Ravel

Isn’t what’s happening to me tragic? he said to Marguerite. Be patient, she replied, it will pass. Just wait. Look at Verdi. He had to wait for the age of eighty before he composed Falstaff. And then, as he went on complaining, she told him that even if he could no longer compose, his work was already there. His life’s work was now accomplished, she told him again and again. It was manifold and magnificent. Ravel didn’t let her finish: but how can you say such a thing? he interrupted in despair. I’ve written nothing, I leave nothing behind, I’ve said nothing of what I wanted to say.
He was alone in his house in Montfort, with no illusions. He had always been alone there, but latched onto music. Now he could no longer bear his pointless existence, he struggled in vain against being useless, against being locked inside himself. As he knew that this was the end, he tried to organise his solitude. Every day, after wandering through the forest of Rambouillet, which even his condition did not prevent him from knowing by heart, he went home to sit for hours beside the telephone waiting hopefully for a call from Edouard, whose business often kept him away, while chain-smoking despite the fact that he had been told to stop, then getting up to empty the ashtray, because a full ashtray is just as sad as an unmade bed. But every day, too, at five o’clock, he was visited by Jacques de Zogheb. As soon as Zogheb rang the bell, Ravel rushed to the door and tried to open it. As nothing in his body worked anymore, his clumsy fingers made the handle jolt up and down and the bolt go the wrong way, until he realised that he would have to call for his housekeeper. On the other side of the door, Zogheb could hear Ravel’s increasingly exasperated yells and Madame Révelot’s nervous answering yelps, until the door finally opened.
Zogheb took Ravel by the arm, and they went into the red and grey lounge. Zogheb sat down on the settee, while Ravel stretched out on an armchair near the window. And, every day, there was the same conversation. How are you? Zogheb asked. Awful, Ravel replied softly, it’s always the same. And when asked about his sleep, Ravel shook his head. What about your appetite? Zogheb went on. Yes, Ravel said distantly, I do have quite an appetite. And have you done any work? Ravel shook his head again, then tears suddenly clouded his eyes. Why has this happened to me? he said. Why? Zogheb didn’t answer. Then, after a pause: I mean, I have written some quite good music, haven’t I? Zogheb didn’t answer. He stayed with Ravel until eight o’clock and the next day, at five, he came back to ask the same questions. Every day was the same until night fell bringing its problems of sleep.
Translated by Ian Monk

Excerpt taken from Ravel