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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 1, January 1941
Page 10
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FANTASIA 10 new beat of the music. I attempted to pass it off by concentrating my gaze upon the orchestra. In doing so, I noticed the tympanist crouching over his drums, working furiously. Every fall of his arms prompted a profound vibration in my chest. He stopped momentarily, and a solo violin took over for a brief passage. And as the kettledrums quieted, so did my emotional tenseness. Once more I was breathing normally and my heart now seemed to be working regularly, when suddenly the conductor, with a sweep of his arms, brought the whole orchestra into play. Again the tympanist crouched over his drums, and again, to my great consternation, my heart pounded wildly against my ribs. I could feel my blood coursing through my veins, gaining greater impetus with each systole and diastole. My temples throbbed violently, and alternate chills and fever assailed me. "What -- what is this?" I remember crying inwardly, being anxious over I knew not just what. But as a few seconds passed, I saw the futility of my question; I knew the answer. The horrible realization of my condition fastened itself upon my being. My body, my very heart action, was inextricably attuned to the maddening rhythm of the music. So great, so mixed were my emotions, that tears welled forth from my eyes. The orchestra swam before my vision; it now became a glowing entity, seemingly bent on my destruction. The violins emitted harsh, dissonant chords that grated on every nerve fiber. A flute, it must have been, mocked my every movement. I wanted to scream, but the sounds were choked far down in my throat. Now the orchestra had advanced in perspective, looming before my turbulent mind as a distorted mass of glinting brass and racing fingers and flitting bows -- all guided by a black figure that urged its cohorts to greater heights with its gyrating arms. In my temporary madness, I fancied it turned its head to silently leer at me. The people, the hall were as nothing to me. Only the orchestra was visible, and that appeared as if I had viewed it through the heavy distortions of a rain-lashed window pane. And all the while, the music thundered about me, causing me to dread each approaching second. Then a terrifying thought flashed to me. Suppose the tempo of the music increased its frenzied pace? My heart sympathized now with each rise and fall of tempo. Could it stand an increase of pace? A vehement "NO" leapt from within me. I sought for some means of escape. I tried to rise, to flee the hall; but my muscles were apparently paralyzed by the electric emotion that gripped me. Over and over, half-crazed I muttered, inwardly, "...must do something...must do something..." In one last desperate attempt to free myself from the fatal power, I gathered all the will I could muster, and, more by subconscious than conscious effort, I essayed a tremendous forward lunge from the chair. Somehow I had conquered the paralysis, and I flew forward, striking my forehead against the seat directly in front of me. Two days later I awakened to consciousness with shattered nerves, a head bound up from the wound received in falling, and, most shocking of all, hair turned completely white. Under the strictest admonitions from my doctor, I was warned to shut music out of my life for fear of a recurrence of that which had seriously threatened my sanity. Yesterday I spoke to him. He said I was showing signs of improvement, but I saw in his eyes that he was lying. Even now, "Danse Grotesque" haunts and tortures my mind; even now I start at the slightest noise. At times my hands involuntarily tremble, and I must clutch them tightly against my body to still them. I know of only one anodyne to ease this torture in which I dwell. Perhaps I shall be forced to take it soon, but I trust, now that you know my story, that you will not judge my action too harshly. The End
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FANTASIA 10 new beat of the music. I attempted to pass it off by concentrating my gaze upon the orchestra. In doing so, I noticed the tympanist crouching over his drums, working furiously. Every fall of his arms prompted a profound vibration in my chest. He stopped momentarily, and a solo violin took over for a brief passage. And as the kettledrums quieted, so did my emotional tenseness. Once more I was breathing normally and my heart now seemed to be working regularly, when suddenly the conductor, with a sweep of his arms, brought the whole orchestra into play. Again the tympanist crouched over his drums, and again, to my great consternation, my heart pounded wildly against my ribs. I could feel my blood coursing through my veins, gaining greater impetus with each systole and diastole. My temples throbbed violently, and alternate chills and fever assailed me. "What -- what is this?" I remember crying inwardly, being anxious over I knew not just what. But as a few seconds passed, I saw the futility of my question; I knew the answer. The horrible realization of my condition fastened itself upon my being. My body, my very heart action, was inextricably attuned to the maddening rhythm of the music. So great, so mixed were my emotions, that tears welled forth from my eyes. The orchestra swam before my vision; it now became a glowing entity, seemingly bent on my destruction. The violins emitted harsh, dissonant chords that grated on every nerve fiber. A flute, it must have been, mocked my every movement. I wanted to scream, but the sounds were choked far down in my throat. Now the orchestra had advanced in perspective, looming before my turbulent mind as a distorted mass of glinting brass and racing fingers and flitting bows -- all guided by a black figure that urged its cohorts to greater heights with its gyrating arms. In my temporary madness, I fancied it turned its head to silently leer at me. The people, the hall were as nothing to me. Only the orchestra was visible, and that appeared as if I had viewed it through the heavy distortions of a rain-lashed window pane. And all the while, the music thundered about me, causing me to dread each approaching second. Then a terrifying thought flashed to me. Suppose the tempo of the music increased its frenzied pace? My heart sympathized now with each rise and fall of tempo. Could it stand an increase of pace? A vehement "NO" leapt from within me. I sought for some means of escape. I tried to rise, to flee the hall; but my muscles were apparently paralyzed by the electric emotion that gripped me. Over and over, half-crazed I muttered, inwardly, "...must do something...must do something..." In one last desperate attempt to free myself from the fatal power, I gathered all the will I could muster, and, more by subconscious than conscious effort, I essayed a tremendous forward lunge from the chair. Somehow I had conquered the paralysis, and I flew forward, striking my forehead against the seat directly in front of me. Two days later I awakened to consciousness with shattered nerves, a head bound up from the wound received in falling, and, most shocking of all, hair turned completely white. Under the strictest admonitions from my doctor, I was warned to shut music out of my life for fear of a recurrence of that which had seriously threatened my sanity. Yesterday I spoke to him. He said I was showing signs of improvement, but I saw in his eyes that he was lying. Even now, "Danse Grotesque" haunts and tortures my mind; even now I start at the slightest noise. At times my hands involuntarily tremble, and I must clutch them tightly against my body to still them. I know of only one anodyne to ease this torture in which I dwell. Perhaps I shall be forced to take it soon, but I trust, now that you know my story, that you will not judge my action too harshly. The End
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