“Gentlemen, it is time for the Tolstoi Quartet to change. We must show the world that we are young and alive, that we have not grown tired and stale. The public demands this,” declared the first violinist.
“Music demands this,” stated the violist boldly.
The first violinist leaned forward, impulsively snatching the score of the Schubert quartet they had been playing — a score that, by the way, he knew by heart — off the music stand. Fishing in his violin case, he brought out the program of the season’s concerts. “Gentlemen, we must change. We must be flexible. We must grow.” He waved the program before the men, the program that announced that for its final concert of the season, the Tolstoi Quartet would present the works of Haydn, Mozart, Brahms, and Schubert. “We must change! We must become avant-garde!”
At first, it was difficult, preparing this new secret concert for the public. For one thing, new music was unfamiliar to the musicians’ ears. The instruments shrieked and groaned and protested each note. “Come, my darlings, sing!” exhorted the men to their instruments, and the stringed instruments tried to oblige. In secret, the men had obtained, by dint of many hours in the coffeehouses and dank halls of the conservatory, scores from the new composers — there was one called Schoenberg, there was the upstart Stravinsky, and, of course, already known but heartily disliked, Alban Berg and his music.
From the windows of the little apartment on Strëverstrasse issued forth squawks and shrieks and dissonances that caused even the birds to fly away from adjacent gardens. Eager women, bosoms heaving, hesitated at the front door. Then, clasping their throats and muttering some sort of quick prayer, they turned on their heels, casseroles still in hand, and left.
The practicing continued. The men sawed away at the instruments, trying to make sense of the strange notes. Sometimes they had to stop and wipe their eyes, they were laughing so hard. “I confess, I am bewildered,” declared the first violinist one day, putting down his bow in the middle of the phrase.
“The first violinist bewildered?” At this, all four men looked at one another. Their laughter was an even stranger sound than the music itself, so unused had they become to it, that even a pigeon pecking bread crumbs in front of the sidewalk flew off in alarm.
Soon all of Vienna knew that the musicians of the Tolstoi Quartet, whose wives had left them, were planning a sort of comeback. Or else they had gone quite mad with grief. The postman no longer left letters for them, so strange were the sounds coming from the flat. The gas man, the maid — all stopped coming. Only the Sacher Hotel sent its delivery boy still, a young kid who had no choice but to leave cakes upon the doorstep. Meanwhile, inside, the men practiced this strange new music. The instruments cried aloud in pain.
At night, the men polished their instruments with renewed tenderness, so that even the musical instruments were forced to realize they would not lose anything by cooperating with their masters; no, indeed, they were doubly loved for their willingness to accede to the new positions the men put them in, the contortions of the men’s hands upon their necks and bodies, the strange quivering sounds they uttered from their polished bellies. It was not altogether disagreeable, shivering to Stravinsky, or resonating, perhaps, to a musical sound they had not felt before. The instruments, too, were growing younger, more modern in their outlook. But secretly, all eight of them, men and instruments, still loved their dear old Brahms and Schubert most of all. It was necessary, perhaps, to be able to play Schoenberg, although they all doubted it. Nevertheless, the thought of change — of a second youth perhaps — encouraged them.
The concert itself began badly. As the men took their seats onstage and once again, discreetly, tuned their instruments, there was a sudden interruption. A group of latecomers entered the concert hall from the back and proceeded loudly down the aisle.
The audience turned away from the stage to follow the procession as it moved down the aisle and into the front row, which had been kept empty with a large RESERVED notice until that moment. The group entered the row but did not sit down. The audience shuffled impatiently, annoyed. The members of the Tolstoi Quartet froze at their instruments, bows in hand, their heads turned, incredulous. “It’s my Ludmilla,” whispered the violist. “My Olga.” “My Inge.” “My Gudrun,” the others said in turn.
The wives, their hair marcelled, inclined their heads toward their husbands. Their cavaliers in military uniforms affixed monocles to their eyes and took the wives, hands tenderly. The most distinguished, who was the most decorated, turned on his heel and faced the waiting audience. “Heil Hitler.” The audience rose to its feet. “Heil Hitler.”
The leader turned to the musicians onstage and fixed them with his monocled eye. But the Quartet did not move. The musicians sat in silence, waiting. Under their hands, the silky feel of the instruments. Not even a twang of an open G.
The officers took the arms of the wives, and all those in the front row seated themselves. A sigh filled the hall, the bumping of chair backs, and then coughing, lots of coughing.
“Let us play,” said the first violinist quietly to the others. The musicians looked at him in silence; the audience subsided, a large creaky animal. The first violinist drew his bow across the strings. The second violinist entered. Notes quavered in the dusty air of the theater; then the viola came in, and finally the violoncello. The members of the Tolstoi Quartet breathed in unison.
All through the Alban Berg quartet, the audience sat silent, waiting for it to end. There was uneasy applause when it did, and the audience settled back. For now that the “new music” was over, they would be able to relax into their beloved Mozart, perhaps, or Brahms. Enough excitement for one night: they hoped for a little rest.
The first violinist barely gave the other members of the Quartet time to acknowledge the reaction to the Berg. He raised his instrument to his chin, his bow to the strings, and nodded to the others. The instruments wailed and gnashed and cried their way through Stravinsky, Shostakovich, and finally, for the last was the worst, the Schoenberg. Strange sounds pierced the air, and glass fell from the chandeliers throughout the hall.
Indignant rustles rose from the audience. Husbands had been unable to snore peacefully beside their wives throughout this concert. Disturbed, they sprang to their feet. “Can’t one even get a good night’s sleep in Vienna anymore?” one asked. Casting an angry glance at the stage, they left in haste, dragging their horrified — though fascinated — women with them.
The Tolstoi Quartet played on, forgoing the customary intermission. As they played, defiant sounds bubbled in their chests, and their musical instruments laughed dissonantly. The fabric in the velvet curtains gave way and shredded under the impact of strange sounds. The cushioned seats in the house burst open and the stuffing hung out in limp, exhausted trails. The famous concert hall was a wreck.
The Quartet did not hear the genteel screams of dismay, did not see the hands clapped to ears, the hats pulled down. They did not notice the general stampede toward the large outward-swinging doors of the concert hall, the outrage as the Viennese rushed toward the exits and into the streets, running away from new music.
The four officers in the front row sprang to their feet. “Stop this,” commanded the senior one. “I command you to stop this noise immediately.”
The powdered faces of Gudrun, Inge, Ludmilla, and Olga cracked in dismay, and their lip rouge ran from the corners of their mouths. They looked haggard. “Stop,” whispered the women. But the Tolstoi Quartet played on. There was no stopping them. The officers took the women by their arms and firmly raised them to their feet. “Oh!” The four women’s mouths crumpled.