18 - Mephisto

       Ah, to be surrounded in such loveliness! It is in such luxurious atmosphere that I feel most at home, in decadence and plush furnishings and extravagance of decoration. Though the setting is, at first glance, a refined Grecian one, suffused with the simple elegance of white marble and rich sapphire blue, there is such detail in the execution of it that the eye is easily lost in a thousand tiny beauties. The pillars which stand in long, tall rows along the walls, and cross the floor, are the purest pale marble – yet they are rimmed with intricately carved scenes of gods and flourishing vines, capped with paint of gold and vermilion and cerulean. The floors are covered in lavishly colored mosaics, the tables hold goblets of simple shape and exquisite decoration, the vases and urns which hold flowers and wine are traced with the most intricate geometric patterns, rich ochered scarlet on varnished navy black.
       The guests stand as a thousand smaller pillars, as statues cast in varied shades of exotic stone, their forms gracefully draped in flowing fabrics, trimmed with elaborate patterns, decorated with bracelets and necklaces and headpieces of gold and bronze, with stones in the hues of the warm Mediterranean landscape. Among them flit graceful young fauns, their small frames dancing lightly between those statues who will not join in their carefree dances. On occasion, they draw the attention of the ethereal dryads and hamadryads, naiads and nereids, and they circle together in half-wild dances that have no names. In a far corner, sirens croon their endless seductions, and if one draws to near, one will be pulled into the enchantment of their embraces, and find it impossible to leave. The muses move lightly among the musicians, making strange gestures to indicate a preferable melody, while Apollo holds court on a sun-crowned throne, his lyre near to hand, golden in his confidence and perfections.
       And the music, ah, the music! This is the entire reason for the evening, to my mind. As David amused himself with my odd collection of instruments not long ago, he seemed fascinated by the gracefully shaped Grecian stringed instruments. Several of them had fallen into accidental disrepair, for I had not thought of them in some time. But one, at least, retained its delicate strings intact, and the boy bent over it carefully, his fingers brushing so softly... oh, so softly, so sweetly, over the strings, and the sound they produced and the motion of his hand sent shivers along my spine. Oh, my David, such a lovely picture you made... dark hair tumbling over your ivory brow, as you bent low over the instrument of old gold, your delicate fingers brushing the strings, drawing from them such light pure tones... and you sang softly to yourself, inventing a tune to match the strange melodies coaxed from the strings tuned in an exotic scale... You were as Orpheus, capable of charming any within hearing, and binding them to you, unable to draw themselves away from such haunting sound.
       While still at his desert palace, Azal sent word to me that an old music had been found, at some decayed Grecian site. I was quite eager to hear it, and fortunately it was not long before he returned to us – and brought with him a copy of the old letters on ancient marble. I could not read them, but he had little trouble, and between his eyes and my ears, we were able to find the melody written down so long ago. It is an eerie one, for the Greeks employed more pitches in their scales than Europe has done for centuries, and so even a simple scale has a melancholy exoticism to it. A hymn to Apollo – and it was the first thing to be played this evening, once the guests had all arrived and made their greetings among each other.

       “The shrill rustling lotus murmurs its swelling song, and the golden kithára,
       the sweet-sounding kithára, answers the voice of men...”

