Summer 2009

The Countess Shares Confidences over Karneval Chocolate

Author

Rita F. Dove

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Author Information

Rita Dove, a Fellow of the American Academy since 2006, is Commonwealth Professor of English at the University of Virginia. Poet Laureate of the United States from 1993 to 1995 and Poet Laureate of the Commonwealth of Virginia from 2004 to 2006, she is the author of nine poetry collections: The Yellow House on the Corner (1980), Museum (1983), Thomas and Beulah (1986), Grace Notes (1989), Selected Poems (1993), Mother Love (1995), On the Bus with Rosa Parks (1999), American Smooth (2004), and Sonata Mulattica (2009). Her numerous honors include the 1987 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry and the 1996 National Humanities Medal.

The Countess Shares Confidences over Karneval Chocolate

GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI: VIENNA, 1860

He was a stormy pedagogue,
always interrupting the prettiest airs–
even his own compositions,
which I was given to understand
he did not permit everyone to play.
I pounced upon each chord
with the ignorant ardor of youth;
I was sixteen, after all, and he was already
famous in Vienna, where such
approbations are stingily accorded.

He insisted on a light touch. He himself
was a wild man, ripping the music
from my stumbling fingers
and stomping about as the pages
fluttered sadly earthwards,
like the poor pheasants dropped over
the hunting fields of the Prater.
Rest assured I soon learned to play
more lightly! He was pleased, then,
and a quick soft smile would crimp

that dismal chunk of a face,
a sight just slightly less repugnant
than his rages. He was exceedingly
unlovely, yes, but with a threadbare
elegance–much as a servant,
envisioning gentility, might
avail himself of the scraps and dashes
from the milliner’s basket.
Sometimes I could coax him
to the pianoforte, where

he would bow his head,
eyes closed, and wait–
as if the silence spoke only to him;
before playing without notes
music of such inexpressible beauty,
I thought to breathe and disturb the air
would break his heart. He would not
consent to payment, but accepted the linens
I had sent up to his rooms. Poor man–
he thought I had sewn them myself.

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