Part 35 (1/2)
Her first song was ”Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre.”
She began it quite lightly and merrily, like a jolly march; in the middle of her voice, which had not as yet revealed any exceptional compa.s.s or range. People laughed quite frankly at the first verse:
”Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre....
Ne sais quand reviendra!
Ne sais quand reviendra!
Ne sais quand reviendra!”
The _mironton, mirontaine_ was the very essence of high martial resolve and heroic self-confidence; one would have led a forlorn hope after hearing it once!
”Il reviendra-z-a Paques-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Il reviendra-z-a Paques....
Ou ... a la Trinite!”
People still laughed, though the _mironton, mirontaine_ betrayed an uncomfortable sense of the dawning of doubts and fears--vague forebodings!
”La Trinite se pa.s.se-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ La Trinite se pa.s.se....
Malbrouck ne revient pas!”
And here, especially in the _mironton, mirontaine_, a note of anxiety revealed itself--so poignant, so acutely natural and human, that it became a personal anxiety of one's own, causing the heart to beat, and one's breath was short.
”Madame a sa tour monte-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Madame a sa tour monte, Si haut qu'elle peut monter!”
Oh! How one's heart went with her! Anne! Sister Anne! Do you see anything?
”Elle voit de loin son page-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Elle voit de loin son page, Tout de noir habille!”
One is almost sick with the sense of impending calamity--it is all but unbearable!
”Mon page--mon beau page!-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Mon page--mon beau page!
Quelles nouvelles apportez?”
And here Little Billee begins to weep again, and so does everybody else!
The _mironton, mirontaine_ is an agonized wail of suspense--poor bereaved d.u.c.h.ess!--poor Sarah Jennings! Did it all announce itself to you just like that?
All this while the accompaniment had been quite simple--just a few obvious ordinary chords.
But now, quite suddenly, without a single modulation or note of warning, down goes the tune a full major third, from E to C--into the graver depths of Trilby's great contralto--so solemn and ominous that there is no more weeping, but the flesh creeps; the accompaniment slows and elaborates itself; the march becomes a funeral march, with muted strings, and quite slowly:
”Aux nouvelles que j'apporte-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Aux nouvelles que j'apporte, Vos beaux yeux vont pleurer!”
Richer and richer grows the accompaniment. The _mironton, mirontaine_ becomes a dirge--
”Quittez vos habits roses-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Quittez vos habits roses, Et vos satins broches!”
Here the ding-donging of a big bell seems to mingle with the score; ...
and very slowly, and so impressively that the news will ring forever in the ears and hearts of those who hear it from la Svengali's lips: