C O U R A N T E
by
Stradivari
:i:
A courtly French/Italian originated dance throughout the 16th to 18th century, being one of the most important dances at court balls under Louis XIV. Later, rather than 6/4 or 3/2 time, the English & German composers adopted a 3.4 tempo. Faster, and more distinctive between the courante and the 'corrente' towards the first half of the 18th century.
It was the dance of the noble. The highest of first class.
:i:
Things come under different titles, many names and countless faces. I was a young girl then, foolish, so perhaps I didn't know. But I could hardly explain myself away as stupid-because then I would not have been caught.
The Italians used it as a courtship dance, that people may do so under a pretty name. Actually, it was not so different from an ostrich mating. The French, however, forever suave, decided on fast, complicated steps, to impress the ladies.
Being Irish, he combined them all.
I used to love harpsichords. They radiated the elegance and detail beauty that did well behind the steps on the parquet floor.
Long short, long short.
I liked dancing then too, loved music. They even had a lute, to bring authenticity to the music itself.
It was the eyes that caught me first, rather clichéd actually. But sometimes, clichés could be beautiful things. And they did, piercing blue, and they found mine.
It is a strange thing, love. It doesn't quite click on first sight. Neither does it bloom like a rose, stated in so many poems and claimed in so many books. It was raven hair, a pale face, and wit. That was what love was.
And blue eyes. That was what I could understand.
He would twirl me round, his silver words weaving a web around my head. I was a young girl then. And I thought I knew the world.
I loved him, locked in those moments of exhilaration, just as the mordant twists its loop on the climax. And he would hold me close, and whisper sweet words in my ear, things, wonderful prose of summer nights and nocturnes of moonlit walks along the river. He was intelligent, and he seemed to think I was.
They say diamonds are a girl's best friend. He would shower me with them, bouquet after bouquet of roses, each with a diamond in its center, glistening as if only a drop of water.
Long short, long short.
He would lace emeralds through my hair and gold around my neck, spinning me around all the while with words of music, of autumn leaves and birds that fly in a red, sunset sky.
Looking back, he bought my love. You could say that. But I would tell you that you were wrong. I believed he loved me. Those eyes convinced me well enough.
Long short, long short.
Three years, and it all evaporated. All those kisses only a memory as distant as those words he used to say, those promises he used to make. I was such a fool.
But now, I no longer knew if he remembered I was there, or was simply too busy to care. But now, I was left with nothing to hold onto, but those moments in which music played the background and accompanied the words he used to say.
Perhaps gold could buy souls. He certainly seemed to value that over me. Perhaps it was really true. That gold really was love. He showed that well enough, all the diamonds, the emeralds, the gold trinkets. Perhaps that was how he saw the world.
Few years passed, and he seemed to spend more time doing business than at home. He hardly paid any attention at all to his son. It was as if he was fading away from that man I fell in love with, so long ago.
Long short, long short.
Then he left all together. And all the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies and gold in the world could not bring him back. Perhaps love might have.
But I lost that long ago.