the old man certainly must claim enough years to permit him to have courted Eve in his spryer days.

“Howdy, son,” came the usual retort to young and old alike.  “Yep, that’s the spirit,” he said, producing one of his few supreme efforts as he nodded toward the violin case in Gus’s left arm. “that’s the spirit. You gotta keep plugging at what you want to make a go of.  Yep, it ain’t easy going anyway in this world.  It’s a dar, miserable world, son.  It’s a warring, fighting, killing world.  Not like it used to be.  All down the drain.  All down the drain.”

Uncle Adam, with this had expended his quota of energy for the present, and once more reverted back to his immobile pose which had served as a landmark for Pop’s Drugs for the past ten years.  Seeing his lecture was over Gus waved goodbye and continued walking.  The old man could be a hundred years old.  He shuddered as he pictured himself as old as Uncle Adam, seeing the world as he saw it.  Gus thought seventy would be a good age at which to die.  And then, with amazement, he realized that over one-fifth of his entire life had already passed him, nevr to return.  He suddenly felt sad as he thought back over his squandered years.

Gus turned the key and entered the three room apartment in which he and his mother lived.  After carefully placing his violin on the front room table he made his way into the kitchen and began rummaging in the refrigerator, emerging not too victorious with some slicedcheese and a bottle of milk.  Salvaging a loaf of bread and a large jar of pickles from the cabinet, he began eating his hastily prepared lunch thoughtfully.

It was summer, and with school yet a month off the days were long to Hartonville yough.  The open fields, the passing people outside beckoned these young vacationers to come out and join in the merriment.  Yet August Zirn, mercifully given the shortened name of Gus, felt none of his longing.

Fridays and Saturdays, two long, drawn out, hated days of the week, Gus worked during vacation months at Raskin Brothers, Hartonville’s largest department store, where his mother worked daily in the alterations department.  The rest of the week, except for two two-hour visits to Mr. Harst’s for music lessons, this small second-story apartment constituted almost the entirety of Gus’s world.  Ever since the age of nine when his father had died, it had been an undisturbed solitary world, for Mrs. Zirn seldom arrived from work before 6:30 pm.

Outside could be heard the angry yells of a group of boys returning from the completed foootball game and hotly arguing over who deserved to win.  One of them yelled “There’s Janie”, and as one man the entire group rushed, yelling and buffeting each other, across the street to where Janie Cox was beaming in anticipation of her forthcoming attention.  To the passer-by the scene of this sixteen-year old boy slowly munching a cheese sandwich in an empty apartment while dreamily staring out his window at the bright beckoning summer day would seem a lonely picture.  In hartonville, indeed, many talked with mock humaneness about that friendless lad and his queer hermit-like disposition.  Their wonder was only increased by his cheerfulness whenever they saw him, while it was known that he had no friend his own age in the entire town.

Even Gus wondered.

Often Gus found himself wishing that he could be accepted into the general trend of affairs in Hartonville like the other fellows.  Possessedd of a highly sensitive nature, Gus was hurt deeply in his past encounters with Frank Wortheim, Rusty Walkers, Harry Flynn, and the rest of the gang who persisted in calling him “the might genius.”  Once, taunted to the end of his patience, he’d been drawn into a fight with Frank, who proceeded to bury Gus’s face in the mud and twist his arm till Gus yelled that he gave up, to the laughter and satisfaction of the young crowd gathered around.  In seeking explanation, Gus would sometimes blame, but not bitterly, his violin, to which he had devoted his life since the age of twelve.  And yet he realized that even before then, when he had tried to become a part of the average scheme of life, when he had yelled with the rest in their games of cops and robbers, marbles, their Halloween expeditions, their home-made circuses—it didn’t work out.  Even then he saw a pattern, and he realized there was no place for him in it.

And yet, although Gus himself couldn’t realize it, his longing for a place in this pattern was solely a desire to ease that deep sensitivity he felt to jibes from the outside.  One mood that Gus had never felt was that of loneliness.

