One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

While these thoughts passed in his mind, the time flew quickly by; and the meal which his principal attendants took care should be placed before him, was served and taken away almost untouched. Shortly afterwards, Monsieur de Sancy visited him; and St. Real, whose mind was not one to yield where it could resist, endeavoured to enter vigorously into everything that could distract his attention from himself, spoke again and again of all the probable consequences of the events that were occurring, and endeavoured to gain a clear and distinct knowledge of the characters, purposes, and power of the various nobles forming the royalist party.

For the time the attempt succeeded, and his mind found some relief from the memory of personal sorrows; but the moment that Monsieur de Sancy left him, his thoughts returned to himself as bitterly as ever. As evening fell, he fancied that music might soothe his mind or distract his attention; and sending for his page, Leonard de Monte, he asked, "Did you not once tell me, Leonard, that you could sing, and play upon the lute? I am somewhat sad just now, my boy, and would fain hear a little music to while away unpleasant ideas."

The boy smiled with a peculiar expression, and replied. "Music!--I will sing, if you like--that is to say, if I can find a lute; but music which will soothe care, and refresh the mind fatigued of business, calm the turbulent thoughts of ambition, or soften the feverish pangs of sickness, is no antidote against sorrow, and is, they say 'the food of love.'"

"Well, well," replied St. Real, "let me hear your instrument and your voice; I must have amusement of some kind, for this night wears heavily."

"I have not my own lute here," replied the boy, "but the dwarf will soon find one, I warrant;" and, going out, he returned in a few moments followed by Bartholo, carrying one of those guitars with eleven strings which were the principal musical instruments then in vogue. The boy struck his hand across the chords, and then pushed it from him to the dwarf, exclaiming angrily, "Take it from me, and tune it. Why give me a thing all discord, like that?"

"May it please you," replied the dwarf, with a look of humble deference, which did not escape St. Real's eyes, and which he had never seen assumed towards himself, "I did not know that it had been out of tune, or I should not have failed----"

"Well, well, take it away," replied the boy; and, remaining seated on the spot where he had placed himself to sing, he leaned with his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his head upon his hand, and the dark shining locks of his black hair falling in linked curls over his clear beautiful brow and small graceful fingers. He seemed to be thinking over the song he was about to sing. At least, so St. Real read his attitude. But the tone in which the youth had spoken to the dwarf, and that in which the dwarf replied, had struck and surprised their common master, and he was about to disturb the page's reverie, by making some inquiries in regard to his previous history, when Bartholo again returned with the lute. The boy took it, and running his fingers through the strings, scarcely seeming to know what note he struck, produced, nevertheless, a wild plaintive wandering melody, which nothing but the most exquisite skill and knowledge of the instrument could have brought forth.

"There are few songs," he said, looking up in St. Real's face, "that are good to soothe sorrow; but I will sing you one of the battle-songs of my own unhappy land, in which liberty begat anarchy, and anarchy strife, and strife weakness, till foreign tyrants made a prey of nations who knew not that military and political power are the children of internal union and civil order--a land which, from sea to sea, has been one vast battle-field for ages past."

He paused, and seemed to give a moment of sad thought to the sorrows of his native country; then suddenly dashing his hand over the chords, he made them ring with a loud and peculiar air, so marked and measured that one could almost fancy one heard the regular footfalls of marching men, mingled with the sounding of the trumpet, and the beating of the drum. Then joining his clear melodious voice, he sung of the dreams of glory and of patriotism wherewith the soldier on his way warms his heart to battle, and conceals from his own eyes the dark and bloody nature of the deed itself. Then again the chords of the instrument, with a quicker movement, and more discordant sounds, imitated the clang and clash of charging hosts; and the deep and frequent tones of the bass might be supposed to express the roar of the artillery, while still between came the notes of the clarion, and sounds that resembled the distant beating of the drum. At the same time the voice of the youth, in few but striking words, and, as it were, with brief snatches of song, called up the images more forcibly, and aided imagination in supplying all that the scope of the lute could not afford. Gradually, however, as he sung, the louder sounds were omitted; the imitation of the trumpet changed from the notes of the charge to those of the retreat; the strings seemed to rustle under his touch, as if from the hasty rush of flying multitudes; and then, with a sudden change of time, the music altered to a sweet and plaintive strain of wailing, while his voice took up the song of mourning for the dead.

Till that moment St. Real had no idea of all that music can produce. He had heard sweet songs, and what were then considered fine compositions; but this was something totally different; this was a painting addressed not to the eye, but to the ear; and that not with words which with laborious minuteness, describe insignificant parts, without conveying effectually grand impressions; but with sounds which, rousing fancy's greatest powers at once, called up all the splendid pageantry of imagination to complete for the mind's eye the grand pictures that those tones suggested. The boy, too, as he sung, looked like one inspired; his eyes flashed and glittered; his voice rose and fell with every touch of feeling which his song expressed; and his hand seemed now playing amidst the strings, as if in childish sport; now sweeping them with all the fire and power of some mighty master of song; but ever with such perfect ease and grace, that it seemed a gift rather than an accomplishment. When his voice had ceased, St. Real sat rapt for one moment by all the feelings which the music had inspired; and then, gazing upon the youth, he said, "You are an extraordinary boy, and I must one day have your history, Leonard."