Falling Figure

They were musicians and composers. It is doubtful that otherwise they should have met. They enjoyed reputations for what was then known as dandyism and both drank towards excess, since it was fashionable. At least, they favoured that impression.

Maurice had taken to carrying a swagger-stick, a prop that performed the dual function of novelty and style accessory. Each of the men wore clothes that mocked the mere functional. Whether this was intentional on Maurice’s part is doubtful, though because of his stubborn outlook, measured movements and violent mood swings, any of his mental processes were impossible for outsiders to analyse. Analysis merely led to those questions that made him more stubborn and insecure. His closest friends, particularly the musicians among them, were cautious of this; although, on one occasion at the Café Nouvelle, this new acquaintance deliberately turned the tables and brought Maurice’s weakness for self-loathing to the fore.

“Maurice, if you are to persist in this vulgar preoccupation as to my supposedly superior virtues as a composer, how will you gain the upper hand you so passionately desire?” Erik signed his name atypically and defiantly with this anterior ‘k’ and was indeed the superior composer at the time, though given to erotic fantasies and other flights of fancy that endeared him to no one but a small, pompous but devoted clique to which he served as unwitting mascot.

“The upper hand at what? Make yourself plain, Erik. It seems that this train of thought is journeying nowhere if not to tedium.”

“As a composer, naturally. That is what you desire, is it not? And without wishing to burden you further with reason, this stubborn—”

“I resent that.”

“…this stubborn attitude is, well, ridiculous.” Erik felt himself to be on unfamiliar ground. He was not generally given to losing his temper, but it seemed likely that he was about to. Under the circumstances, it seemed preferable to back down.

Maurice had been explaining, in the doleful way that his friends had come to associate with him after he had spent a few hours beside the piano in his apartment, the terrors of completing his latest composition.

Though Erik was sure his line of argument would eventually have led to the root of his friend’s anxiety, he was now, reluctantly, on the retreat. After an expertly introduced interlude, he modulated to an unrelated key and began again.

“If there is some frustration or annoyance that haunts you as you work, then you must exorcise the spirit that causes it.”

“And if that destructive spirit is also your inspiration, what then are you to do? Each time I try to write something, whether it is but one solitary bar or an entire song, I am immediately besieged by the realisation that you could have done it better.”

There seemed to be nothing left with which to console Maurice, nothing to say in correction or defence that would substantially improve matters. Erik was, once again, stumbling around in unfamiliar territory.

“Your song,” he ventured. “Explain it to me again.”

Maurice began patiently enough, in a tone of quiet confidence. “It is a disconsolate voicing. The alto is the crux. A low note, G sharp, is sung twenty-three times and then repeated a further seven times at the end. The structure of the song is governed by this repetition, and it affects the first eight measures at once. These are completely identical, repeating the triads E Major, F minor, C sharp minor and F minor over the bass notes B, G sharp, C sharp and G sharp.” Here he stopped abruptly, as if anticipating the entrance of another character or ill-timed applause from a miscued and indifferent audience.

“Go on.”

“In time, the voice rises two octaves to A. But the chain of chords lies just at the limits of the key, in order to establish some dissonance, and here is the problem: I have found it impossible to resolve.”

“Then you must not resolve.”

“But that would endanger the melodic line that follows, through a sequence marked by a repeating, falling figure.”

“Of what nature?”

“It has the compass of a fourth and it repeats each time on a lower degree. You must hear it for yourself in order to—”

“Well, I’d say if you are to be so violent melodically — which, of course, you will be, if this middle section does not resolve — you must also be violent dynamically.” Maurice sighed and appeared to be preparing for retaliation when Erik, as if in reply, began to explain how. “Begin piano, rise in volume until you reach the middle section, which must start pianissimo, and then drive to a mighty crescendo. Perhaps a triple forte. I would suggest that from then on the intensity should decrease, but since you have not mentioned a conclusion, I shall make no comment upon it.”

“Further comment, my dear Erik, is far from necessary.” Maurice’s voice rose to forte. “It is blatantly obvious that you find this discussion of my work demeaning. Indeed, this composition falls so far short of your own writing talents that it cannot even be considered an elementary harmonic exercise.”

“Maurice, you’re being unfair on yourself.”

“Yes, yes. Unfair. It is perhaps even more unfair of me to waste precious time on amateur musical expression when I have such an accomplished composer for a friend. Now, Erik, I shall bid you good night before my inadequacy overcomes me and I make a complete ass of myself in public. It is apparent that I have already done so on the staves.”

Maurice left swiftly, forgetting his swagger-stick and, in his haste, causing dismay to a number of fully laden waitresses.

Erik smiled to himself and began to whistle softly. The tune was of the nature of a falling figure with the compass of a fourth. Each time it repeated on a lower degree.

(Falling Figure was written around 1979, in a depressing bedsit in London’s Streatham Hill. It was inspired by a book I read about Erik Satie. The other composer, of course, is Maurice Ravel. The story has never been published in print.)