For August Zirn’s was not a lonely world; rather, it was a world far fuller of people, of events, of beauty, of grandeur, of excitement than that which Frank Wortheim or Rusty Walker or any other of the accepted Hartonville “typicals” had ever envisioned.  His was a full, throbbing, vital, natural, beautiful world.  For it was a world of the mind, a world that was a product of an imagination too powerful to permit its owner to find a place in another less fruitful pattern.  And so it was an exclusive world, surrounded by insurmountable walls that the outsider could ot enter, and that Gus could not escape.  Within these walls he found new advengtures and new grandeur daily that expressed itself upon him with the buoyant cheerfulness which confounded onlookers.

Through these non-scalable walls, however, was one outlet.  His music had opened a gate through which the splendor and beauty of this rich inner world flowed out into the poorer, harder world outside.

Dr. Gregor Heinman, world eminent violinist and composer, could have been heard six months later telling his daughter, Hannah: “When I heard that young man play a simple movement, I thought for a few moments that I was seeing a picture of the world I want to rest in.”

¨                 ¨                 ¨

Sarah Zirn slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment and fumbled in her purse for her key. Gus, tediously practicing his scales inside heard the noise at the door and ran to open it.  He grabbed the packagews in her arm, and while he went into the kitchen to place them, Mrs. Zirn wearily sunk into the big chair.

“How’re ya feeling, Mom?” Gus called from the kitchen.

“Like a million dollars.”

“Aw, Mom dear, you’re really tired, aren’t you?” cried Gus as he re-entered the room to find his mother slumped in the chair.  He ran to her side and clutched her hand: “Mom, oh Mom, I ought to be working and taking care of you now instead of letting you work so hard.”

Gus looked so worried that Mrs. Zirn laughed.  “Why, young man, you make enough on Fridays and Saturdays to keep yourself independent; I don’t see what you’re worrying about.”  And she continued more seriously, “And, Gus, I want you to have time to devote to your music.  I’d rather see you make something out of it than have all the money in the world.  So now, old boy, wipe that glum look off your face and tell me what Mr. Harst had to say at your lesson today.”

“You know, I almost forgot,” said Gus a little more cheerfuly.  “He’s leaving us for a week to visit his sister in New York; I think he oughta leave tomorrow.”

“All the way to New York for just one week?”

“Well, he’s gotta be back to take over his classes when school starts on the fifteenth.”

“Why, he’s too old to make a trip like that now,” said Mrs. Zirn in amazement. “It’s strange, that’s about the first time he’s left this town in twenty years.  Are you sure he was serious?”

He said he’s wanted to take a vacation and he’s not going to wait any longer.”

“That is a remarkable man; I never would have thought— You know, son, he’s been practically a father to you.  I think he’s julst as interested in you as I am.  But say, what are we doing talking when we haven’t even eaten yet?  How about picking out a little selection to play for me while I fix supper?”

Gus nodded eagerly.  As Mrs. Zirn arose and walked into the kitchen, he was already thoughtfully poring through his file of music.

¨                 ¨                 ¨

Joseph Harst surveyed abjectly the wrinkled mass of clothing that half filled his suitcase.  With a tired mutter he wheeled around and walked into the kitchen where Mary Harst, his wife, was working.  He coughed slightly when he entered but she continued washing the dishes without turning.

“Do you know if I have any shirts in the laundry?” he asked flatly.  There was no answer.  Without walking closer, he repeated the question.

“Are you going to New York?” she finally said, still not turning from her work.

“It’skll be my last chance to visit my sister before the next school session opens.”  Might as well use that excuse as any, he thought; no point in starting an argument.  “Do you know where any of my shirts are?”

Mrs. Harst simply started placing the dishes on the shelf.  Joseph Harst clenched his fists and returned to his room.

¨                 ¨                 ¨

Chapter II

The young man with the brisk business-like appearance tried at first to pick a conversation with the kindly looking old man next to him, but seeing that his thoughts were far away, he soon abandoned the attempt.  Occasionally he cast a glance at his companion as he wondered what thoughts could be that were so preoccupying his mind.