       I had repairs made to several of my instruments, and replicas of others made, following the designs of ancient paintings and my ancient memories. And so, tonight, at Apollo's feet, there is a small group of musicians, who produce sounds that none have heard in centuries... The haunting aulos, its parallel pipes held to the musician's lips, producing simultaneously a low undulating melody and a reedy harmony. I much prefer the simpler wooden one, with its warmer sound, but its range is quite limited, and the more elaborate constructions of ivory and bronze and silver are of more use in ensembles such as this. There are stringed instruments of many varieties and shapes, all of exceedingly lovely workmanship. Ancient gold, eerie spotted tortoiseshell, ivory and ebony decorations, graceful lines and delicate curves. The kithára, which my sweet David played though he knew not its name, is of an ornately carved wood, and its melodies and rhythms pull the body into motion. I have brought a guitarist I knew from España to play upon it, for though the instrument was strange to him, I was correct in my surmise that his instincts for the sounds would suit well. The player of the aulos is borrowed from a small chamber group in an Irish university, and he brings the wild melancholy of that country's music into the old instrument. The others are from Greece, and the traditions which did not entirely die out in that country bring a sense of authenticity to their interpretations of the songs which have been unheard for centuries.
       The epigonion is a particular point of pride with me, for I had one entirely reconstructed, and the man was able to bring just the right quality to its sound – though it appears as a triangular harp, with full forty strings, its sound is metallic and sharp, with a visceral roughness to the intricate interplay of its strings. The barbiton, I could not help but have present, for all remaining reference to it in the old literature describes it as an instrument impossible for use in education, being good only for entertainment, producing only tones brimming with eroticism.
       I have trained the musicians in the old Grecian modes of harmony, and made my recommendations (the Phrygian mode is to be preferred, of course, for it is the most liberated and sensual of them). But they need no instruction now, having become captivated by these ancient sounds, lost in another time, playing instruments and melodies not heard by any yet alive... or, so they believe, and that belief is near enough, for I doubt many besides myself remember the tunes.
       Dionysus stumbles across the floor, his body wrapped in laden grapevines, and there is laughter at the capering satyrs which surround him. His maenads enchant the company, curling themselves around whoever they find standing nearest, offering them rich wine from golden goblets, and richer wine still from their flushed lips. They are dressed in haphazard fashion, the flowing gowns only half-covering their tanned bodies, falling off of shoulders and away from breasts entirely without care. The girls are drunk, their eyes hazy with desire, their voices low with delicious enticements.
       The music shifts into a brighter key, playing a verse of a lilting tune. One of the young Greek men begins to sing over his barbiton, and the tone of his voice is rich and harsh, and Dionysus laughs and tries to sing along, but he cannot, for the words and tune are so strange and unheard. Apollo commands him to silence, but Dionysus only laughs and continues along, weaving unsteadily through the crowd.

       Ὅσον ζῇς, φαίνου,
       μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ·
       πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν,
       τὸ τέλος ὁ xρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.”

       The maenads swirl in delirious confusion, pulling even the shyest dryads into their dance, whirling around the room in a mist of airy fabric and graceful limbs, as the dances of leaves overhead in the summer sunlight. Wine is spilled on the floor, but the rich burgundy and warm gold only enhance the many colors of the mosaics below, and those who slip on the fallen grapes only laugh as they fall to the ground, pulling fellow dancers along with them, and they forget the dance entirely in a wilder dance of eager embraces and heated kisses.
       A bright voice suddenly joins the gruff Greek – it is my David! Sweet boy, what pleasure you bring! I press my way through the unsteady crowd, straining to see his lovely form. There! He stands beside the musicians, and he is laughing as he tries to sing along with the Greek. The Greek – who is only a little older than David – laughs as well, and pronounces his words more clearly, but David still stumbles, falling instead into meaningless syllables, letting his voice fly in wordless countermelodies. He sings with the sheer rapture of a bird in flight, his voice swooping and alighting on each note with perfect clarity, his heart's blood permeating every note, filling it with pure joy, joy distilled and released in shining drops of sound.
       His voice subsides a little, and he exchanges words I cannot hear with the Greek. The man nods, smiling encouragingly at David, and sings through the first verse again. David listens raptly, singing a light harmony that he produces without thought. Then, the Greek subsides, and David sings:

       “While you live, shine
       Don't suffer anything at all;
       Life exists only a short while
       And time demands its toll”

       I am beaming like an over-zealous parent, but I do not care. My dearest boy! You are a triumph even in your play. The translation is hardly perfect, but the spirit of the thing is there, and that is all that matters. My dear boy. I am near enough now that his eyes have found mine, and his smile is as the sun over those sapphire Mediterranean waters. His eyes are so warm, his gaze so loving and tender, that I do not need him to tell me that he sings to me. His rich lips part, his eyes shining, and he repeats his brief song, the strings dancing beneath and around his voice, as the sweet melody flies through the air, the notes turned to gold in the purity of his voice.

       “While you live, shine...”

       He remains with the musicians awhile longer, but the song soon moves into one too fast for words, and, laughing, he bows his gratitude to the group, and moves away through the crowd, but he has little chance to find a path for I make my way to him, and catch him in a tight embrace.