And, but that Fate is deaf, all that man asks in
music had been granted then.
What sorrows had Rodriguez known in his life that he made so sad a
melody? I know not. It was the mandolin. When the mandolin was
made it knew at once all the sorrows of man, and all the old
unnamed longings that none defines. It knew them as the dog knows
the alliance that its forefathers made with man. A mandolin weeps
the tears that its master cannot shed, or utters the prayers that
are deeper than its master's lips can draw, as a dog will fight
for his master with teeth that are longer than man's. And if the
moonlight streamed on untroubled, and though Fate was deaf, yet
beauty of those fresh strains going starward from under his
fingers touched at least the heart of Rodriguez and gilded his
dreams and gave to his thoughts a mournful autumnal glory, until
he sang all newly as he never had sung before, with limpid voice
along the edge of tears, a love-song old as the woods of his
father's valleys at whose edge he had heard it once drift through
the evening. And as he played and sang with his young soul in the
music he fancied (and why not, if they care aught for our souls in
Heaven?) he fancied the angles putting their hands each one on a
star and leaning out of Heaven through the constellations to
listen.
"A vile song, senor, and a vile tune with it," said a voice quite
close.
However much the words hurt his pride in his mandolin Rodriguez
recognised in the voice the hidalgo's accent and knew that it was
an equal that now approached him in the moonlight round a corner
of the house with the balcony; and he knew that the request he
courteously made would be as courteously granted.
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