Joseph Harst was a tired old lman, but he was making plans.  Nervously he considered the job he had set before himself.  In a few days he would be approaching Gregor Heinman, world famous violin virtuoso.  What could he say?  How could he approach sich a man whom he hadn’t seen in forty years; and then ask him—what was he going to ask him—a favor for a sixteen-year-old boy.  What if Heinman didn’t even remember him?  Or what if he scorned him—he a nobody from a small midwestern town.  But he had to do it; it was too late to turn back now.  No, somehow, someway, he was going to accomplish something.  But how?

Doubtful questions plaguead the mind of Joseph Harst as his train sped northward.  And yeat, in spite of these worries, he felt lighter and younger than he had been for the past thirty years.  For his thoughts were on a sixteen-year-old youth, and urged on by the low monotonous rocking of the racing train, he found himself gradually merging into the spirit of that youth . . . .

He saw a young man—it might have been Gus had it been a few decades later—neverously laying down his geloved violin as he gazed awe-filled at the impressive figure of the bearded man sitting behind the large table.  It might just as well have been August Zirn who felt that same nervousness, who experienced those same emotions.

But it was young Joseph Harst who sturned around to meet the feared gaze of Dr. Heinrich Auer of the famed Berlin Conservatory.  Joseph Harst, the young prodigy, the boy with the golden touch.  Joseph Harst, who had found his soul in music, who without his art would not have been.

this interview with Dr. Auer marked the beginning of a scholarship that was to carry him through eight years of grueling conscientious work at the Conservatory, years of solitary monastic existence.  During this time he gradually built lup a reputation: first a minor position with the Berlin Symphony, later First Violin, later as a concert artist.  At the age of twenty-four he was called one of the most brilliant young violinists of his time.

During these years he spent at the Conservatory, Harst made one inseparable friend: he was also a young violinist, his name Gregor Heinman.  Together they studied under the same masters; together they began their first attempt at composing.  Heinman also was shaping into one of the Convservatory’s finest products, rated by his weminent critics second only to Harst; for while Heinman’s renditions were beautifully accomplished and technically precise, in the work of Harst there was an undertone of life, of vital emotion, that saturated his music, that placed him in a class alone.

Recognition was already his in his fatherland when came what he thought was his great opportunigy – a concert tour in America.  Sadly, the two bosom friends parted, one to an adventurous new world, the other to continue his set patern.  Joseph Harst boarded the ship for America, an excited young man, with wild dreams of a blooming fuiture.

He arrived in New York three months before the scheduled beginning of his concert tour, andwith time between rehearsals weighing heavily on him, he proceeded to acquaint himself with his amazing new land.  He could walk for hours during the day through the center of Manhattan, gazine wonderously at the towering hieights of this man-made world, being pushed along by the heedless rughing crowds.  At night the bright nebulae of flashing lights played strange, exciting meoldies through his mind.  He was as a dreamy eyed explorer gazing at a vast, new frontier.

then often he would seek acontrast from the confusing panorama that twirled his mind through quiet, solemn hours in the park near his dwelling.  The soft autumn sky overhead was a soothing blanket that gently relieved his eyes of the strain of their new environment.  But the solitary surrounding sadly reminded him of his walks with Gregor, and he was lonely.

It was here that he met Mary.

Mary Ballisey turned off the street to take the shortcut around the park.  She walked in quick brisk steps, for she had to catch the 8:30 subway to get to work on time.

Mary worked nightly at Andy’s, a small, rather abused night club, where she was featured as blues singer.  She was a short, trim, voluptuously shaped girl, her appearance rather chapened by a heavy coat of cosmetics and golden peroxide hair.  Her whole body was loaded with sex, which gave a sensuous appreciation to the male nightclub attender that far outweighed his enjoyment of her voice.

In her path was a tall youthful figure, slowly walking as if in a sleep.  As she passed him, almost by instinct her scarf slapped from her hand, its fall followed by a violent reaction behind her as the man awoke from hes reverie and dived for the article.  She was surprised to see a good-looking, serious-faced young man smile bashfully as he said in a hesitant accent, “Your scarf, my lady.”

