The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1936-05-15
TAMAzUNCHALE. Mexico, Nav

Il NAMAZUNCHALE. Mexico, Nav
Il l5.-This is a preface:
My education has never included
course in the appreciation OF fine
music. I do not understand the
classics. 1t is impossible for me to
SIT through a symphony concert. At
times l have been ashamed of my
incapacity for the great strains. and
at other times. in the presence OF
the artists. have assumed a de-
fensive pride in my musical ignor-
ance. But never again shall bow
my head to the appreciators OF noble
notes. For l have heard the sweet
est music ever played.
This is the story:
was asleep in the front room OF
house in this poor little mountain
town in the state of San Luis PotoSi,
deep in tropical Mexico. Outside
the window was banana tree, and
beyond it the Towering yard. and
the fence, and then the dirt street,
full OF rocks and mud holes. And
on beyond. some matched houses,
and then the river, and then the
great mountain, towering there so
close with that looking down at
you" attitude. All these things
were there. but could not see them,
for was asleep, and anyhow it was
o'clock in the morning and. as
they say down here, as black as the
inside of a goat.
EOR a while didn't know wheth-
l. er I was dreaming or awake.
remember lying there long
time, just half-listening, letting on
to myself that it wasn't real, even
after I knew it was.
From somewhere, out of the
darkness, music was coming. 1t was
so soft, so low, so gentle. that 1t
seemed for a long time to be of the
same texture as a. dream. Do YOU
believe that utter darkness, and the
stiffness that comes an hour before
dawn, and the terrific quiet that
lies just ahead of thunderstorm.
and a few far notes of muted
trumpet-do you believe that these
things can flow and blend into a
harmony that is something of ma
ture alone? 1 believe it, for 1 have
heard
I looked at my wrist watch 1t
was 20 after 4. 1 sat up, and
reached for my slippers, and
couldn't find them. and went on
anyway. felt my way to the screen
door, and unlocked it. and stepped
out onto the porch. and down the
steps into the yard, and inch by
inch, stone by stone, in my bare feet,
out over the cobbles to the front
gate, there on the street.
THE music was near. could
Il not see the players. I could
not see the houses, nor the street,
nor the gate was leaning on. nor
my hand before me. But I knew
the music was not far away.
It was sweet music, sweet and
swinging and low, but terriflcally
sad 1t was not jungle music, nor
ragged nor primitive nor poor. like
the Indians themselves 1t was like
our own sentimental waltzes, only
sweeter.
1 could pick out the instruments
by the sound. They were four. A
flowing, undulating, hushed from
bone. And a muted trumpet. Have
you ever heard trumpet at the
mouth of a Mexican just before
dawn-a Mexican who maybe is
happy now, but whose heart is q
whole legacy of sadness from
saddened people? And guitar.
Strummed with tenderness, and by
knowing fingers in the dark. And a,
bass drum. It's sides were loosened,
softening it.
THEY played for half an hour
Il Or maybe more. They were
serenading a sweetheart, I suppose:
Or maybe they were mountain
farmers, down for tomorrow's
market. full of pulque. just Willing
away the hours till dawn. / don't
know whether they were boys, or
old men. I don't know whether
they had on store clothes or dirty
Indian "pajamas.' don't know whe
they were. OF what, or why. 1
never saw them. They never saw
me. They played by no light. They
played as nightbird sings, playing
with their hearts, by instinct and
! love.
/ leaned on the gate. and it was
like beautiful dream. I suppose
it was the darkness. and the sur
rounding silence, and an swareness
of the bare life of the mountains.
and maybe a sensitive kinship with
people who are soft-spoken and sad
at heart and who hide in the night.
playing. But it was the most beau
tiful symphony have ever heard.