Gwilan’s Harp By Ursula K. Le Guin
The harp had come to Gwilan from her mother, and so had her mastery of it, people said. “Ah,” they said when Gwilan played, “you can tell, that’s Diera’s touch,” just as their parents had said when Diera played, “Ah, that’s the true Penlin touch!” Gwilan’s mother had had the harp from Penlin, a musician’s dying gift to the worthiest of pupils. From a musician’s hands Penlin too had received it; never had it been sold or bartered for, nor any value put upon it that can be said in numbers. A princely and most incredible instrument it was for a poor harper to own. The shape of it was perfection, and every part was strong and fine: the wood as hard and smooth as bronze, the fittings of ivory and silver. The
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grand curves of the frame bore silver mountings chased with long intertwining lines that became waves and the waves became leaves, and the eyes of gods and stags looked out from among the leaves that became waves and the waves became lines again. It was the work of great craftsmen, you could see that at a glance, and the longer you looked the clearer you saw it But all this beauty was practical, obedient, shaped to the service of sound.
The sound of Gwilan’s harp was water running and rain and sunlight on the water, waves breaking and the foam on the brown sands, forests, the leaves and branches of the forest and the shining eyes of gods and stags among the leaves when the wind blows in the valleys. It was all that and none of that. When Gwilan played, the harp made music; and what is music but a little wrinkling of the air? Play she did, wherever they wanted her. Her singing voice was true but had no sweetness, so when it was songs and ballads she accompanied the singers. Weak voices were borne up by her playing. fine voices gained a glory from it; the loudest, proudest singers might keep still a verse to hear her play alone. She played with flute and reed-flute and tambour, and the music made for the harp to play alone, and the music that sprang up of itself when her fingers touched the strings. At weddings and festivals it was, ‘‘Gwilan will be here to play,” and at music-day competitions, “When will Gwilan play?” She was young; her hands were iron and her touch was silk; she could play all night and the next day too. She travelled from valley to valley, from town to …show more content…
town, stopping here and staying there and moving on again with other musicians on their wanderings. They walked, or a wagon was sent for them, or they got a lift on a farmer’s cart. However they went, Gwilan carried her harp in its silk and leather case at her back or in her hands. When she rode she rode with the harp and when she walked she walked with the harp and when she slept, no, she didn’t sleep with the harp, but it was there where she could reach out and touch it. She was not jealous of it, and would change instruments with another harper gladly; it was a great pleasure to her when at last they gave her back her own, saying with sober envy, “I never played so fine an instrument.” She kept it clean, the mountings polished and strung it with the harp strings made by old Uliad, which cost as much apiece as a whole set of common harp strings. In the heat of summer she carried it in the shade of her body; in the bitter winter it shared her cloak. In a firelit hall she did not sit with it very near the fire, nor yet too far away, for changes of heat and cold would change the voice of it, and perhaps harm the frame. She did not look after herself with half the care. Indeed she saw no need to. She knew there were other harpers, and would be other harpers; most not as good, some better. But the harp was the best. There had not been and there would not be a better. Delight and service were due and fitting to it. She was not its owner but its player. It was her music, her joy, her life, the noble instrument. She was young; she travelled from town to town; she played A Fine Long Life at weddings and The Green Leaves at festivals. There were funerals, with the burial feast, the singing of elegies, and Gwilan to play the Lament of Orioth, the music that crashes and cries out like the sea and the sea birds, bringing relief and a burst of tears to the grief-dried heart. There were music-days, with a rivalry of harpers and a shrilling of fiddlers and a mighty outshouting of tenors. She went from town to town in sun and rain, the harp on her back or in her hands. So she was going one day to the yearly musicday at Comm. and the landowner of Torm Vale was giving her a lift; a man who so loved music that he had traded a good cow for a bad horse, since the cow would not take him where he could hear music played. It was he and Gwilan in a rickety cart, and