That was how it began.  Mary Ballisey was at first amused, then fascinated by this strange young man who treated her with this bashfulpoliteness, so different from the rough crude crowd of men she had run around with.  Joseph Harst was lonesome and eagerly welcomed this latest meeting.  A conversation followed, and he was enraptured by her soft laugh,l her provacative smile.  Together that night they took the subway to Andy’s Night Club, and while she dressed for her act he slowly sipped a beer at a table.  And then, introduced by the music of the tinny five-piece band, she came out on the stage, her seductive figure darily revealed in a scanty two-piece costume of scarlet red.  As she sang, she walked enticingly through out the audience, finally stopping at his table; and as the crowd roared ovber his blushes, she slowly ran her arms over his shoulders and rubbed her cheek against his.  His lonesomeness was gone now, and in its place were powerful new desires he had never known before.  At a change in tempo she darted away, and he longed for her to come back.  When the piece ws ended he found himself applauding furiously.

And that night Joseph Harst conducted Mary home to her small apartment.  As they walked, their hands clenched tightly together, he felt his heart pulsating furiously, and his blood carried a rich soaring warmth throughout his body.

Two weeks later they were married.  Two weeks, in which he forgot his music, forgot his hopes, forgot everything except that one growing emotion that pervaded all he thought, all he did.  A short honeymoon followed, in which both found an exytreme happiness in their new adventure.  Joseph Harst returned to New York, a man blindly in love.  Mary Harst returned with him, a girl who at last had found something new and entertaining in life.

A few weeks passed.  Harst began to occupy himself nights with orchestra rehearsals, and Mary grew restless.  One night she approached himto say that she was going back to her old job,l just to keep herself oiccupied.  He disapproved heartily, especially of her working at such a place, but he could not argue long and soon gave in.  Still, the days went by blissfully for him.  He had his work and his love, and he was happily content.

It was a night two weeks before his concertour was scheduled to begin; he was just returning from a five day business trip to Philadelphia.  Mary was working now, so he decided to drop by the night club for the first time since they were married to surprise her.

Thinking it more effective to wait till after her number, he placed himself behind a column to watch her unseen.  Now she was singing.  His eager smile turned to a wince of pain as he watched her circulate in the audience and seductively cuddle up to others as she had done before to him.  The number was over and the crowd was applauding uproariously, but he stood there immobile.  Amidst the din a wildly drunk, gaudily dressed man staggered up behind him, and clapping him heartily on the shoulder bent over to whisper in his ear, “God, whatta woman,l whatta piece, eh fella?”

With a sudden jolt Harst spun around.  “Who the hell are you talking about?” he yelled.

The drunk recoiled in mock soberness.  “Whas’at?  Who’m I talking about?  Why Marr Ballisey, the best goddam lay in tow, tha’s who I’m talking about.  You ain’t been around much, bub.”  And with an indignant frown he reeled away.

Harst simply stood.  As the minutes passed by uneeded, the expression in his eyes slowly changhed from one of writhing agony to insane hatred.  Quietly, resolutely, he stepped from the club and took up a stationary position in the shrubs outside the stage door.

An hour passed before Mary emerged.  With her was a large boisterous man who had his arm clasped tightly over his shouders.  Both were laughing wildly.  They entered a taxi and drove away.  Harst sprang from his shelter and hailed another cab, instructing the driver to follow.  Their car stopped in front of a nearby hotel, and, their arms wrapped around each other, the couple strolled drunkenly through the door.  Harst watched the closing doors vacantly; then stepped out of the cab and started walking in the opposite direction.

The next morning they carried him into the hospital.  They used the stomach pump in time to save his life, but not in time to prevent the corrosive poison from twisting his stomach into a writhing mass of pain.  He had money and he had no identifications, so they took his word that he had no relatives.  Under the quietening touch of large doses of codeine, he slept for days, almost without pause.  When he did wake, the pain still racked him, and he would often become wild with despondency; the hospital was overcrowded, the interns had other rounds to make; so they gave him more codeine and left him sleeping peacefully again.

He was in a train heading west four weeks later.  January 28, two weeks after his concert tour should have started.  But he wasn’t thinking of this; he was just tired, so very tired.

