Free Middle C by William H. Gass Page A

threadlike length of web. Do you know the word “gossamer”? The spider hung there listening to the Chopin. It was no more than a dot suspended in the air—a piece of punctuation. The spider hung there while Paderewski played. Hear him? How he played, that man!
    You may smile, Mr. Hirk said, although Joey hadn’t softened his sullenness by a twitch. Paderewski smiled himself. He was charmed. So … when the exercise in thirds had been completed, he went on, as was his habit, to another one in sixths. The spider immediately scampered,as it seemed, up his silver line to the ceiling. Observing this—you see it?—Paderewski returned to the exercise in thirds and began to repeat it. Lo, believe it and behold, eh? down like a fireman his pole the spider slid. All the way to the piano deck where he sat and once more listened. At the end of that exercise, which he had to repeat entirely because it so enchanted the spider, Paderewski went about his other business. How long must one entertain a tiny spider, no bigger than a period? Especially one who hasn’t paid for its seat at the concert …
    Joey did smile now, but he thought the story was at an end. Mr. Hirk stared vacantly into vacated space. Time in the tale … time in the tale was passing. That’s why he stared. A stare that was to stand for elapsing hours. Then his head moved back to Joey. It was an animal’s maneuver.
    The next morning Paderewski returned to the piano and his practice. The thread hung there still, and down that thread came the spider again the moment the study in thirds commenced. Paderewski pursued the étude, and the spider continued to sit on the deck or hang just above it from the thread so long as the piece was played. This behavior went on, not for another day, or a few days, or a week, but for many weeks, Joey … many weeks … Faithfully the spider appeared, quietly it listened, its brilliant tiny eyes shining like diamonds, and just as often, just as promptly, it disappeared up its rope when the étude concluded, as if annoyed, even angry, Paderewski thought, leaving beneath it the detestable sound of sixths.
    I once had a small mouse that kept me company, Mr. Hirk said, though he was only foraging for food and was never an enthralled audience for my playing. No enthrallment. Not for me. So … where was … ah … I am here … but Paderewski … Well, vacation time came for Paderewski. He didn’t practice in that room again for a number of weeks, and when he returned in the fall, the spider was gone, as was the spider’s thread, rolled up after him perhaps, when he went searching for a more melodious space.
    What is the lesson? Is that your question, Joey? Joey had heard Mr. Hirk’s story despite his intended deafness and would remember it too, against every wish, but he had no curiosity about its character and therefore no question about its content. It was just an amusing oddity—this story. Like the fables of Aesop, Mr. Hirk said, rather portentously, this trifling occurrence has a moral.
    The major third, my young friend, Mr. Hirk continued, changing his tone, is that upon which all that is good and warm and wholesome and joyful in nature is built. Not for it the humble, the impoverished, the sacrificial, the stoical—no—it is the ground of the garden, it signifies the real right way, as Beethoven knew when he wrote the finale for his Fifth Symphony . Mr. Hirk leaned like a broken pole against the piano. Hold out your hand, Joey, hold it out, the gnawed right hand that plays—there—that hand is pagan, it is a human hand, it is for shaking and touching and grasping and caressing; it is not made to be a fist; it is not made for praying, for gestures of disdain, for tearing one’s hair or holding one’s head, for stabbing, for saluting; well, now, see my hand here? this crab? this wadded clutch of knotted fingers? it is the sacred hand, the scarred and crucified claw, the toil-destroyed hand, fit only to curse its