Odd Jobs (43 page)
Authors: John Updike
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,
by Karl Barth
K
ARL
B
ARTH
’
S INSISTENCE
upon the otherness of God seemed to free him to be exceptionally (for a theologian) appreciative and indulgent of this world, the world at hand. His humor and love of combat, his capacity for friendship even with his ideological opponents, his fondness for his tobacco and other physical comforts, his tastes in art and entertainment were heartily worldly, worldly not in the fashion of those who treat this life as a way-station and testing-ground but of those who embrace it as a piece of Creation. The night of his death, he was composing a lecture in which he wrote, in a tremulous but even hand, that “God is not a God of the dead but of the living.” Not long before this, Barth made notes foreseeing his death and the manifestation before “the judgment seat of Christ” of his “whole ‘being’ ”—his being “with all the real good and the real evil that I have thought, said and done, with all the bitterness that I have suffered and all the beauty that I have enjoyed.” Foremost for him in the ranks of beauty stood the music of Mozart, music which he placed, famously and almost notoriously, above the music of Bach and all others
as a sounding out of God’s glory. He began each day with the playing of a Mozart record, partook of Mozart celebrations and festivals, and conscientiously served as a member of the Swiss Mozart Committee, which included the government minister Carl Burkhardt and the conductor Paul Sacher. “If I ever get to heaven,” he said, in the first tribute printed in this posthumous collection, “I would first of all seek out Mozart.”
It is good to have together, in this slim volume, Barth’s formal pronouncements upon his—so to speak—idol, not only for the charm and ardor with which he addresses the subject but for what light his praise sheds upon that question which, despite all the voluminous dogmatics and the superabundance of lectures, sermons, and incidental utterances that Barth’s long and industrious life produced, remains a bit obscure in his version of Christianity: the question
What are we to do?
b
Granted that the situation of the world and of the individual life is as desperate as Barth paints it, and granted that the message of the Bible, and of the Pauline epistles in particular, is just as he explicates it, amid these radical truths how shall we conduct our daily lives? Does not God’s absolute otherness diminish to zero the significance of our petty activity and relative morality?
Yet Mozart’s activity, his
playing
, is regarded by Barth as exemplary, and the intensity and the
freedom
of his playing exonerate, it would seem, Mozart’s narrowness, his ignorance of his era’s science, politics, and philosophy, and the disastrous naïveté with which he conducted his practical affairs. Barth’s attitude toward Mozart puts me in mind, incongruously, of Walt Whitman’s praise, in “Song of Myself,” of animals:
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God.
Like those beautiful and guiltless animals, Mozart’s music says Yea; hearing it, Barth tells us, “one can live.” By focusing so purely, so simply,
upon the making of music, Mozart, like Whitman’s panther who “walks to and fro on a limb overhead,” gives us an example of tending to business, of channelling and reflecting, within the specialized talent, divine energy. Mozart, superb creature, “never knew doubt.” His “ever present lightness” exalts him above all other composers; Barth marvels at “how this man, while truly mastering his craft and always striving toward greater refinement, nevertheless manages never to
burden
his listeners—especially not with his creative labors!”
And yet a Yea, to have weight and significance for us, must overpower and contain a Nay, and so in Mozart’s limpid outpouring Barth also hears “something very demanding, disturbing, almost provocative, even in the most radiant, most childlike, most joyful movements.” “What he translated into music was real life in all its discord.” His music reflects the conflicts and passions of his time as fully as the omnivorous mind of Goethe. A tireless absorber of the musical currents around him, Mozart “moved freely within the limits of the musical laws of his time, and then later ever more freely. But he did not revolt against these laws; he did not break them.” It is in his consideration of Mozart’s freedom that Barth becomes most theological, most instructive, and even most musicological: this ideal man, Mozart, carrying the full baggage of human woe and of temporal convention and restraint, possesses his freedom through a “triumphant turn” out of Nay into Yea. This turn is construed as more admirable than Goethe’s sovereign humanism or Schleiermacher’s location of a neutral center whereon balance can be achieved: “What occurs in Mozart is rather a glorious upsetting of the balance, a turning in which the light rises and the shadows fall, though without disappearing, in which joy overtakes sorrow without extinguishing it, in which the Yea rings louder than the ever-present Nay.”