the lean-necked roan stepping out down the steep, sunlit road from Torm. A bear in the forest by the road, or a bear’s ghost, or the shadow of a hawk: the horse shied half across the road. Torm had been discussing music deeply with Gwilan, waving his hands to conduct a choir of voices, and the reins went flipping out of those startled hands. The horse jumped like a cat, and ran. At the sharp curve of the road the cart swung round and smashed against the rocky cutting. A wheel leapt free and rolled, rocking like a top, for a few yards. The roan went plunging and sliding down the road with half the wrecked cart dragging behind, and was gone, and the road lay silent in the sunlight between the forest trees. Torm had been thrown from the cart, and lay stunned for a minute or two. Gwilan had clutched the harp to her when the horse shied, but had lost hold of it in the smash. The cart had tipped over and dragged on it. It was in its case of leather and embroidered silk, but when, one-handed, she got the case out from under the wheel and opened it, she did not take out a harp, but a piece of wood, and another piece, and a tangle of strings, and a sliver of ivory, and a twisted shell of silver chased with lines and leaves and eyes, held by a silver nail to a fragment of the frame. It was six months without playing after that, since her arm had broken at the wrist. The wrist healed well enough, but there was no mending the harp; and by then the landowner of Torm had asked her if she would marry him, and she had said yes. Sometimes she wondered why she had said yes, having never thought much of marriage before, but if she looked steadily into her own mind she saw the reason why. She saw Torm on the road in the sunlight kneeling by the broken harp, his face all blood and dust, and he was weeping. When she looked at that she saw that the time for rambling and roving was over and gone. One day is the day for moving on, and overnight, the next day, there is no more good in moving on, because you have come where you were going to. Gwilan brought to the marriage a gold piece, which had been the prize last year at Four Valleys music-day; she had sewn it to her bodice as a brooch, because where on earth could you spend a gold piece. She also had two silver pieces, five coppers, and a good winter cloak. Torm contributed house and household, fields and forests, four tenant farmers even poorer than himself, twenty hens, five cows and forty sheep. They married in the old way, by themselves, over the spring where the stream began, and came back and told the household. Torm had never suggested a wedding, with singing and harp-playing, never a word of all that. He was a man you could trust, Torm was. What began in pain, in tears, was never free from the fear of pain. The two of them were gentle to each other. Not that they lived together thirty years without some quarreling. Two rocks sitting side by side would get sick of each other in thirty years, and who knows what they say now and then when nobody is listening. But if people trust each other they can grumble, and a good bit of grumbling takes the fuel from wrath. Their quarrels went up and burned out like bits of paper, leaving nothing but a feather of ash, a laugh in bed in the dark. Torm’s land never gave more than enough, and there was no money saved. But it was a good house, and the sunlight was sweet on those high stony fields. There were two sons, who grew up into cheerful sensible men. One had a taste for roving, and the other was a farmer born; but neither had any gift of music. Uwilan never spoke of wanting another harp. But about the time her wrist was healed, old Uliad had a travelling musician bring her one on loan; when he had an offer to buy it at its worth, he sent for it back again. At that time Torm would have it that there was money from selling three good heifers to the landowner of Comin High Farm, and that the money should buy a harp, which it did. A year or two later an old friend, a flute-player still on his travels and rambles, brought her a harp from the south as a present. The three-heifers harp was a common instrument, plain and heavy; the Southern harp was delicately carved and gilt, but cranky to tune and thin of voice. Gwilan could draw sweetness from the one and strength from the other. When she picked up a harp, or spoke to a child, it obeyed her. She played at all festivities and funerals in the neighborhood, and with the musician’s fees she bought good strings; not Uliad’s strings, though, for Uliad was in his grave before her second child was born. If there was a music-day nearby, she went to it with Torm. She would not play in the competitions, not for fear of losing but because she was not a harper now, and if they did not know it, she did.
