The drive seems to take an age. David chatters lightly about meaningless things, and I listen and do not listen as the mood suits. He does not seem to mind either way – he is such an easygoing boy, so happy to be simply allowed in my presence. And I... I find it so strange, that such a lighthearted soul can exist in such a world as this. Whether he is incapable of seeing things that would bring him sorrow, or simply disregards them, I do not know. But it seems nothing in this cold world will dissipate the sunlit atmosphere around him.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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