“Though without disappearing”—thus the theologian acknowledges the inextinguishable problem of evil. He implies a cosmic paradigm in the way in which Mozart sweeps into his magnificent lightness everything problematical, painful, and dark. Mozart’s music, for Barth, has the exact texture of God’s world, of divine comedy. Hearing it, he is “transported to the threshold of a world which in sunlight and storm, by day and by night, is a good and ordered world.” The order is, in Mozart, deeply assimilated and not a kind of exoskeleton, a message, as in Bach. Nor is Mozart engaged in personal confession, like Beethoven. Between the creedal and the personal, he embodies the vital, the “living God” so recurrent in Barth’s phraseology: Mozart’s music, like the teeming drama
of the Bible and like good crisis theology, gives us permission to live. “With an ear open to your musical dialectic, one can be young and become old, can work and rest, be content and sad: in short, one can live”: thus Barth speaks directly to Mozart, in a tone of profound gratitude. Those who have not felt the difficulty of living have no need of Barthian theology; but, then, perhaps they also have no ear for music.
*
The single exception is “The Stoker,” published as
Der Heizer, Ein Fragment
in 1913 but now incorporated, in German and in English, as the first chapter of Kafka’s unfinished novel,
Amerika
.
†
His application for employment at the Assicurazioni Generali gives his height as 1.81 meters, or over five foot eleven.
‡
The full text of her description is preserved as an introduction to the Modern Library edition of
Seven Gothic Tales
.
§
She takes sex most seriously, and writes about it with a searchingness few fiction writers can match. The young hero of “The Roads Round Pisa,” Count Augustus von Schimmelmann, poses something like Freud’s deplored question “What does a woman want?” Having newly met an arresting young woman, he expresses distress at her low opinion of men, and tells her, “It has happened to me many times that a lady has told me that I was making her unhappy, and that she wished that she and I were dead, at a time when I have tried hardest to make her happy. It is so many years now since Adam and Eve … were first together in the garden, that it seems a great pity that we have not learned better how to please one another.”
The girl ponders and answers that God, when He created Adam and Eve, “arranged it so that man takes, in these matters, the part of a guest, and woman that of hostess. Therefore man takes love lightly, for the honor and dignity of his house is not involved therein.” She goes on, “Now, tell me, Count, what does a guest want?”
He ventures that a guest wants “first of all to be diverted,” then “to shine, to expand himself and impress his own personality upon his surroundings,” and, lastly, perhaps “to find some justification for his existence altogether.” Then he asks in turn, “What does a hostess want?”
“The hostess,” said the young lady, “wants to be thanked.”
‖
He bore some animus as well, an informant from Pottsville wrote me, against the Irish of the town; the O’Haras evidently felt snubbed by the Irish elite, headed by the McQuails, and Harry Reilly was supposedly modelled on Billy McQuail.
a
“It was a Ralph Barton drawing, a lot of shoppers, all with horribly angry or stern faces, hating each other and themselves and their packages, and above the figures of the shoppers was a wreath and the legend: Merry Xmas.” The date of the cover—the artist’s only one—is December 13, 1930. Barton had committed suicide between then and the writing of this book, and perhaps this mention is O’Hara’s tribute to a fallen fellow convivialist.
b
“I hardly dare and yet I do dare to hope that no one will come to me now and say, Well, then, what shall we do about it?” Barth told the auditors of his brilliant exposé of Christian perplexity in “The Word of God and the Task of the Ministry.” “
If
the situation is as I have described it,” he goes on, “it seems to me that it is out of place to speak of what we ought to do. The question is simply or not whether we recognize this to be the situation.”
