Study in B Minor
Sometime during Napoleon's occupation of Spain...
The first pinch caught his breath in his throat, jerking a tear from edges of the eye. D and B, the song began, eighth notes a swinging pendulum, pausing for an extra beat when they reached the edges, the half-notes that rested within. A name echoed in his mind, over and over again, yet soon became overtaken by the melody Antonio had heard dozens of times. The nation of Spain stared incessantly at the fireplace in the corner, as though hoping to catch flame himself. Anything to stop his calf from pushing his knee up and down with the rhythm of the music. His eyebrow itched, but his hands no longer attempted - in vain - to fight against the cloth that kept him tied to the chair.
His fingers desired to move again, to stroke the strings of his instrument once more, to accompany the man playing in the other room. That's how he had learned to play. Sat with that man for hours, just the two of them.
"Primero el pulgar,"1 (First your thumb) he was always instructed. He could feel again that hand touching his and gently placing his thumb over the A string. When the weather was nice, they would practice in the courtyard, occasionally putting on a concert of sorts for the maids who washed and hung their clothing outside. In the winters, they would retreat to the room with a fireplace, letting the crackle of the fire accompany the soft vibrations. "Luego el dedo indice." (Then your index finger.) "¡Y no te atrevas a tocarle con las uñas!" (And don't you dare play with your fingernails!2) A painful smile crept across his face. This will all be over in two minutes, he reminded himself. How cruel to be left in the room next door, just able to hear his once favourite teacher play a song meant for him.
His once favorite teacher he now considered a traitor. The second pinch felt like a punch to the gut. He dreaded the second page.
A part of him begged to struggle against the cloth, rip it to shreds, and run into the room and ask and shout at him, a monosyllabic yet infinitely complicated question: "Why?" This man had been a captain, fought bravely against the French for years, composed the music of the Revolution! And for what? To turn around a few years later to accept a post in a government that should never have existed? Yet, he understood that he had not been abandoned by any sense of loathing but rather a remorseful practicality - and that perhaps made him all the more angry. The music makes for a lovely lullaby, at least, he attempted to console himself. His arms were falling asleep, and his neck ached from having been in the same position all day. The last few measures began. B and B and 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and - E and E and 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and - C and A. (3) His eyes felt watery. He refused to let tears escape him as the last few pinches of the song and the final notes sounded. A polite round of clapping was heard from the other room. Chairs moved across the floor, unable to silence their squeaks on wood. Chattering in French could be heard along with the clinking of wine glasses. He wondered briefly if the aristocrats would venture into the room. Would they pretend that he wasn't there? Or would they stand there and laugh at him, ignorantly assuming that he did not understand their rapid, dirty language?
He returned his gaze to the fireplace. Let them laugh. His fight had only yet to prevail.
Time passed, and his eyes were closing when he heard the door creak open. He blinked rapidly, the bright light from the other room momentarily blinding him. In the following second, he wished he had remained so for what he saw allowed his anger to finally cleave his heart: Francis walking alongside Sor, smiling and talking as though they had been friends their entire lives.
Sor stopped in the middle of the conversation, noticing Antonio's stare. Francis, seemingly half-drunk, quickly chuckled and commented, "J'ai pensé qu'il aimerait écouter ton musique. Comme je t'ai dit, c'est très beau." (I thought he would like to hear your music. As I've told you, it's very beautiful.) Sor seemed to be pondering something and suddenly blurted out, "Je suis très désolé:" (I'm very sorry.)
Antonio frowned as Sor rushed out of the room, feeling the two halves of his heart beat with sympathy for the man. Francis seemed to compose himself just enough to steady himself for a moment and look at Antonio straight in the eye.
"You won't let him return to Madrid, will you?" The Frenchman nearly sounded hopefully. Antonio looked him, a thought crossing his mind. Francis had betrayed him, too. But he wasn't mad at Francis. Francis would live forever. He could forever be angry with Francis, and yet he wasn't. It was as though he had almost expected the betrayal. But this little human. This little man who would occupy maybe sixty years of Antonio's life and then be gone forever... towards him Antonio had directed his anger. Assenting to Francis' question would be the most petty response Antonio could give
And yet he found himself responding to with a monosyllabic yet infinitely complicated answer:
"No."
But I will never play with my fingernails, he promised himself.
A/N: I wrote this in honour of my fantastic guitar teacher who told me about Sor. I love the guitar, and I love hearing about the amazing people who have made the instrument what it is. If you've got a moment, go google "Study in B Minor." It's a gorgeous piece. As always, there are history notes at the bottom - as well as some explanation about the guitar. Thanks for reading.
History Notes:
This fic takes place sometime during Napoleon's occupation of Spain, which happened pretty much through betrayal. Napoleon requested that Spain allow his troops to pass through Spanish territory in order for Napoleon to be able to conquer Portugal. Guess what these troops also ended up being used for? Yep.
During this time, an amazing guitarist and composer by the name of Fernando Sor was caught in the middle of this. Sor came from a long line of military officers and so as a child was predisposed to being one such military officer. However, his father introduced him early on to music, and he found his passion there. He was so good at the guitar that an Abbot at a monastery paid for his musical education (after his father died and his mother could no longer afford to). When the French began their conquest of Spain, Sor was a huge patriot. No only did he compose a ton of revolutionary songs, he was also a captain in the Spanish military and fought against the French many times. However, once the French had completely taken over, he was offered - and accepted - a post in the French occupational government's administration. This led him to be classified as an afrancesado (a supporter of the French).
After the Spanish won back Spain, Sor left his homeland and never returned. He became famous all over Europe and composed many ballets and pieces, particularly near the end of his life. Furthermore, because of his fame, the guitar stopped being just and instrument played in bars and became taken seriously.
1. In classical guitar, there is such a thing as the PIMA method. The letters stand for the name of each finger (in Spanish, as the guitar is a Spanish instrument). P for pulgar, the thumb; I for indice, the index finger; M for medio, the middle finger; and A for anular, the ring finger. That is in the order in which you stroke the strings: the lowest string with the thumb, the second-lowest with the index finger, and so on.
2. During Sor's time, there was a very big argument between him and his contemporary, Dionisio Aguado, about how the guitar should be played. Sor believed that one shouldn't play with his or her fingernails while Aguado believed that one should. The difference? Playing with your fingernails will typically make your playing louder, but it will also give it more of a ping-y sound. With the tips of your fingers, the sound is softer - and harder to hear if you are attempting to play for a larger group of people. Most artists play with their fingernails, though personally, I prefer Sor's method. :)
3. Study in B Minor is written in eighth notes. If counting to keep the rhythm, you'd be reading the counting Antonio does as: "1and, 2and, 3and, 4and"