Reconsidering Jass

A new torment wrenches my soul, and I fear greatly to confess it. I fear that to name it shall bring ruin upon me, nay, upon the good name of the van Seethinbottom family, even my good father, Adolphus Hilliard van Seethinbottom III, industrialist most eminent.

Many fortnights ago, I witnessed a shocking event that was to begin a precipitous descent into a whirlwind of psychic torments, of nervous collapses, of neurotic fugues, of spontaneous hysterical paroxysms. Indeed, I believe that even the decline in my physical health was due to this event.

My spiral into near-madness has been well-documented in these pages. In so transcribing the nightmare of my life during these horrendous weeks, I cared not to augment my torments, nay, I only wished to share with my admirers the hardships that a lady must endure if she is to become a Lady: the hardship, par exemple, of resting her head on brocaded silk pillows imported from the Far East.

It is with the unhappy months of the recent past in mind that I approach the following subject with no small degree of trepidation. Why should I care to revisit the horror that led to my insanity? –yet I find myself spellbound by the very thing that did so: yes, I refer to that animalistic amalgam of sounds known as jass.

Lately, the lovely metallic melody that floats from Horace’s euphonium feels not so much an amorous attempt at acquiring my affections; the lilting notes lack some transcendent trait. I have not the lexis to identify that which declines to inspire – yet I find my psyche crying. ‘Tis foolish, true, but 'tis labor to turn my attention to his tunes. My mind defies, nay, betrays his love; I glance out the glass to witness the lush knolls undulating unto the distance, virid ‘neath a limpid lid of sky. I consider the melody: cultivated, idyllic. Next, he performs a march played vittorioso, perhaps a piece by Vincent D’Indy. To kid me, he will play a rapid Yiddish ditty, accompanied by Archibald on his fiddle.

But I must admit I have not rid my reminiscences of the primitive motifs of jass. Horace plays; I look askance; I fancy not simple serenade – ‘tis deficient of dimension, ‘tis rife with ostentation – I necessitate some extra facet. Have compassion when I assert that my soul fails to dance, but traipses glacially, as molasses, when Horace plays a classical passage on his brass. Alas! ‘tis disgraceful to the status of a lass, yet: I fear I can feign aversion for not one further fortnight: I must confess, I am frightfully fond of that crass music, JASS!