Melodrama in g flat By paul limburg NO, I'm not mad. I did write the Sonata in G Flat. That composition represents the labor of the best year of my life. If things had been different, I might yet be composing beautiful sonatas for the world. But to have my faith shaken the way it was is enough to make me forget how to write lovely music. Rodney Barton, if I had you jelly-like in my hand now, would I clench my first and watch you drip broken into the cracks of these ancient flags? I was happy that year. Although I was unknown and almost penniless, I had youth, a future, and the most understanding sweetheart any man could desire. I was only twenty-two, yet the critics had already taken notice of me, complimenting me on some of my work. With Helena to help me find inspiration for my work, I knew that I could go far. It was her inspiration that caused me to compose the sonata. It was not just a sonata for me; it was my ode to Helena. Had it not been for her the sonata would never have been written. Please realize that I appreciate the fact that she probably had more to do with the piece than I did. Helena was the motive force in most of my work, but she was the Sonata in G Flat. I can never forget the evening that it came to me. Helena and I sat on the flagstone terrace, gazing out on the night. Behind us came the music from the ballroom, floating in disconnected bits on the summer air. The occasional couples that passed on their way to the garden seemed distant to me. The few stars that we could see from the terrace were much nearer than the dancers and strollers. But Helena was near. She seemed now to belong to me completely. Her thoughts were mine, her desires mine. "David, darling," she said dreamily, "it's all so beautiful. It seems as if the whole night were singing to us. Perhaps it is music from those stars, playing on and on for you and me." She was right. There was some strange music in the night. It enveloped us in its soft, gently persuading tones of a wondering loveliness. There was something ethereal about it all, as if the warm quiet air had given up its charm to the melody. I really heard the sonata for the first time then. Helena, sitting at my side, had painted it with words upon my imagination. She must have heard a song, too, for it was she who called the haunting melody to my mind. But that song was not merely David it was Helena, the night, the stars .... Even the next morning I could remember the thread of the melody. It had burned itself into my brain during the night; I had not slept for thinking of it. Yet that melody would not be put down on paper. Hard as I tried, I could not get it right. Trying to set such an unworldly theme into the patterns of man-made music was an almost impossible task. It defied every attempt that I made to capture permanently its fragile charm. Tired out by my futile efforts, I gave up. The melody would not leave me alone. Each time that I believed I had finally forgotten it, it came back to me, delicate and aching with tenderness. It seemed to lure me on; it entreated me to capture it for the world to hear. One day the piece came aright. As I played over what I had written, I knew that it was the same melody I had first heard on a darkened terrace. The more frequently I played the melody, the more the sound of it thrilled me. My delight was too great to keep to myself. I telephoned Helena and told her to come to me immediately. When she arrived, I played the still-thin melody. She seemed to be affected, for I caught the glistening of a tear in her eye. She looked at the floor for a moment, then raised her eyes to me and said quietly, "That must be the star-song that we heard that night. Nothing else could be so wonderful." That alone was enough to make me burn to complete our song. I forgot all other interests then, and worked exclusively on the star-song. Slowly it took shape, the thin melody being filled out with a slow, yearning, rhythmic background that was at once celestial and savage. I knew that the sonata was not mine I was not worthy of it. That piece was the product of something beyond human ken. It was a universal expression of love. But all songs, even the song of love, must have a counterpoise. My love found its counterpoise in Rodney Barton. How can I tell you of him? He was handsome, magnetic, chivalrous. He was the cavalier that every girl dreams of finding. That alone would not have attracted Helena to him so strongly. But that, coupled with his ability to compose romantic balads in the modern manner, finally won her over completely. She spent all her time in being as near to Rodney as she could. She had forgotten our song. I determined to continue with the sonata. I hoped that Helena would realize, when she heard it completed, that my love for her was not the kind that lasted but for a season. My purpose in going on was to win back a girl who had deserted me for someone who had nothing but personal magnetism. It was as though my sonata realized that. Somehow, it took on a bitter quality. The melody persisted, but it was now in a Page Four heart-rendering minor key. The rhythm slowed to a near' halt and dragged out mournfully a pathetic tale of untrue love. I knew that my piece had changed; but it was so in tune with my heart that I made no attempt to revise it. It should remain as it was, a memorium to a broken heart. You must know, then, what joy I felt the day that Helena came back to me. Her excuses and explanations I hardly heard. I was so thrilled at the thought that she was again near me that it did not occur to me to ask why she had returned. I accepted her presence gratefully. 'Have you finished our sonata?" she asked me. She seemed a bit tense, as though the answer were all-important to her. Her interest set my soul aquiver: I wanted to her how happy it made me that she still cared, but I could not say it. I simply said, "Without you near me, something has happened to the music. It has a false ring to it a tone of despair. Helena, you will finish the sonata. Your being near me will make it possible for me to go on. I know that you can inspire me. You have done it once; you will do it again." I was not wrong. Under Helena's spell I again felt the refrain. When I sat down to write, the notes came out full of exultant joy. That tumultuous happiness grew wilder and more savage, the rhythm quickened and pulsated. Faster and faster the background basses boomed, and the melody spiraled higher by an octave. Then abruptly the rhythmic setting dropped out of hearing. The thin high melody, as I had first known it, continued. As the motif came to a sweet, high end, I imagined a violin slowly and feelingly repeating the final note. Four times it recalled the whispering melody, then faded into the air. The sonata was finished. I knew that Helena would be happy to know. When I played it for her, she stood silently by the piano, looking hopeful and expectant. When I had finished, she said, "It is as it should be, David. That sonata will be the means to a beautiful love." "A beautiful love." Had I only known then what she meant. But I was not long in learning. The next morning I found that my score was nowhere about. It had disappeared from my room. The sonata that was to be sent to the publishers that day had been taken from me. As you know, the Sonata in G Flat was published in April, 1924. Rodney Barton was the name that appeared on the selection. It was Rodney Barton who gained fame and wealth from the sonata. It was Rodney Barton who married Helena in May. He married her in gratitude, for he could never have gained fame without the sonata that she brought him. I am still a poor man. I know that there will never be another love in my life. But I do not hate Helena. Had it not been for her, the sonata would never have been written. Perhaps it has helped her to gain that beautiful love of which she spoke. Page Five