12 - Mephisto, continued

       I freeze, taken aback by the unexpectedness of this intrusion. David, my---
       My little songbird.
       Would his song help or hinder my survival of such pained emotion?
       He knocks again, a little louder. “Mephisto? Are you alright?”
       “Fine.” I cough, clearing my throat, dabbing hurriedly at my eyes. “Fine. Do come in.”
       He enters the carriage, his eyes wide and concerned. “I saw you leave in such a hurry, that I was worried there might be some trouble. Is all well?”
       Dear boy. He knows so little, yet cares so much nonetheless. “Yes, I simply... I felt too tired to deal with all of the inane banter that always follows a performance.” I am regaining composure now, and gesture carelessly. “Yes, I felt that it could only demean such a lovely moment as that dance created, to discuss it with petty words. Quite ruin the effect.”
       The boy nods, smiling in agreement. “I quite understand. ...but it was lovely, wasn't it?” He sighs contentedly, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes, watching again the flight of the wild nightingale across the stage. “Though – and I am sorry, here I am discussing it! But, did you not feel that her song was lacking? There was such wild and... something of unearthly beauty in her dance and her passions. Yet the melodies were so predictable, the form of the songs so prosaic. I felt the music should have been as free of tradition as her dance was, and yet it was not.” He frowns, deep in consideration, trying to find the music that she should have sung within his own head.
       If anyone might find it, I suspect that he would.
       I drag myself into conversation – I feel too exhausted to do so, but it will be a welcome distraction. I do not wish to ruin the memory of the nightingale by thinking of her in such prosaic terms, but if I can set some distance between her and the discussion of her... keeping her caged inside gilded walls within my thoughts, while idle words float in a meaningless wind nearby.
       “They would have done well to borrow elements of the Indies, of the Arabs, in the music. For those distant lands do not use the same melodic scales as the West, and it would bring an otherworldly quality to the songs. The structures, as well – it hardly seems appropriate that one would cast a bird's song into rigid bars of melody, countermelody, refrain, with chords building around it in perfect exemplars of harmonic rules. Could they not have set her A against a backdrop of an E minor chord, or some other seemingly incorrect thing? But instead, every C was held against Gs and Es, and, you are quite right, it was all far too predictable. Though that final strain of the nightingale, left unresolved in the air...” I swallow hard, and drag a breath into my lungs. I put a hand to my eyes – I will restrain myself.
       David leans forward, and puts a tender hand on my arm. “It is quite alright... I was moved to tears myself.” He shivers slightly at the memory. “Claude mocked me,” he adds bitterly. “I sometimes find it hard to believe that he paints of such wonderful emotions, for it seems he has little sympathy for them.”
       I take a slow ragged breath, forcing back the thoughts which seek to destroy my mind. I rub at my temples, blinking carefully. “Would you be so kind as to tell the driver to take us home, David? I had meant to, we have sat here so long unmoving. I wish to leave before the others arrive to inquire.”
       “Certainly!” He slides open the window at the front of the carriage, and calls the request through. The carriage rumbles to a start, and David falls back into his seat, unsteadied by the jarring motion of wheels on cobblestone. I have had the most cunning devices rigged to my carriage, to make the ride far smoother than most would think possible, but still it is unsettling to me. It would be gentler to my body to ride the horse myself! Ah well... All suffer for the sake of appearances. As a woman would wear a corset, I will ride in a carriage.