“You say nothing of Maria,” said Darcourt.
“I could speak cantos of rhapsodic verse about Maria. She is the blood of my heart. But of what use is she in such a situation as this? Eh? Of what conceivable use?”
“She is the strongest possible influence with Arthur.”
“You are right, of course. But that is secondary. Why did she not stop Arthur when he decided to embark on this rashest of rash enterprises?”
“Well—why didn’t you? Why didn’t I? We were swept away. Don’t underestimate the power of Arthur’s enthusiasm.”
“Once again, you are right. But then you are so often right. And that is why I am talking to you now. You are the only member of the Round Table who seems to have enough wits to come in out of the rain. Excepting myself, naturally.”
Darcourt’s heart sank. This sort of flattery usually meant that some time-consuming task that nobody else would undertake was going to be dumped on his desk. Powell went on.
“You are the man in the Cornish Foundation who gets things done. Arthur gets ideas. He shoots them off like rockets. The rest of us are hypnotized. But if anything really happens, you are the man who makes it happen, and you can patiently persuade Arthur to listen to common sense. You know what you are, boy? They call that thing the Round Table, and if it’s the Round Table who are you? Eh? No one but Myrddin Wyllt, the great king’s counsellor. Merlin, that’s who you are. You’ve seen it, of course. How could you miss it?”
Darcourt had not seen it. He wanted Powell to develop this idea, so flattering to himself, so he pretended ignorance.
“Merlin was a magician, wasn’t he?”
“He looked like a magician to those other morlocks at the Round Table because he could do something besides fight and play Chase the Grail. In every great legend there are a lot of heroes and one really intelligent man. Our Arthur’s a hero; people admire him and eat out of his hand. I suppose Hollier is a hero in his own way. I’m a hero, fatally flawed by intelligence. But you are no hero. You’re Merlin, and I want you to work with me to get this wild scheme into some sort of workable order.”
“Geraint—”
“Call me Geraint bach. It signifies friendship, understanding, complicity.”
“Bach? You mean as in Johann Sebastian Bach?”
“Old Johann Sebastian was born a German, but in spirit he was a Welshman. The word is a diminutive. It’s as if you were calling me Geraint, my darling, or Geraint, my pretty one. Welsh is a great language for intimacies and endearments. I’ll call you Sim bach. It will signify our nearness in spirit.”
Darcourt had never been aware of any special nearness of spirit between himself and Powell, but Powell was leaning forward in his chair, his lustrous eyes gleaming, and complicity coming out of him like heat out of a stove. Well, here goes, Simon thought. He could always retreat if the intimacy became outrageous.
“So what is it you want, Geraint bach?”
Powell spoke in a hiss. “I want a dramatis personae, a cast of characters, and I want it right away.”
“Well, I don’t suppose that presents insuperable problems. Even Planché had to agree that an opera about Arthur has to have Arthur somewhere in the cast. And if you have Arthur, you must have Queen Guenevere, and a few Knights of the Round Table. And Merlin, I presume. You can certainly count on the opera including those, whatever turn it may take.”
“Aha! You grasp it at once! I knew you would. You are a golden man, Sim bach. And you see what that means? We must have the Operatic Four. Soprano—Guenevere, of course, though I dislike that Frenchified version of the name. I always think of her as Gwenhwyfar. Much finer, you agree? But too difficult tor the thick-tongued English-speakers. Now—who’s your contralto? There has to be one, you know.”
“Oh, dear. Let’s see? Hm. Morgan Le Fay, do you think?”
“Of course! Arthurs wicked sister. A contralto, obviously. All wicked women in opera must have those rich, enchanting low notes. Now—who’s my tenor?”
“Surely Arthur himself?”
“No. Arthur must have authority. A baritone, I think. A fine, velvety bass-baritone. Make him both a tenor and a cuckold and you lose all sympathy, and Arthur must compel sympathy. But we need an even deeper bass for quartets as well as the plot.”
“That must be Modred, who destroys Arthur.”
“Precisely.”
“But no tenor? Can you have an opera without a tenor?”
“Of course. The public expects a tenor. Must be Lancelot, the seducer. Tenors are great seducers.”
“All right. That gives you the four you want. Five, as a matter of fact.”
“So—there we are. We’ll want another woman for Elaine, the Lily Maid. Better be a nice mezzo—good for pathos but not deep enough for villainy. And a few tenors and basses for the Knights of the Round Table, but they are really just Chorus, and not hard to find.”
“You make it all sound simple.”
“Not simple at all, Sim bach. I must get on the phone at once and see who I can round up for these parts. I told them so last night. Singers aren’t picked up at the last minute. They’re worse than hockey-players; you have to get them under contract, or at least under written agreement, as far ahead as you can do it.”
“But won’t the musical people—Schnak and this woman with the strange name—want some say? I know, and you know, that we have no libretto. How can you hire singers when you have no story and no music?”
“Must be done. Can’t wait. And anyhow, we have the skeleton of a libretto.”
“We have? Since when?”
“Since last night when I lay tossing in my bed, pulling it together. We have a story. You can’t bugger about with the story of Arthur. I have a skeleton of the plot. All it needs is some words and music. And that’s where you come in, old Merlin. You must hustle ‘em up and get it on paper as soon as dammit.”
“Powell—sorry, Geraint bach–have you told anybody but me?”
“Not yet. But we’re to meet the great lady, the genius, the Muse, the shepherdess of Schnak, at dinner on Saturday night. Didn’t anybody tell you? Well, they will. And then I’ll tell her what the plot of Arthur of Britain is to be and you and Pretty Penny must start feeding her words as fast as you can go.”
“How simple you make it sound.”
“Aha—irony! I love your irony, Sim bach. It is what first drew me to you, boy. Well, I’m more happy than I can say that you agree, and I’ll go at once and get on the phone. It’s going to cost a fortune in phone bills. I send them to you, I suppose.”