the Gilded Harp

"As I passed into my cabin, I noticed to the rickety oak shelf to my right.

Its contents had been left untouched for the length of the journey.  After the the harrowing with the wraith, I needed a read to spring forth proper distraction.

Choosing a green leathered book that appeared as if it had been tossed about this trip and back several times over, he peered at the cover for a clue to its contents.

Inscribed only with a gilt harp and a sagging rear cover, the outside offered few clues.

Curious, I walked to the cot in the corner that had served as both my bed and chair for the last fortnight.

Making myself as comfortable as the steel frame and single pillow would allow, I opened the book to a random page, tempting fate to free my mind from the days problems.

It turned to be a collection of 19th century poetry, neatly blocked, and with a clarity that was belied from its shabby exterior.

The first piece was on Lucretius, and its clever pentameter intrigued me.  Enlivened I continued to a second read.

Immediately he knew that __ was the _____ st_ry.  .."

...



His diary ends there, mysteriously.

However, we have been able to discover, through modern research and scanning techniques, what poem was read by him on that day.

We have produced a copy of the text below.

As you will notice...



// excerpt from the 'Gilded Harp' //





It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.



ULYSSES
Alfred Tennyson, 1833




// end excerpt //

In mezzo.

Tutta colpa del mare, ed io lo sapevo.

Quel mare in mezzo.

In mezzo a cosa?

In mezzo a due grandi cose, almeno era questo che pensavo.

Forse, invece era grande solo per me.

Le mille luci da un lato e la luce del sole sull’ altro lato. Il sole non si era mai trovato così tanto in equilibrio come quando stava con le sue mille luci. C’era la giusta percentuale di luce naturale e di luce nuova. Ciò che venne fuori era una specie di luce perfetta e, la cosa stupefacente è che non era costruita in laboratorio. Questo fenomeno di luce perfetta è realmente esistito.

E Poi?

Il sole continuava ad aspettare le mille luci, felice perché presto sarebbe andato a splendere 

sull’ altro lato del mare, ma invece loro preferivano farsi inghiottire una per una dal mare che le circondava.

Il mare delle rose selvatiche

Come ogni sera,  più o meno intorno alle 20  a Giovanni iniziavano a ridergli gli occhi. Era uno strano fenomeno che si ripeteva ogni sera ormai da anni, lui pensava, anzi era sicuro che prima o poi si sarebbe studiato il suo caso sui libri di scienza. Entrava in bagno e iniziava a specchiarsi, si metteva difronte, di lato, di sbieco per riuscire a guardarsi da ogni prospettiva. Da qualsiasi posizione  si mettesse lo specchio rifletteva sempre lo stesso viso olivastro scavato, i suoi occhi neri enormi incorniciati dai capelli lucidissimi. Ogni sera era sempre la stessa scena, prendeva il pettine lo passava sotto l’acqua del lavandino, un paio di volte e poi si pettinava i capelli con cura. Soddisfatto della sua pettinatura indossava una delle sue innumerevoli magliette bianche, ne aveva di tutte le fogge e dimensioni ma sempre e solo di colore bianco. E poi solo dopo aver dato l’acqua alla sua piantina di rose selvatiche prendeva le chiavi di casa e usciva. Faceva lo stesso percorso da anni ma per lui ogni giorno era come se fosse il primo, perché riusciva a vedere sempre qualche dettaglio che gli era sfuggito il giorno prima e di questo Giovanni se ne entusiasmava. Solo in un punto della strada sentiva ogni volta lo stesso pizzico al cuore, ed era lungo una discesa che portava al mare, subito dopo la chiesa di San Leonardo. Faceva quel tratto di strada con il cuore che gli andava a mille, poi lentamente mano a mano che arrivava al mare i battiti rallentavano. Finalmente era arrivato sulla spiaggia, e velocemente andava verso la riva senza togliere le scarpe fino a quando era costretto a togliersele perché erano piene di sabbia, metteva i piedi in acqua e tutto intorno a lui rallentava. Camminava fino al suo piccolo scoglio dove amava sedersi tutte le sere. Su quello scoglio, Giovanni, i suoi occhi e il mare si riunivano. Giovanni vedeva il mare come una coperta blu che voleva sollevare, i suoi occhi vedevano Lei e, il mare vedeva gli occhi di Giovanni. Ogni sera Giovanni si ripeteva: “Lei te l’ha detto che non c’è niente di cui aver paura, vai! entra ora. Lei non poteva aver detto qualcosa che non era, Lei aveva quegli occhi ( ma te li ricordi quegli occhi?) non poteva che essere vero.”

Giovanni ogni sera ci provava ma aveva paura di quel mare che era sempre diverso, nonostante andasse lì sempre alla stessa ora, facendo sempre gli stessi gesti e provando sempre lo stesso pizzico al cuore. Era arrivato Settembre e quella sera Giovanni come tutte le sere va verso il suo scoglio, ma non si siede, no, entra in acqua con una naturalezza che non sospettava di avere. Stranamente quella sera non pensava a niente, i suoi occhi ridevano come sempre e il mare rideva con loro. Giovanni uscì dall’acqua completamente bagnato e solo allora capì che aveva nuotato in mare ce l’aveva fatta, non aveva più paura. Solo una cosa non era come Lei aveva detto. Lei non c’era, Lei gli ripeteva: “dopo la paura io sarò lì con te.” Giovanni era bagnato aveva avuto paura ma Lei non c’era ancora. Giovanni e i suoi occhi vanno verso casa, fanno la salita dopo il mare, e  prima della chiesa di San Leonardo sente un pizzico sul braccio. Giovanni pensa che il suo cuore dopo la nuotata si sia spostato al posto del braccio e viceversa. Il vento passa tra i suoi capelli e girandosi di scatto capì che Lei era vera, Lei era arrivata.

