The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze by William Saroyan Page B
Authors: William Saroyan
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isn’t. Tell me everything.
It is very funny, he said. I was going to kill the snake, and not come here again.
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? she said.
Of course I am, he said.
What else? she said. What did you think, of me, when you had the snake before you?
You will be angry, he said.
Oh, nonsense. It is impossible for me to be angry with you. Tell me.
Well, he said, I thought you were lovely but evil.
Evil?
I told you you would be angry.
And then?
Then I touched the snake, he said. It wasn’t easy, but I picked it up with my hands. What do you make of this? You’ve read a lot of books about such things. What does it mean, my picking up the snake?
She began to laugh softly, intelligently. Why, she laughed, it means, it simply means that you are an idiot. Why, it’s splendid.
Is that according to Freud? he said.
Yes, she laughed. According to Freud.
Well, anyway, he said, it was very fine to let the snake go free.
Have you ever told me you loved me? she asked.
You ought to know, he said. I do not remember one or two things I have said to you.
No, she said. You have never told me.
She began to laugh again, feeling suddenly very happy about him. You have always talked of other things, she said. Irrelevant things. At the most amazing times. She laughed.
This snake, he said, was a little brown snake.
And that explains it, she said. You have never intruded.
What the hell are you talking about? he said.
I’m so glad you didn’t kill the snake, she said.
She returned to the piano, and placed her hands softly upon the keys.
I whistled a few songs to the snake, he said. I whistled a fragment from Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. I would like to hear that. You know, the melody that was used in a musical comedy called
Blossom Time
. The part that goes,
you are my only love, my only love
, and so on.
She began to play softly, feeling his eyes on her hair, on her hands, her neck, her back, her arms, feeling him studying her as he had studied the snake.
Big Valley
Vineyard
Jew Strawinsky, the nose and mouth in the aquarium, swimming, and Russian Diaghilev, seated with legs crossed, sending the girls up on their dancing toes. The leaves of all the vines in the valley were drying, for the fruit was gone, the red and the purple; the farmers sat and talked.
Tender Cocteau, a dandy to the last, more nervously alive than alive, a boy with long fingers and a pallor. And Satie, bearded like a pawnshop ghost gone broke.
French music, silent during the war, awoke with something of a start the day after the armistice, as who did not, music or man? We lived, as it were, alertlyasleep before, but then, after that day, we lived alertly, but awake. Refer to the advertisements about automobiles. There is a place to go for every man. Debussy (the man himself) was dead, Ravel was ill and frightened, and everywhere it was dawn and at dawn man knows a sickness not known at night or during the day.
Out in the vineyards we labored with the vines, speaking fraternally with peons from Mexico, admiring Villa the bandit and Orozco the maniac with the brushes and the paint.
First of all, it was argued (by whom it does not matter) that impressionism was dead. This meant, if anything, that impressionism was
also
dead, along with the soldiers and along with the half dozen decent ideas about civilization. It was said we no longer had any. It was determined (somewhere, in some philosopher’s brain) that because we were soft, it did not necessarily follow that we were civilized. There was some discussion of the importance of softness, whether or not it meant what it was hoped it meant.
Barbarians were needed. Real barbarians, things to have life explosively, the war having been waged with undue politeness, particularly in the newspapers and afterwards in the memoirs of generals. And still afterwards in the class-room history books. No victory, all nations having lost their men, the bishop still being pious and a liar, and even
It is very funny, he said. I was going to kill the snake, and not come here again.
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? she said.
Of course I am, he said.
What else? she said. What did you think, of me, when you had the snake before you?
You will be angry, he said.
Oh, nonsense. It is impossible for me to be angry with you. Tell me.
Well, he said, I thought you were lovely but evil.
Evil?
I told you you would be angry.
And then?
Then I touched the snake, he said. It wasn’t easy, but I picked it up with my hands. What do you make of this? You’ve read a lot of books about such things. What does it mean, my picking up the snake?
She began to laugh softly, intelligently. Why, she laughed, it means, it simply means that you are an idiot. Why, it’s splendid.
Is that according to Freud? he said.
Yes, she laughed. According to Freud.
Well, anyway, he said, it was very fine to let the snake go free.
Have you ever told me you loved me? she asked.
You ought to know, he said. I do not remember one or two things I have said to you.
No, she said. You have never told me.
She began to laugh again, feeling suddenly very happy about him. You have always talked of other things, she said. Irrelevant things. At the most amazing times. She laughed.
This snake, he said, was a little brown snake.
And that explains it, she said. You have never intruded.
What the hell are you talking about? he said.
I’m so glad you didn’t kill the snake, she said.
She returned to the piano, and placed her hands softly upon the keys.
I whistled a few songs to the snake, he said. I whistled a fragment from Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. I would like to hear that. You know, the melody that was used in a musical comedy called
Blossom Time
. The part that goes,
you are my only love, my only love
, and so on.
She began to play softly, feeling his eyes on her hair, on her hands, her neck, her back, her arms, feeling him studying her as he had studied the snake.
Big Valley
Vineyard
Jew Strawinsky, the nose and mouth in the aquarium, swimming, and Russian Diaghilev, seated with legs crossed, sending the girls up on their dancing toes. The leaves of all the vines in the valley were drying, for the fruit was gone, the red and the purple; the farmers sat and talked.
Tender Cocteau, a dandy to the last, more nervously alive than alive, a boy with long fingers and a pallor. And Satie, bearded like a pawnshop ghost gone broke.
French music, silent during the war, awoke with something of a start the day after the armistice, as who did not, music or man? We lived, as it were, alertlyasleep before, but then, after that day, we lived alertly, but awake. Refer to the advertisements about automobiles. There is a place to go for every man. Debussy (the man himself) was dead, Ravel was ill and frightened, and everywhere it was dawn and at dawn man knows a sickness not known at night or during the day.
Out in the vineyards we labored with the vines, speaking fraternally with peons from Mexico, admiring Villa the bandit and Orozco the maniac with the brushes and the paint.
First of all, it was argued (by whom it does not matter) that impressionism was dead. This meant, if anything, that impressionism was
also
dead, along with the soldiers and along with the half dozen decent ideas about civilization. It was said we no longer had any. It was determined (somewhere, in some philosopher’s brain) that because we were soft, it did not necessarily follow that we were civilized. There was some discussion of the importance of softness, whether or not it meant what it was hoped it meant.
Barbarians were needed. Real barbarians, things to have life explosively, the war having been waged with undue politeness, particularly in the newspapers and afterwards in the memoirs of generals. And still afterwards in the class-room history books. No victory, all nations having lost their men, the bishop still being pious and a liar, and even
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