MORALISTSThe Gospel According to St. Matthew
M
ATTHEW
might be described as the workhorse of the four Gospel writers, the establishment man. His version of the story of Jesus traditionally begins the New Testament and continues to be placed first among the canonical four Gospels, even though Mark’s has been recognized since the 1830s as most probably the earliest composed, and therefore (presumably) the most authentic and the least overlaid by wishful thinking and concealed doctrinal pleading. Mark has his electric compactness and swiftness of narrative, Luke has those tender human episodes (the annunciation, the birth of John, the nativity in the manger, the twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple at Jerusalem, the story of Mary and Martha, the parables of the prodigal son and the pearl of great price, the good criminal on the cross, the appearances of the risen Jesus at Emmaus and Jerusalem) absent from the other Gospels, and John has his animated dialogues and Platonic outbursts. Compared with these writers, Matthew is a drab and not entirely appealing “safe man” who manfully handles Christian belief’s awkward lumber—the threats of hellfire and outer darkness and the, to a modern reader, irksome insistence upon Christ’s life as a detailed fulfillment of Old Testament prophecies. But one cannot speak of any of the Gospels as the exclusive product of a writer’s personality and inspiration, for all drew upon the same body of oral tradition and contain numerous parallel if not identical passages.
Aside from a few glancing and problematical references in Josephus, Suetonius, and Tacitus, the biography related in the Gospels left no trace in contemporary non-Christian annals. However, Paul’s epistles,
which predate even Mark, and the Acts of the Apostles, composed by the author of Luke, verify that there was a historical Jesus, whose life and death exerted a transforming influence upon, first, an inner circle of disciples and followers and, within a generation of his death, groups of worshippers throughout Palestine and, by the next generation, much of the Roman world. The Gospel writers belong, it is likely, to the second generation of Christians after the apostles, though early church tradition claims Mark to have been dictated by Peter, and John to have been the actual work of one of the twelve, John son of Zebedee, “the disciple whom Jesus loved,” recalling these events as a very old man in Ephesus around the year 100
A.D
.
No other texts have suffered such a weight of analysis, yet there is still opportunity for scholars to disagree over such basics as the date, place, and order of their composition, and for significant flaws to be found in every theory. Nevertheless, venerable scholarly consensus dates Mark at about 65
A.D
., and places Matthew ten or fifteen years later—certainly after the destruction of the Temple in 70, an event to which Jesus is made to allude in 23:38. Matthew follows, with some deviations and improvements of Greek, Mark’s narrative, adding to it a wealth of sayings and teaching present also in Luke: the body of material in common constitutes the well-known hypothetical document Q, named from the German
Quelle
for “source.” While Matthew and Luke did not have exactly the same Q in front of them, and small discrepancies abound, it is roughly true that Matthew = Mark + Q and that Luke = Mark + Q + the considerable body of narrative and preachment present only in Luke, called by some scholars S. And if these three “synoptic” gospels are thought of as thus progressively sedimentary, then the Gospel of John is like a metamorphic rock in which these strata have been violently annealed but in which recognizable veins remain. Nineteenth-century scholars, in working upon the Gospels, naturally thought in terms of men manipulating written texts. Many of the puzzles they formulated, concerning the inconsistencies and variations among the texts, disappear if we imagine the Gospel writers as independently drawing upon a lively body of oral history—a body that threatened, as the Christian community became more scattered and diverse, to become ever more distorted and open to inauthentic, notably Gnostic, incursions. By the last quarter of the first Christian century, a written testament was necessary if the movement was to remain coherent. Luke’s dedication of his Gospel to Theophilus evokes a scene of growing confusion wherein “many have
undertaken to arrange in narrative form such accounts of the momentous happenings in our midst as have been handed down to us by the original eye-witnesses and ministers of the Word.”
*
