11 - Luce

       I wait until the last notes have finished their final echoes, and then wait a moment more, allowing that perfect breath of silence which is a performer's greatest prize. Only then, do I applaud softly, approaching the girl seated on a tiny island of colored stone, cradling a flute in her hands. She is a lovely young thing, perhaps fifteen, just at that age where a girl learns the use of a blush. This she does, on meeting my gaze, which she quickly drops. Her lashes are long, her azure eyes large and round. She is dressed in a filmy wash of turquoise and jade, as the ocean water near the shore. There are cascades of white lace at her throat and wrists, as the foam of breaking waves, and tiny gems are affixed to her skin, winking in the light.
       “I thank you for your kindness,” she murmurs, still hesitant to meet my eyes.
       I smile tenderly, and extend a hand to lift her chin, that I might gaze into those eyes. Lovely. The blue of a summer afternoon sky, reflected in vast oceans, with glints of emerald and sapphire and topaz. “I thank you for bringing such loveliness to our evening. You play with such beautiful shades of tone, that it truly does sound as though it is some siren's song, heard at a distance over the slowly rolling waves.”
       She smiles shyly, glowing a little in pleasure at the compliment. Yet before I can say more, my shoulder is pressed by a warm hand, and I turn to see Mephisto beside me, with David, as ever, in tow. “Dear Mephisto, wherever have you been these past weeks? I have hardly seen you of late!”
       He pauses just a moment too long, as if he is uncertain of what answer he ought to give. Then he waves vaguely, composure retrieved. “The usual pastimes, my darling Luce. Concerts, plays, evening walks in my gardens... There has been little to do since your rose party, I am afraid.”
       “I suppose that is so. But this boy, who hides so shyly behind you! He sang at that party, did he not?”
       Mephisto beams, and places a hand on the small of the boy's back, prompting him to stand forward. He is as proud of this boy as if it were his own creation – though this is hardly the case. I am sure Mephisto has encouraged David to new exertions of his art, and given him the confidence to sing to the full extent of his ability, but he hardly caused the talent to reside within this lovely little frame. “That he most certainly did – and I had hoped he would sing for us this evening, though he is hesitant to do so. David Bennet.”
       The boy bobs his head in a graceless sign of courtesy, and I can only chuckle, unable to be offended by such a poor attempt. “Of course. But, David, there is no need to be shy in this company. We are all aware of your talent, and in fact, there are many who missed your performance in my garden, who are eager to hear something of what they missed.”
       He blushes, and mumbles some dismissive thing.
       Mephisto sighs, and bends to murmur something into the boy's ear. As he straightens back up, he smiles ruefully. “I have yet to fully cure the boy's shyness, my sincere apologies – he does not mean to be rude, he is only unaccustomed to attention from such lofty figures as ourselves.”
       “That's right – did you not discover him in some rough establishment, on a stage which could hardly appreciate such skill as his?”
       “I did – a few old favorites of mine, who have sunk from public favor, though they still retain admirable skill, were to play at that old theater – it was once called Ariel's Playhouse, though I cannot think of what name it is under now. David had a small role, for he was still new to the company, yet even in such a limited part I caught a glimpse of his potential, for there were several songs in which he had verses to sing.”
       “Then – my dear young songbird, you need only think of this as a terribly informal playhouse, in which the stage has been set low to the ground. A terribly rude playhouse, as well, in which the audience will simply not be still and silent to attend to you – you have dealt with such audiences before, have you not?”
       The boy smiles ruefully, at last looking up. “That I have. It is often best to simply imagine the room empty, and try not to listen to the sounds around one.”
       “But of course,” I concur, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders and leading him over to the rock with the girl. He stands awkwardly to one side of it, the girl studying him curiously. He is a lovely young man, though a bit slight in stature, with unusually long dark hair that has been carefully combed back from his high forehead. His face is finely featured, and he often seems as some fine photographic portrait, with his pale skin and dark hair, and lips of bright roses. “Dear girl,” I address her with a warm smile. “Would you mind accompanying our David, as he sings some lovely little thing? I suspect your styles should compliment each other well.”
       She nods her agreement, then leans over to David, to make a brief exchange as to the nature of their impromptu duet. He is quickly put at ease, in conversation with a fellow performer of about his own age.
       Mephisto and I take a few steps back, to allow the two a bit of space. We chat idly for some moments, but fall silent at the first sounding of the breathy flute. It is a song I do not recognize, though Mephisto immediately nods in recognition, smiling at the suitability of their choice. It is undoubtedly from some play – the songs in them rarely hold in my mind, for they often seem so formulaic in their composition, that one is easily interchanged with another. Yet I will admit, this song takes on new life when removed from its setting, and cast anew by such sparse arrangement. It is initially light and cheerful, but dips for a few lines into melancholy minor key, then does not quite resolve, the final line of the tune lingering in the air, as the final notes close where one would not expect. It ought to end in a soothing major chord, but falls instead somewhere short of this, and hangs on the air like a lover's regret. The girl plays it through once, then the boy begins. The flute falls back to a supporting counter-melody, and the boy sings, at first sweet and softly enchanting, then achingly sorrowful, ending in a weary sort of melancholy, fading out in a haunting echo of the beginning. The words hardly matter, for the melodies are so enchanting. The flute dances around the words, waxing where the singer wanes, adding small frills and flourishes during his sustains, falling back to supporting chords where the singer's passions demand all attention. She is quite a skilled musician, especially for one so young – I ought to learn her name, for I think she would be a lovely addition at future soirées.
       “So lovely...” Mephisto murmurs, and I see that his eyes are only for David. I doubt if he hears the girl at all. This saddens me a bit, for I know that he, of all of us, should best appreciate her dexterity and musicianship, but he is blind to the beauty of her performance. Not that the boy is himself unskilled – I am quite pleased by his ability, as well. The song would seem a simple one, were it sung merely as notes on a page. But the boy finds meaning in the aching melody, and the words seem suddenly far grander, taking on depths granted by full-hearted emotion. He does not sing every word with equal intensity, nor is it a simple crescendo throughout, but there is subtlety and delicate gradation among the phrases, and he knows the importance of contrast between dramatic and innocent.
       The crowd nearest our corner of the room as fallen quiet, though conversation can still be heard at some distance. I see Meres approaching – with Claude following behind, somewhat sullenly. Veri is nowhere in sight, but this is not necessarily of much significance, as he often retires from our fêtes early. Several other musicians who have found their way into our company have joined the loose audience, and nod to themselves in silent appreciation. There is one composer who listens with a look of fierce concentration on his face, and I suspect he is taking notes from the children's spontaneous genius, that he might take credit for such harmonies in his own forthcoming work. Such is the realm of the arts! But never will his cynical soul be able to replicate the innocent beauty of these two unpretentious souls.
       I wonder how long they will retain this innocence, in company such as ours? No – even without our machinations and manipulations, they should not last long in the calculating world outside, for the stage and concert hall are filled with the politics of money and hierarchy, and it is a treacherous place for the sincere-hearted to tread. So perhaps it is best, in the end, that their fall into decay should happen here, where at least their talents will be appreciated while they last! For while we demand deference for ourselves, we care little for what the parents of the boy may have said to a duke in some long-forgotten year, and no amount of monetary donation to some frivolous cause will cause us to consider the worth of a spoiled and talentless fool. In some strange way, though we are set so much higher above than the upper class of mankind, we are yet more welcoming to those below, if we see some sort of worth in them.
       Though I really must speak with Mephisto about David's manner of dress – the suit he wears scarcely fits, and he has been tugging at the wrists of his sleeves all evening. He has lost one cufflink, and I think other colors might suit him better.