Kvothe, the protagonist, is a young student attending The
University. Struggling to pay tuition and make a living, he turns to his
Edema Ruh roots (the traveling performers akin to bards) and plays music to
earn his way. In The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 5, Kvothe performs at a
prestigious venue, the Eolian, where only the best musicians play. He performs
two songs: first, a simple folk tune that he intentionally struggles with, and
second, a challenging piece he plays flawlessly, almost as if he were bored.
Rather than analyze the text, I’ve included excerpts from
the chapter for you to read and appreciate for yourself. I really like this
scene because I felt like I could hear the music as Kvothe played these two
songs. I hope that you will enjoy it too.
I brought
the lute out of its shabby case and began to tune it. It was not the finest
lute in the Eolian. Not by half. Its neck was slightly bent, but not bowed. One
of the pegs was loose and was prone to changing its tune.
I brushed a
soft chord and tipped my ear to the strings. As I looked up, I could see
Denna’s face, clear as the moon. She smiled excitedly at me and wiggled her
fingers below the level of the table where her gentleman couldn’t see.
I touched
the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The
varnish was scraped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the
past, but that didn’t make it less lovely underneath.
So yes. It
had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We
love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is
the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because.That’s as easy as putting a
penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love
them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.
Stanchion
made a sweeping gesture in my direction. There was brief applause followed by
an attentive hush.
I plucked
two notes and felt the audience lean toward me. I touched a string, tuned it
slightly, and began to play. Before a handful of notes rang out, everyone had
caught the tune.
It was
“Bell-Wether.” A tune shepherds have been whistling for ten thousand years. The
simplest of simple melodies. A tune anyone with a bucket could carry. A bucket
was overkill, actually. A pair of cupped hands would manage nicely. A single
hand. Two fingers, even.
It was,
plainly said, folk music.
There have
been a hundred songs written to the tune of “Bell-Wether.” Songs of love and
war. Songs of humor, tragedy, and lust. I did not bother with any of these. No
words. Just the music. Just the tune.
I looked up
and saw Lord Brickjaw leaning close to Denna, making a dismissive gesture. I
smiled as I teased the song carefully from the strings of my lute.
But before
much longer, my smile grew strained. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. I
hunched over the lute, concentrating on what my hands were doing. My fingers
darted, then danced, then flew.
I played
hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating brass. I played soft as sun on
autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf. Before long, my breath began to
catch from the strain of it. My lips made a thin, bloodless line across my
face.
As I pushed
through the middle refrain I shook my head to clear my hair away from my eyes.
Sweat flew in an arc to patter out along the wood of the stage. I breathed
hard, my chest working like a bellows, straining like a horse run to lather.
The song
rang out, each note bright and clear. I almost stumbled once. The rhythm
faltered for the space of a split hair. . . .Then somehow I recovered, pushed
through, and managed to finish the final line, plucking the notes sweet and
light despite the fact that my fingers were a weary blur.
Then, just
when it was obvious I couldn’t carry on a moment longer, the last chord rang
through the room and I slumped in my chair, exhausted.
The audience
burst into thunderous applause.
But not the
whole audience. Scattered through the room dozens of people burst into laughter
instead, a few of them pounding the tables and stomping the floor, shouting
their amusement.
The applause
sputtered and died almost immediately. Men and women stopped with their hands
frozen midclap as they stared at the laughing members of the audience. Some
looked angry, others confused. Many were plainly offended on my behalf, and
angry mutterings began to ripple through the room.
Before any
serious discussion could take root, I struck a single high note and held up a
hand, pulling their attention back to me. I wasn’t done yet. Not by half.
I shifted in
my seat and rolled my shoulders. I strummed once, touched the loose peg, and
rolled effortlessly into my second song.
It was one
of Illien’s: “Tintatatornin.” I doubt you’ve ever heard of it. It’s something
of an oddity compared to Illien’s other works. First, it has no lyrics. Second,
while it’s a lovely song, it isn’t nearly as catchy or moving as many of his
better-known melodies.
Most
importantly, it is perversely difficult to play. My father referred to it as
“the finest song ever written for fifteen fingers.” He made me play it when I
was getting too full of myself and felt I needed humbling. Suffice to say I
practiced it with fair regularity, sometimes more than once a day.
So I played
“Tintatatornin.” I leaned back into my chair and crossed my ankles, relaxing a
bit. My hands strolled idly over the strings. After the first chorus, I drew a
breath and gave a short sigh, like a young boy trapped inside on a sunny day.
My eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, bored.
Still
playing, I fidgeted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position and
failing. I frowned, stood up, and looked at the chair as if it was somehow to
blame. Then I reclaimed my seat and wriggled, an uncomfortable expression on my
face.
All the
while the ten thousand notes of “Tintatatornin” danced and capered. I took a
moment between one chord and the next to scratch myself idly behind the
ear.
I was so
deeply into my little act that I actually felt a yawn swelling up. I let it out
in full earnest, so wide and long that the people the front row could count my
teeth. I shook my head as if to clear it, and daubed at my watery eyes with my
sleeve.
Through all
of this, “Tintatatornin” tripped into the air. Maddening harmony and
counterpoint weaving together, skipping apart. All of it flawless and sweet and
easy as breathing. When the end came, drawing together a dozen tangled threads
of song, I made no flourish. I simply stopped and rubbed my eyes a bit. No
crescendo. No bow. Nothing. I cracked my knuckles distractedly and leaned
forward to set my lute back in the case.
This time
the laughter came first. The same people as before, hooting and hammering at
their tables twice as loudly as before. My people. The musicians. I let my
bored expression fall away and grinned knowingly out at them.
The applause
followed a few heartbeats later, but it was scattered and confused. Even before
the house lights rose, it had dissolved into a hundred murmuring discussions
throughout the room.
Marie rushed
up to greet me as I came down the stairs, her face full of laughter. She shook
my hand and clapped me on the back. She was the first of many, all musicians.
Before I could get bogged down, Marie linked her arm in mine and led me back to
my table.
“Good lord,
boy,” Manet said. “You’re like a tiny king here.”
“This isn’t
half the attention he usually gets,” Wilem said. “Normally they’re still
cheering when he makes it back to the table. Young women bat their eyes and
strew his path with flowers.”
Sim looked
around the room curiously. “The reaction did seem . . .” he groped for a
word.
“Mixed. Why
is that?”
“Because
young six-string here is so sharp he can hardly help but cut himself,”
Stanchion said as he made his way over to our table.
“You’ve
noticed that too?” Manet asked dryly.
“Hush,”
Marie said. “It was brilliant.”
Stanchion
sighed and shook his head.
“I for one,”
Wilem said pointedly, “would like to know what is being discussed.”
“Kvothe here
played the simplest song in the world and made it look like he was spinning
gold out of flax,” Marie said. “Then he took a real piece of music, something
only a handful of folk in the whole place could play, and made it look so easy
you’d think a child could blow it on a tin whistle.”
“I’m not
denying that it was cleverly done,” Stanchion said. “The problem is the way he
did it. Everyone who jumped in clapping on the first song feels like an idiot.
They feel they’ve been toyed with.”
“Which they
were,” Marie pointed out. “A performer manipulates the audience. That’s the
point of the joke.”