He got off in Chicago.  That ws big; he could be alone in its crowds.  And he wouldn’t have to see her; oh God, he thought, if he could only never see her again.  He cashed a check and settled down in a hotel room.  His mind was awakening now, and in the empty room it was screaming within him.  Peop;le were trying to steal in his door.  He didn’t want to die now, but they were trying to kill him.  The bellboy was trying to get into his room to kill him.  Got to keep the bellboy out.  Got to lock the door.  close the windows.  Draw the shades.  His mind was roaring.  Got to do something.  Got to get out of here before they kill me.

He found a small drug store where, for a huge price, the druggist gave him more codeine.  Things were better now.  Can rest.  Can rest at last.  He returned to his room.  At last he slept again.

three months later.  A policeman found him wandering drunkenly through an empty street at three in the morning and took him in to the station.  Two days later he was under supervision in a sanatarium.

And at last they said he was improving.  They ahd traced him to New York and notified his wife Mary of his condition.  She replied that she was filing for divorce.  The proceedings ended with the verdict that she couldn’t divorce him while was mentally ill; instead she was forced by the court to take custory of her husband.  Bitterly she arrived at his bedside.  He didn’t hate her now; he was only tired and wanted someone to take care of him.  The psychiatrist had suggested they settled down in some small community whjere neither was known.  All right, they took a train south.  They got off at Hartonville.  It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t an ominous twist of fate, it simply happened.

They rented a small cottage.  Gradually Harst became rested, his health began to improve.  Mary Harst settled down to a dull house routine; there ws nothing else to do.  Anyway, she too was tired.

Several months later the music instructor at Hartonville High resigned, and Harst listlessly took his place.  And so he amde a living and passed through the weary years of existence that were still before him.  Occasionally he’d pick up his violin againk, but would always lay it down in disgust.  His fingers still moved, the strings still reacted, but something was no longer there.  Something had passed out of his life forever.

Only one trace of fire remained.  He had found in August Zirn once again the sensitivity, the emotional beauty, of his own youth.  His goal: to shape in this you th what had once shaped in his.  He had given him what was left of himself – his hours and his knowledge.

And now he had nothing left to give him.  The boy had absorbed all, and he needed something more.  Harst’s own sould, his own mind were dead – the youth needed a full, live one to develop.  He had led him as far as he could; there was nothing to do but fine another to take him the rest of the way.

So he was going to New York

“Okay, 503 Wallace,” said the driver.

Joseph Harst awoke from his reverie and fumbled for some change in his pocket.  He paid the fare, then climbed wearily out on the sidewalk.  The house before him ws a small, simple brick cottage, contrasting to the apartments jutting up on each side.  As he made his way up the walk, he grew uneasy – thirty-two years is a long time, lhe reflected, since we last parted in Berlin; a long time to still recognize somebody. What if he doesn’t remember me?  What right do I have to come here because of a friendship thirty-two years back?  He looked around as if doubting whether he should remain.

His thoughts were broken as the door opened in answer to his unconscious knock.  A rather large, stockily built woman, perhaps in her early thirties, ws standing before him.  “Yes, what can I do for you?” she asked in abrupt business-like tones.

“I’d like to see Dr. Heinmann, plese.”

“My father is working now and it would be a poor idea for him to have visitors, I’m afraid.”  She repeated it as if it were a rehearsed line.  “Could I take a message?”

“Would you tell him that Joseph Harst is here?  I used to study with him at the Conservatory.”

For a moment she looked puzzled, trying to place his words.  “Joseph Harst . . . the Conservatory,” she repeated slowly.  And then, “Will you come in for a moment, Mr. Harst?”  She pointed out a chair and disappeared into the next room.

Harst glanced uneasily about the room from where he sat.

§          §          §

FILLER

Here he enters the army, and the second phase of his life begins.  This phase consists of a complete and terrible tearing down of everything about his beautiful subjective worled built up in the first phase.  It is a period of absolute disilllusion; brought about by the fact that he can no longer live within himself, but in the powerful extrovert grasp of army life he is forced to meet the harsh realistic life which he has previously shunned.

