The Troubadour | Page 2

* * * *
A brief pause for appreciation, then Jocelyn was calling for all men's
attention. She managed to get it in reasonably short order, took a deep
breath, then dived into announcing that our "special guest, Mr. Fayliss"
was going to deliver a song-cycle.
Fayliss arose, bowed slightly, then nodded to Mark Loring, who
brought forth his oboe. "These songs were not conceived or composed
in the form I am presenting them," he said. "But I believe that the
arrangement I use is an effective one.
"I call this, 'Song of the Last Men'." He nodded again to Loring, and the
performance began. His voice was affecting, and his artistry
unmistakable. And there were overtones in his voice that gave an added
eeriness to the weird music itself.
The songs told of the feelings, the memories, and despair of a
nearly-extinct people--one which had achieved a great culture and a
world-wide civilization. The singer knows that the civilization has been
destroyed; that the people created by this culture and civilization are
gone, the few survivors being pitiful fellaheen, unable to rebuild or
bring forth a culture of their own. There is despair at the loss of the
comforts the civilization they knew brought them, sorrow at their
inability to share in its greatness--even in memory; and a resigned
certainty that they are the last of the race--they will soon be gone, and
no others shall arise after them.
There was silence when Fayliss finished, then discreet but firm
applause, as if the audience felt that giving full reign to their approval
would make an impious racket. Fayliss seemed to sense this feeling,
and smiled as he bowed.
"These are not songs of your people, are they?" asked Jocelyn.
Fayliss shook his head. "Oh no--they are far removed from us. I am
merely an explorer of past cultures and civilizations, and I enjoy
adapting such masterpieces of the past as I can find. This arrangement

was made for you; I shall make a different one for my own people, so
that the sonic values of the music and the words agree with each other."
Kutrov blinked, then asked him--"Well, can you tell us something more
about the people who created this cycle? It has a familiar ring to it, yet I
cannot tie it in with any past culture I have heard of."
Jocelyn cut in with the regretful announcement that Mr. Fayliss had
another appointment, and called for a note of thanks to him for coming.
More applause--this time unrestrained. Fayliss smiled again and swept
his eyes around us, as if filled with some amusing secret. Then he said
to Kutrov, "You would find them quite understandable."
I wandered over to the window, in search of air, and noted that
someone had indiscreetly left a comfortable chair vacant. I was near the
door, so that I could hear Jocelyn say to Fayliss: "It was--very moving.
Why, I could almost feel that you were singing about us."
Fayliss smiled again. "That is as it should be."
"Of course," chimed in Loring, who'd come up to ask Fayliss if he
could have a copy of the score, "that's the test of expert performance."
The lights were dimmed again by the fog of tobacco smoke, and I could
see the street quite clearly by moonlight. I decided I would watch
Fayliss, and see if his eyes did glow in the dark. I saw him go down the
sidewalk, with that graceful stride of his, his hands in his pockets. But I
couldn't see his eyes at all.
Then a gust of wind tugged his hat, and, for an instant I thought he'd
have to go scrambling after it. But, quick as a rapier thrust, a tail darted
out from beneath his dress coat, caught the hat, and set it back upon his
head.

Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Future combined with Science Fiction

Stories September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without
note.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Troubadour, by Robert Augustine
Ward Lowndes
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