So they had her judge the competitions, which she did well and mercilessly. Often in the early years musicians would stop by on their travels, and stay two or three nights at Torm; with them she would play the Hunts of Orioth, the Dances of Cail, the difficult and learned music of the North, and learn from them the new songs. Even on winter evenings there was music in the house of Torm: she playing the harp-usually the three-heifers one, sometimes the fretful Southerner-and Torm’s good tenor voice, and the boys singing, first in sweet treble, later on in husky, unreliable baritone; one of the farm’s men was a lively fiddler; and the shepherd Keth, when he was there, played on the pipes, though he never could tune them to anyone else’s note. “It’s our own music-day tonight,” Gwilan would say. “Put another log on the fire, Torm, and sing The Green Leaves with me, and the boys will take the descant.” Her wrist that had been broken grew a little stiff as the years went on; then the arthritis came into her hands. The work she did in house and farm was not easy work. But then who, looking at a hand, would say it was made to do easy work? You can see from the look of it that it is meant to do difficult things, that it is the noble. willing servant of the heart and mind. But the best servants get clumsy as the years go on. Gwilan could still play the harp, but not as well
as she had played, and she did not much like half-measures. So the two harps hung on the wall, though she kept them tuned. About that time the younger son went wandering off to see what things looked like in the north, and the elder married and brought his bride to Torm. Old Keth was found dead up on the mountain in the spring rain, his dog crouched silent by him and the sheep nearby. And the drouth came, and the good year, and the poor year, and there was food to eat and to be cooked and clothes to wear and to be washed, poor year or good year. In the depth of a winter
[Throughout this paper, G after a character's name refers to Gardner; AS to Beowulf the poem.]
The narrative opens with a holiday feast in King Arthur’s court. The richness of this setting is represented by the decorations surrounding Queen Guenevere described in lines 76-80. “With costly silk curtains, a canopy over,/ Of Toulouse and Turkestan tapestries rich/ All broidered and bordered with the best gems/ Ever brought into Britain, with bright pennies/ to pay.” These lines also symbolize the queen’s role in the poem of a stately symbol of chivalric Camelot and as a female ideal. In this setting women are all around, but Guenevere is positioned above them and is surrounded by expensive, beautiful things. She is clearly made superior.
the Landing of the Pilgrims to the Close of the Civil War, 1620-1865”Journal of the American Musicological Society, Vol. 18, No.2. (Accessed January 30, 2012).
Throughout her transformation, she does not only lose her unwanted body parts but also herself. She was “born as usual.” She was “healthy.” She was “intelligent.” Yet, she “offered” her body and became an object for others to point and critique at. Upon the judgments that are harshly thrown at the poor child, “her good nature [was] worn out/like a fan belt.” The poet creates this simile and the tone of insecurity to show that over a long period of time she is no longer able to take in any more criticism. She cannot be “apologizing” any more for how she is. Thus, she conforms to the ways of society by having pieces of her cut off. She becomes a doll, an object that does not live life and that is easily wielded and manipulated by others. This child takes her own freedom away, a freedom that Louise from Chopin’s work strives
Those who told stories in the Middle Ages have been called by many names: minstrel, jongleur, troubadour, trouvère, bard, scôp, gleeman. But what more do we know of those performers of the Middle Ages, and more specifically those of Medieval France? The easy answer is not a lot. However, if we delve deeper into what artefacts remain of medieval society, we are able to fill in the gaps of our knowledge of these integral parts of medieval culture. My goal in this paper is to analyse the presence of the jongleur in a number of texts and images and to look at the inherent difficulties in determining their role both in contemporary medieval society and within the stories they told.