The period previous to and symbolized by the dream to follow consists of his early army life in the States.  This period might be entitled “Disillusionment, Part 1.”  He slowly and painfully leaves his ridiculed absorption in himself and becomes a member of the general pattern.  This phase of disillusionment finds him realizing the grossness and ugliness in others, and in life as a whole.  But far more destructive, he uncovers the grossness, ugliness, and the animalism in himself.  Gradually and insiduously, morbidity replaces beauty in his vivid imaginative world.

Gus stood on the edge of the small gravel road, hands implanted firmly on his sides, looking about with an air both perplexed and resolved.

Autumn had come to this army camp in the midwest, and the air about him crackled with its crispness.  It was a day when a guy felt like doing things, big things.

He looked at his watch.  Three more hours till he was on duty again.  “I can’t waste this,” he muttered resolutely to himself.  Slowly he began walking.  He thoughtfully kicked a rock along before him – then stooped to pick it up and threw it far into the fields ahead.  A feeling of restrained power filled him as he watched it soar, then disappear in the grass beyond.  He inhaled deeply, as if the incoming volume of air would force out that heavy feeling tht everything ws being wsted, that this time would never come again, that he could not use it.  He gazed outward at the long plain, the clear heaven bounding it, and felt emptier.

Gus suddenly submited to an overpowering impulse to lie down in this green mattress.  Firm in its cushion he felt insignificant in the endless nothing his eyes stared up into.  How high could be that vague blue ceiling that encompassed his vision?  How much farther to other worlds, other suns, other universes?  How pointless was his small world, his futile life?  Where was his old world, the vast beautiful subjective world that once centered around himself?  Would he never fine it again, never never to rescue himself from this void, insignificant cell in this tinny meaningless world?  He wondered if the fellows back in the barracks, engrossed in their poker hands, could ever realize how utterly unimportant they were.  Maybe they couldn’t; maybe they had never seen anything richer or fuller.  Oh, where was his once rich and fruitful domain – why couldn’t he find those towering walls again and lock himself forever within their protecting boundaries?  Was he destined always to lie in this emptiness, this empty empty emptiness . . . .

his eyes opened and he gazed out far far along the plain it was clear void empty no no what was that in the distance far in the distance his eyes widened it was a forest a vast golden autumn forest that loomed on the horizon stretching wide as the eye could see a golden radiance covering it all a radiant glistening splendor it was his world iis old beautiful world at last stumbling he rose to his feet and started walking toward it breaking into a run running like the winds toward it it was closer closer the radiance growing encompassing him blinding him dazzling him and he kjept running frantically he had found it at last he had found it and suddenly he ws there the sparkling beauty was his at last the majestic oaks standing before him with an exultant cry he plunged in tearing farther farther into the unending maze crying screaming laughing embracing the sparkling air he couldn’t stop not until he was lost lost completely in his glorious world never never to find his way out again till he ws safe till he was in its midst

and at last he paused and gazed about him he was in a soft clearing where the sunlight sprinkled his body in a brilliant mist the space was an enchanting garden whose exotic flowers gradually merged into harmony with the golden autumn leaves of the surrounding forest in the center a glowing blue lake dreamed tranquilly while the soothing son of an unseen bird lulled the atmosphere into a peaceful contentment the graceful touch of a lingering breeze softly ruffled his hair and blew it against his forehead each breath an exquisite feast that gave his blood a rich warmth that pulsated through his body

the delicate ripples softly flowing over the lake beckoned him to join them lightly he removed his clothes and threw them wildly into the trees around poised over the bank smiling down into the swelling stemming rippling naked reflection playing games in the blue mirror

quiet listen there was a cry a voice far in the forest coming closer closer like the sweet musical ringing of a harp it was a girl’s voice frantically crying out into the winds what what was that she was calling his name Gus she was calling Gus the name stretched out and vibrated on the glassy surface of the lake Gus came the call closer still closer he knew the voice it raced through his mind with a searing trail it ws Jean his Jean his lovely Jean calling him calling Gus he ran through the clearing to the edge of the trees and screamed frantically Jean it’s me Gus oh Gus the cry was getting louder closer coming from all directions he dore from one end of the thicket to the other trying to place it all the time growing nearer louder Jean where are you Jean he screamed Gus loomed the cry filling the air vibrating upon him.

