Black Is the Colour of My True Love's Heart

It got a ripple of delight from his fans, but it was a very gentle joke for Dickie Meurice. “I thought he’d be cruder,” Tossa confided in a whisper.

“He probably will,” returned Dominic as softly, “before he’s done. Just feeling his way. He’s no fool. This needs a different approach from a disc-jockey session.”

Celia Whitwood settled her instrument comfortably, and sang “Two Fond Hearts” and “By the Sea-Shore,” both in Welsh, translating the words for those who did not know them. She had a small, shy voice, and at first was uncertain of the acoustics in the great yellow drawing-room, but by the end of the first song she had the feel of the space about her, and was using it confidently. She followed with “The Jute-Mill Song,” and made her harp do the mill noises for her. Peter Crewe sang “Times are Getting Hard.” “I’m Going Away” and “The Streets of Laredo”; Andrew Callum contributed two Tyne-side colliery songs and “The Bonny Earl of Moray” from across the border. And Dickie Meurice continued bland, bright and considerate, as though his judgement, too, was on trial.

“All playing safe,” remarked Tossa disapprovingly.

The Rossignol twins began with a ballad-like thriller, grim and dramatic, “Le Roi a fait battre tambour.” They were twenty, flame-headed, of rather girlish prettiness but more than male toughness and impudence, and decidedly disturbing to watch, for one of them was left-handed, and one right, and they amused themselves by trading on this mirror-image appearance to such an extent that it had now become second nature. They followed with a lullaby in a dialect so thick it was plain they felt sure not even Professor Penrose would understand a word of it. “Quarrel with that!” said their innocent smiles. Then they consulted each other by means of two flicks of the eyebrows, cast a wicked glance at the professor, and broke into the honeyed, courtly melody of the fifteen-century “L’Amour de Moi.” They sang it like angels, with melting harmonies as gracious as the flowers they sang about. The professor nodded his ancient head and continued to smile.

“Well, they trailed their coats, anyhow,” said Dominic.

Lucien Galt began with “Helen of Kirkconnell.” There was no doubt from the opening that here was an artist of stature, first because nature had given him a voice of great beauty, a warm, flexible baritone that would have been attractive even without art, and second, because he had the rare gift of total absorption in what he did, so that he lost them utterly while the song lasted. He was the bereaved lover hunting Helen’s murderer along the water-side, and hacking him in pieces for her sake. The voice that had been all honey and grief over her body could find gravel and hate when it needed them. He was all the more compelling because everything he did was understated, but the passion vibrated behind the quietness with an intensity that had them holding their breath. He seemed surprised when they applauded him; probably for the duration, of that experience he had forgotten they were there.

Next he sang “The Croppy Boy,” a venturesome choice for somebody without a drop of Irish blood; nor did he attempt to put on the Irish. He sang it like an Englishman possessed by the guilt of England past, and with an unexpected simplicity that made the child-soldier’s last innocent confession almost unendurably touching:

“ ‘I’ve cursed three times since last Easter Day.

At Mass-time once I went to play.

I passed through the churchyard one day in haste

And forgot to pray for my mother’s rest’.”

By the time he reached:

“ ‘Good people who dwell in peace and joy.

Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy’.”

he had several of the teen-age girls in tears. That startled him, too, but he was disarmed. It was the first time Tossa and Dominic had seen him look kindly at his fans.

“And what’s the third one to be?” asked Meurice amiably.

Lucien thought for a moment, his lip caught between his teeth, his fingers muting the strings of his guitar. He looked across the rows and rows of expectant students, and Dominic, turning his head to follow that glance, caught a glimpse of Liri Palmer’s chiselled profile and great coil of brown hair. She sat at the back of the assembly, attentive and still. There was no reading anything into her face.

Lucien began to sing. They all knew the air as “Believe me if all those endearing young charms,” but that was not what he was singing.

“ ‘My lodging is on the cold, cold ground.

And hard, very hard is my fare.

But what doth me the more confound

Is the coldness of my dear.

Yet still I cry, O turn, love.

I prithee, love, turn to me.

For thou art the only one, love.

That art adored by me.

I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love.

I’ll marry thee with a rush ring.

My frozen hopes will thaw, love.

And merrily we will sing.

Then turn to me, my own love.

I prithee, love, turn to me.

For thou art the only one, love.

That art adored by me’.”

“That ought to fetch her,” whispered Tossa, shaken, “if anything can.”