Beowulf is an epic poem that describes the heroics of a man with superhuman strength and bravery to go with it. The poem starts with a journey across the sea to defeat an enemy that has plagued the land of Herot for twelve years. The poem ends with Beowulf’s final deed of defeating a dragon that was plaguing his own land, but with the defeat of the dragon also comes the death of Beowulf. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a poem of bravery by one of King Arthur’s knights. Sir Gawain takes up the deed of playing a Christmas game with the challenging Green Knight. The Green Knight takes a blow from an ax at the hand of Sir Gawain, and in one year and one day, the Green Knight is to reciprocate the action to Sir Gawain. While Sir Gawain was heroic in his deed, Beowulf shows a certain selflessness in his bouts makes him a better hero than Sir Gawain.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight contains many themes. Some of these themes are more obvious than others. Love, lust, loyalty, deceit, trust, courage, virtue, and righteousness are most of the themes within the poem. There are some more that are hidden within the concepts of the ideas that the poem presents. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, translated by John Gardner, many different themes are addressed throughout the story. The translation by John Gardner portrays these themes by using specific characters, medieval symbolism, and various settings within the story.
University of Victoria. “Elizabethan Court Musicians”. Available: http://web.uvic.ca/shakespeare/Library/SLTnoframes/literature/courtmusicians.html, date unavailable. Accessed : March 4, 2003.
The beginning of the play portrays the Christmas tree as being well put together and beautiful, the same way as the protagonist, Nora. Her relationship with her husband Torvald can be considered to be picture-perfect, a fact that can be contributed mostly to her subservience. As long as Nora knows her place in the home and remains compliant, their relationship seems wonderful. Nora’s blind obedience at the opening of the play is evident as she adorns the tree with beautiful flowers and candles, promising to “do everything [she] can think of to please,” even offering to sing and dance for his pleasure (Act 1). This exemplifies the way Nora still works to maintain the appearances of both her family and her tree, dressing the tree so that it is “splendid” and also promising to do Torvald’s bidding to ensure his contentment. It also establishes a correlation between the ...
The Middle English text was obtained from the following website.Online Internet. April 9 1999. Available http://library.utoronto.ca/www/utel/rp/poems/sggk.html
David played his harp for Saul and made him feel better when life was getting
Rather than resolving the tension set forth in the previous stanzas of the poem, the closing eye-rhyme of Heman’s work serves to convey the irresolvable tension that exists between life and death. Given the poem’s general adherence to the use of perfect-rhymes, the ending eye-rhyme appears in stark contrast to the preceding stanzas. Because ballads typically adhere to a strict rhyme scheme, the poet’s use of an imperfect eye-rhyme is made all the more evident to readers. Consequently, the difference in pronunciation of the poem’s closing rhyme is quite harsh, “But woe for earth, where sorrow’s tone / Still blends with victory’s -- she was gone!” (53-4). The tension that arises from the poem’s closing lines parallels the tension that builds throughout Heman’s poem. Throughout the entirety of the poem, the speaker acknowledges the fact that while Queen Louise is dead, her spirit is still very much alive. The ending rhyme not only corroborates this idea but also conveys a sense of permanence, thus suggesting that this dissonance between body and spirit may never be resolved. Given the implications of death, there is nothing that may be done to bring the Queen’s body back to life. Consequently, the Queen’s body and
"Musical Instruments in the Middle Ages." Musical Instruments in the Middle Ages. N.p., n.d. Web. 20 June 2014. .
“Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! (Shelley Line 1)” Shelley takes a little object in nature, the skylark, and transforms it into a mysteriously beautiful thing that represents freedom and passion in Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “To A Skylark.” The poem, very unique, is used to express his emotions through the characteristics of the bird. The song of this skylark can be seen as a guide about being free from all burdens. Animals are sort of disconnected from certain emotion that effect humans such as sadness and pain. The speaker appears to a micro degree jealous of the liberty of the skylark that travels wherever it pleases. It doesn’t matter once or wherever, whether or not it's dusk (“the sunken sun”) or morning (“the silver sphere”) the speaker feels that the skylark is usually flying high above. Although one tend to not see it, or maybe hear it, “we feel it is there (Shelley Line 25).”