Gus oh Gus I’ve found you from the brush brok through her figure and suddenly swayed before him her body was bare white alluring his heart was roaring insiode as he gazed wonderously at her dazzling smooth flesh the forest swimming crazily around him Jean Jean darling my Jean he murmured as she collapsed into his arms he held lher tight tight as his burning body warmed her shivering frame her wild billowing hair ruffling softly in his face the touch of her body a rapturous embrace that filled his blood firm quivering breasts melting fervidly agains his chest through the air floated the melody of a violin gently sweetly wafting over them a luxurious tune that lovingly taunted the sparkling lake the gladdened birds the smiling oaks

the flowered pattern underneath twisted into flowing rainbows tht tenderly swam below his feet Gus oh my Gus she murmured and her lovely face turned upwards into his vivid blue eyes floating in a glistening pool of tears scarlet sensuous lips close yet closer to his luring inviting drawing his lips nearer nearer and they met his brain screaming furiously in a long ecstatic union her moist feverish lips pressing rapturously into his own her enticing fingers tightening frenziedly upon the back of his neck his hand rubbing gently over her smooth warm skin the violin was an orchestra that mounted to a roaring crescendo which grew and grew in blinding intensity until suddenly

it stopped as their lips parted and while she buried her head adoringly against his shoulder only the mild strains of the violin again sweetened the air and the clearing and all in it dreamed again in the quiet sunlight

her eyes were clear shining now her face glittering with joy he took her hand and they danced over to the edge of the pool together watching their white naked reflections mold temselves on the smooth surface they laughed blissfully as with a ripple the images suddenly widened out and merged together as one and then split apart to curve outwards from each other overhead other birds had joined in the fest the captivating strains of the violin were coming from the ground from the air from the trees from the lake a soft wind kissed the water and the rippling images danced lithely to the embracing melody     and then

and then the brilliant radiance that filled the clearance imperceptibly but definitely began to lessen while to the young lovers it seemed that the light cheerful strains of the violin were suddenly growing heavy mournful in sudden transition the images disappeared from the water and the lake became cloudy turbid foreboding with a growing terror Gus tightly clenched the trembling hand that ws in his overhead the joyous song of the birds turned into wild screaming and the air ws stifled with the flutter of wings as by the huundreds they tore from their hidden nests and flew shrilly away the light was daarkening the brilliant rays muffled and disappeared under the sudden apeparance of black ominous clouds and then

abruptly the mournful tunes of the violin ended completely and all was a deathly quiet a flash of lightning rent the air and a heavy peal of thunder tore into their bodies overhead the air became filled with black repellent ravens shrieking screeching thickening into a turbulent ceiling the roar of their flapping wings mingling into a gigantic roar with the appearance of a howling tearing wind

in dread terror the fearful lovers stared horror-stricken at each other in trembling silence and then a terrible scream from Jean as she fell to her knees the music the music stopped save me get the music she cried as her face twisted in anguish

with a horrible gasp Gus recoiled at the hideous sight before him on her abdomen a corroded black cancerous growth had appeared and was visually eating its way through her flesh her face twisted in distorted agony she screamed again and again the music only the music can save me find the violin o my god find the violin

o my god o my god o my god shrieked the ravens overhead

o my god o my god o my god howled the wind

paralyzed with dread Gus could not move could not stir could not cry out could only stare crushingly as the black snakish cancer crept steadily over her body eating her soft beautiful flesh now her legs her waist her breasts tearing into a sticky odious pulp as her heart-rending screams the violin oh save me the violin again died into gagging moans

o my god o my god o my god screeched the ravens overhead

and suddenly Gus broke through his paralysis and sobbing hysterically dived to kiss her face his lips met a pasty noxious sensation he jumped back crying in horror the face he had kissed was a hideous gnarled black mold of rotted flesh dripping strands yet hanging from his lips of what had been her of what had been Jean his Jean his darling Jean as he stood petriefied in his horror-stricken grief