Prelude

I.

Following the Corniche as it snaked around the rocks, an arched limestone bridge appeared.  Needing a moment to rest after kilometers of walking, the boy sat down on the limestone railing that accompanied the bridge as it strattled the small inlet.

A full moon reflected off the calm sea, mirroring its white light onto the boy' face and clothing.

Sensing the moment of respite, the boy withdrew an anonymous book with black binding from his satchel.

Black binding and covers were preferred by the boy for his sketchbooks.  As if the anonymity of the cover could  simultaneously liberate and protect the ideas within - a picket to contain the pomp.  Any ideas, no matter the absurdity, we safe within the realms of black cardboard.

As the boy began to download his observations from the day into the book - a man appeared from the opposite bend in the road.

It is rare to find someone walking the Corniche in this part of town.  Traffic is dominated by the whir of motor vehicles, the pedestrian preferring to remain in the city center where walking was more accommodated.

Upon seeing the man, the boy was struck not with fear but calm.  From the man's attire it was clear that the passing on this bridge would be friendly.

He wore a striped shirt, capris, and loafers.  A walking stick was embellished with a red bandana and a few pots clambered from his small backpack.  Looking more displaced Venetian than Gypsy, the man punctured the silence as his foot broke the threshold separating bridge-road from land-road.

"Greetings on this beautiful evening," said the man in a surprisingly Northern accent.

The boy had been distracted from his sketch by the arrival of the fellow wanderer, and felt obliged to answer.

"Hello," he answered.  "Can I offer you directions, or are you just out for a walk?"

"Just walking," answered the man, "Do you often stop and draw in the moonlight?"

The boy considered the question prior to answering.  It was unusual to draw at night.  Without proper contrast of light, pencil strokes mangle into a knot, making anything more than a Rodin-esque gesture impossible on the page.

"Not often," answered the boy.  "Only a night like this one, where the moonlight cuts the drapes of night sky and presents the proper staging."

"I was once a man of the stage.  In fact, it was that impulse that motivated me to walk this night."

The man was warmed at the thought of his past.

A passing car interrupted his recollection, and the man changed subject.

"May I see your drawings?"

"They are not much, all quite simple"

"No matter, I just enjoy looking at creations."

"If you have no objection to inexperience, I do not object to sharing."

And the boy handed his small, precious book to the stranger.

A stranger opening that black binding was like offering the gates of Troy to a horse.  There is always a moment of insecurity when the artist is positive that a conquering hoards of criticisms and judgements will pour forth - taking advantage of that moment when the guard has been lowered.

The boy tried to contain anxiety and not peer over the edge to see what image from his consciousness the man was putting under review.  With each page turn, no army emerged, and the boy slowly relaxed.

"What music were you listening to with this image?"

This question caught the boy unexpectedly.  No, it was not the criticism of his line, nor the ambush of his ideas, but instead a genuine question.

"Mozart.  It was a quartet at Wigmore Hall in London.  I believe the piece was 'String Quintet 615 Eb'," answered the boy.

"I knew that you were in a hall from the movement of the line.  It bubbles with the song - different from other drawings."

"Remarkable, that you were able to discern that."

"It is not so difficult.  Music has a wonderful ability to move."

"This is not something that I considered when making the drawing.  I only wanted to capture the moment as much as possible," answered the boy.

"I think you have nothing to worry about.  Thank you for sharing these drawings.  I always enjoy seeing what other travelers have experienced."

The man closed the book and handed it back to the boy.

"If you will excuse me, I have to keep moving.  Best of luck on the drawing."  

And in that moment, the exchange closed and the man strode off the bridge and around the rock corner as unexpectedly as he had arrived.

Another car zipped around the corner and over the bridge.  As the roar of pistons faded, only silence emerged, the tap of the traveler's stick and clamber of his pots was gone.

The boy looked down at the book again.  The page containing the musicians was still open, staring back.  He glanced back and forth, between the white moon and the dancing black lines, intimated by memories that flooded his cortex.

He could hear the instruments tuning, the strings warming their tension.  No longer did he need to see the picture to hear the music, now it rushed over him, as the rock below were immersed by each waved that passed under his limestone bridge.

Violins were now singing, the movement in full swing.

No longer could the boy remain stationary.  Like his pencil weeks before, the music was compelling his body to move.

He glanced one more at the face of the moon.  It smiled back the assurances of an enraptured audience.

The boy walked slowly off the bridge, following his original path.  No longer were his steps weary from treading the graveled edges of the Corniche, now he floated along, path lit by the generous moon and spirit guided by the flittering bows of violins and reverberations of cello singing from inside.